From Bath to Cork with baby Grace

Today, in my kitchen, at 10:30am, I’m reading “Letters to a Poet” by Rilke – into my Voice Record Pro App.

I haven’t yet walked the dog Louis.

Questions

How many years is it since I first heard of Rilke?

Was it David Whyte who made the introduction?

Why did I find Rilke so tough, so steely, that I didn’t have the confidence to read him?

What’s happened that I don’t have any such fear now?

How come Rilke feels like the most relevant writer to converse with, to have dialogue with, to have an internal life with?

What’s going on inside me?

Probably it was Maria Popova in Brainpickings who was the tipping point.

She often brings Rilke into her Sunday newsletter which arrives just after 9am.

I associate her with Rilke, and relish the snippets she shares.

Lying in bed at 11:20 am is an un-pleasant thing to do on a Saturday morning.

I slept over eight hours last night, my Snore Lab App shows I snored 30% of the time.

I want to stay indoors all day.

My daughter wants to go out and play a hockey match.

The Wiffe wants to buy logs for the fire in Middleton.

I don’t know what the dog wants,

The cat will find a way to be satisfied.

There’ll be nothing lyrical today. Everything in the minor key.

Discontent

Dissonance

Destroyed

Disconsolate.

I have nothing to contribute out of this empty shape. All energy lost. If I’m not kind to myself today, who will love me enough? Who will pamper me enough?

I have responsibilities.

There is audio from The Talk Show for Talkers” to edit.

There is “The Spy and the Traitor” to finish.

There is the coaching poem which is in draft.

It would be irresponsible not to have a cup of coffee with a friend

Irresponsible not to shave.

Irresponsible not to spend a few minutes thinking of my extended family.

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What an excellent way to capture an unfolding day. Your mention of a day in D Minor especially caught my attention. There are so many beautiful music compositions in D Minor you could maybe play to alleviate the day’s discordance.

— Tara Breslin (@stationarygypsy) February 16, 2019

Back in Café Beva for a quick slurp with Roger Overall at 9:07AM.

He’s gone now – off to see a potential new client for Show&Tell Communications.

(Maybe there’ll be more work for us in March.)

Baths

I was meant to dash home to let a bathroom-transformer in to our house.

When’s the last time I had a bath? How many baths have I had since 2007?

How many times will I climb over the side and practise the first part of what Archimedes did?

Which came first – the bath or the shower? Which is more popular in Siberia?

Coffee

Thank goodness I got a text from the Wiffe – “take your time, I’m home.”

That’s why I’m sipping a black Americano at a square table which has a Formica top.

Falling apart

One day you’re fine,

you’re on top of the world,

full of wonder, purpose, design,

and enough energy to navigate

on an ocean of beckoning life.

Like a cormorant that dives deep

and surfaces with a beak full of fish,

like a hawk that swoops

and rises with the food that matters,

yo u’re in love with the melody of every day life.

Until the day you wake

with a tetchy throat,

raw retching cough,

a nose that dribbles,

and you’re streaming down

into a conviction

there is no way back,

there is only one highway

to the other side,

and the road is rough enough

to erase the memory and melody

of a life you used to think was grand.

A broken wing, a blinded eye,

a crippled hunter,

all paradise lost,

the wilderness of unrelenting self pity.

And you know it will have its way with you,

And you know there’s no fighting back,

no resurrection overnight,

but hours to wait, and drugs,

the chemistry of recovery.

And you are left looking

through the only question

that matters to you,

the only mystery that matters any more:

When will I fall apart and lose my heart,

again.

My New Shoes

My new shoes are not worn.

You wouldn’t count a few steps around the kitchen bar on tiles.

The laces are not tied.

and yet these Eccos fit, all toes report.

The sole of that right foot looks eager to move off,

an engine with fuel in its tank.

This left foot craves to be admired and cries aloud

“Look here, unspoiled, a sight behold.”

To move or not to move?

To stay or not to stay?

You never hear the sun afraid to rise.

I bought them black, like onyx,

trusting they’d protect me

from puddles of muddy water

and stem the drain of life

as I grew older.

Let them turn charcoal

as I roam the fields and riverbanks

where blackbird sing.

I shall admire both right and left,

and tie these laces loose

until evening sets

beyond that mountain there.

Methane is mundane

– cows munch on grass, making gas –

bloating Irish growth

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Notes:

(1) Methane

(2) Gas

It is illegal to smoke (mince pies) in these premises,

We will re-open (cream) on Friday 28th at 08:26,

W(h)ines by the bottle,

we sell (humour) gift vouchers.

I sat beside the bag lady
preventing her overcoat
from being (whipped) cream.

Richard’s ebony hair glistened
with perspiration, behind candles
that dripped red calcified wax
to a fine point suspended over
pastry laced with sugar water.

His smile reflected
from the surface of a teaspoon
that had never seen a better day
– just as the jigsaw, fixed to the glass
that protected the map of the island,
cast shadow over Cork

– just as the woman of the house
squeezed a clothes-horse
under the reindeer’s bauble.

“I’m going to Jackson … “
reminded me of Tammy Wynette
and Santa’s brother, last seen
outside Boise wielding a pickaxe and shovel
wanting work whenever women
would watch him waffle on about
“the land of many waters”.

Idaho Cafe is deeper than the Grand Canyon
in affections,
and shorter in afflictions
because bunyons are bound to blush
unseen under square tables.

‘This is forever”, every mince pie,
Esto Perpetua,
there is no Dracula here,
Huckleberries cry.

A locally-owned Breakfast, Lunch, Bapini,
Sweet fix,
with drinks like Idaho
americano, espresso, cappuccino,
marshmallow
– lest you go past the best cafe in Ireland
(voted by aficionados)
without noticing blackboards
full of chalked wines

on the Saturday before Christmas.

Imagine:  An old mature narrow pub in Ireland downtown Dublin in October 2018. on Monday 15 October 2018. An A5 notebook by Leuchturm1917.

2pm.  Because it’s there

The Palace Bar floorboards fair game for lunch
The Guinness there went down without protest
It was food for legs that traipsed from Abbey Street.
Refreshed the brain grown soggy with exhaustion
Oil to lubricate a head too heavy for its neck.
Down the throat between the teeth into the mouth
like a dive in the Atlantic 
after the sun set
between the teeth down the throat
a liquid lunch with a pen and notebook 
all for the sake of a man who never turned up
all for the sake of a story that
never came through the door

battle fatigues, a beard to stroke
bare arms, long hairs
an ear to scratch, Kindle to read
through black-rimmed glasses
he was bald enough for an
adventure
he lifted his pint with his right 
hand.

She came to take snaps off the street to take snaps
smiled with awe and appreciation
wanted to stay until the Bulgarian
signaled time to go.
another story the didn’t lift off.

a bird is known by its song
a man by his conversation 
Fleet St
The Palace Bar

__________________

For the sake of a story that never was told
for the sake of a stranger who never turned up
I walked in through the bar door
of the Palace Bar
I took to the stool
for the sake of a pint.
I drank till the porter stout was gone

_________________

Work (towards a poem) in progress

Imagine: The Republic of Work in Cork @ 12:49 on 18 October 2018

The Floorboards in the Palace Bar
are tight
No light for ghosts from The Irish
Times
to leak through
on to a stool or two…

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