Waiting for something to happen
waiting for something
Waiting for someone
more than me.
waiting is (a) creating
Not Farting But Founding…
The rain fall?
The toilet flush?
The doorbell ring?
The jackdaw land?
The chicken lay?
A pony snort?
That fish spawn?
This hiccup die?
Her tongue melt?
Her wit end?
Her scream echo?
The poet’s grip falter?
Your journey age?
The albatross be called Wisdom?
My hummingbird depart?
My sign language strike a chord?
Your fingernails warm?
Waiting for something to happen…
A story take on a character?
This ceremony embrace your destiny?
My watch tick?
Tim Miller wake in time
to catch Godot working?
Waiting for something to happen.
I was talking to Pytheas of Massilia on Friday.
He was still in the grip of a cold he caught
returning from Thule.
Twas as if the world’s oldest albatross
– whom some call Wisdom –
sang with a bee hummingbird
that fled Cuba from Irma to Cork.
Such was the storm song …
such the Artic bass …
My Greek lapsed as I left the Parthenon,
his Irish, foreign, tinged with Scots Gallic,
We stuck to sign language,
ice on his fingernails.
I put that down to the disgrace
that few believed his stories.
Wrapped in song,
on staves of flesh,
major and minor,
there was little between us.
Two men with hearts
dependant on blood
lightly to coagulate
in hurricanes predicted to return
I must tell Tim Miller
Pytheas read his poem
in the Shetlands,
despite the middle-aged ‘stupidity’
never learned from pilgrims.
Smiles we made over gin and tonic,
We called our chorus
‘Brothers from Earth’
We are brothers from Earth,
conceived in shadows’ stage,
conjoined and free in birth,
alive in every age.
I’m not creative,
except in the sense that every human being is creative,
and, if every human is creative,
the word is fairly useless.
I’m not a creative writer,
except in the sense that every writer is creative,
and, if every writer is creative,
the word is superfluous.
I am simply
a person who writes,
a person who writes frequently
a person who writes in a certain style.
(I used to write letters every day and thought my letters were attractive.)
I’m cheesed off by the quantity of left-handed people who are ‘creative’.
I know the word has colloquial meanings –
people with original ideas
people who find brand new ways
theatre, television, radio, film people
people who get their work exhibited
many more I can’t think of.
(As if dentists & grave-diggers weren’t creatives)
How useful is creative as a distinguishing word?
How often do you wish to say
‘you’re a creative person, a very creative person‘
and, by implication,
‘that person over there isn’t creative,
has barely a creative bone in their body’?
(I like ‘creativity means not copying‘
Feran Adria from elBulli said that)
When I write something people call creative,
I don’t know what they’d label ‘ordinary’.
I don’t know what criteria people use.
(I fear the lowest common denominator is ‘creative’.)
If I knew what standards people used
to describe a writer as creative
The one thing I’m sure of,
I don’t dream of myself as a creative being.
A new poetry collection by Paul O’Mahony will be out in time for Xmas.
(Big secret) He has a publisher.
I discovered Paul has a problem he hasn’t solved.
He’s composed the poems.
He’s even compiled a short-list of poems, from which he’ll select no more than 40 (next week).
The trouble is he doesn’t have a title – and “Selected Works” won’t do.
I asked Paul “What’s in a title?”
“A theme – and an invitation. The theme determines which poems make it into the book – and how the poems are clustered.”
“‘Rage’ by my friend Patrick Stack [published by Revival Press] suggests you’re offered pretty strong emotions in every poem. But the title doesn’t reveal the poems are about survival of darkness within.
Rage could be about
the loss of friends and would-be lovers
madness & beauty
The poet used the title to help him decide the order of the poems.”
I asked Paul
“How is the title an invitation?”
“Only certain people are invited to the book. Not everyone’s invited by ‘Rage’ – the blurb on the back puts many people off. That way the book appeals to a select group of people who don’t fear to buy & read ‘Rage’ – and welcome ‘Rage’ into life.”
I couldn’t resist asking the obvious question What’s the name of your next poetry book?”
“That’s the death and life of me. I can’t decide. I’m stuck in mixed feelings. It better be better than the last one.”
“Oh… What was the name of your last book?
“Irish Epic Poem in 33 Cantos – wasn’t that a stupid title? Thank goodness my mother bought so many copies.”
I didn’t believe him, couldn’t solve his problem, left him looking blank and wondered which book I’d read next – ‘Rage’ or ‘Irish Epic Poem’?
If you have any suggestions for Paul, I’m sure he’d gift you a copy if the book sells well.
My little egg,
you precious shell of life,
within you dwells all you need ever grow
into your spirit,
into the finest silk.
My little one,
you petal from a flower
that blooms wherever nectar’s found,
life’s your spirit
along the fruitful way.
My little seed,
you’ll germinate and sprout
so many glorious dreams each day
beyond your spirit.
The gift of life is born.
Special thanks to my good friend Bobby Kountz – and his first grandchild in honour of whom this was written
He looked directly at the sun
and the sun shone back.
He felt the smile flood his Queen’s eyes,
stretch ruddy pink skin,
the slightest suggestion of dimples.
The sun god Ra rose from the bed
A fire in Ra’s eye raged,
falcon’s feathers flowing
This was the day.
This was no ordinary man
Voice of his people
taller than warriors
big in boots
The sun god’s cobra curled …