The snow thundered in
Rolled across the border between sleep and wake
Unrelenting
Conquering the ground
Until every centimetre was covered with the colour of the white invasion.
There was no resisting her.
And all winter, this has been predicted.
All February we have been warned
We had no proof
until now.
The snow has spoken
The snow was ready
The snow has fallen.
The earthworms
underground
squirming.
I will wash my teeth again this year,
shower away the scent of salty sweat.
I’ll shave the stubble from my chin
and trim the hairs within my nostrils short.
I’ll cut my nails, keep eyebrows in their place,
suck out the wax that blocks my straining ears.
I’ll dry the feet, prevent a pungent smell.
All this I swear to do before year end.
Surely you spent some years subtracting time
from work to carry out such rituals?
You must be committed to keep so clean,
you use the latest market-leading brands.
It’s clarity of mind and purity
of purpose that secretes consistency.
A face that comes by night to grant you love
is strong enough to fool the flow of dreams.
“Awake you sleeping passion, true Foxglove.”
Disguised friend with magic eyes, it streams.
Let me expose the trickery before
more young, inattentive, beguiled sweethearts
turn sour and lose the joy of what’s in store
provided neither welcome taste of tarts.
There is another way to lift the loss
that absent satisfaction brings to bed.
The scent of lover’s pillow, sweet as moss,
will rouse the flow of memories instead.
Resist temptation’s guile throughout your years,
alive, alone, awake, and sigh no tears.
Dear 2021,
I will write you out of my life.
I’ll erase you.
That’s what you’ve been good for
– practicing the art of expunging,
expelling,
expressing
– an excremental year.
I will forget you
just as I have forgotten
sins of omission,
unsuccessful resurrections
and heaven on earth.
You had the goodwill of surviving relatives to contend with,
antibodies,
antiChrists,
antediluvians.
You’re a year infested with anti-vaxxers,
shadows remembered
January, grim god of beginnings,
all you were good for were continuings.
More infections than genuflections, some said.
Others uttered “we talked about COVID more than we prayed to any god”.
Years ago, it was Occupy Wall Street,
this year it was un-occupy offices,
un-attend water coolers,
empty canteens,
beware public houses
silence confession boxes,
cashless commerce,
“click & collect” your dose.
March, war god of misgivings,
you plundered Cheltenham, St. Patrick’s Day, and Spring.
Months blurred into labyrinths of advice,
recommendations,
regulations,
legislations,
conglomerations of congregations in conflagration.
2021, a confluence of administered vaccinations,
a mess.
It was my brother’s birthday in March, my wife’s in April,
what did we do together?
There was another “We”, without which you would have been too cruel to bear,
drawn from the highways and byways,
from landscapes and mindscapes,
collaborating continents of voices that spoke volumes
with respect for diversity of origin, accent and colour.
I remember golfers practicing their conversations.
I remember contests of conjunctives,
alliterations of ailments,
hyperbolic hyphens,
all the grammar of generations grown on service to others.
I remember the election I lost
and consoling myself
with the conviction that it was well worth
the risk of embarrassment.
I remember the summer of contentment,
when three days in Lahinch was a feast
for Founders Day.
When the certificate arrived,
it was placed between two showjumpers
– because I’ve been living with leg on and leg off,
tack to be cleaned,
boots to be polished,
numnahs and socks
and not once did I hear the farrier fit shoes.
Oh yes,
it’s been a year of desolation,
un-attended funerals,
cancelled operations
and the Health Service Executive
cajoling porters
carrying the burden
of woe-begotten branches of “test & trace”
home visitors and the protocols.
We had a North-South traffic jam,
an all-Ireland festival of futile hints
that one day in our lifetime,
the four green fields will be fertilised by similar slurry,
sustainable signatories to one constitution
celebrated in a land
where the common cold didn’t sneeze.
Toastmasters thrived
while others died.
If it hadn’t been for Zoom,
I’d have been a zombie,
zestless, zigzagging from Netflix to the Premier League,
paraOlympics to Prime or Disney
aching for Bambi’s mother,
Mother Jones or the Mothers of Invention.
It was a year for nostalgic initiatives,
like
“Let’s go play in the garden”
“Let’s go pray for a visit”
“Let’s find our way to forgive
those who refuse to worship at the altar of compliance,
the tabernacle of conformity
the monstrance of hibernation.”
If it wasn’t for words,
I’d have lost my capacity for breath.
If it wasn’t for commas,
I’d have squandered the opportunity for chancing my arm.
If it wasn’t for sentences,
I’d have lost my freedom to mix metaphors
How many operations were postponed?
Marriages postponed?
Lovers postponed?
For goodness sake,
how much sexual intercourse was postponed or sexted?
A virtual year,
a virtuous cheer,
certainly queer.
And, as I quicken to your end,
you morph
Omni Cromnivirus Maximus,
you token turd,
you blind bigot,
you sour-faced, singularly persistent,
bastard of bad faith.
I plant spineless pions
to punctuate your particles
with Pi times your pronounciating pronouns,
Gibberish, Gomorrah,
Tomorrah.
May you perish,
and reincarnate the bodies of the departed
as whole paragraphs of poetry.
May you accompany Dante
from the wood,
like a wandering proposal,
pitched to posterity.
I was with them when they arrived
to give birth.
All they wanted was a miracle.
The rest of us were parched & starved.
All we wanted was
peace on earth.
They could have done with a midwife or two.
Johnsie, Matty , Martin and Daniel,
sure shepherds are only good for staring
-and celebrating after miracles.
[specially for members of Toastmasters International in Ireland, England, Scotland, Wales & beyond]
Come,
adventure into the unknown,
Elf on your shelf,
advent friends.
A time for rejoicing:
let us hold hands in harmony,
let’s stand side-by-side in solidarity,
let’s speak of Ralph C Smedley’s chesnut stuffing,
his legacy
for everyday connectivity.
There is a season …
Turn, turn, turn
and a time to every purpose in Toastmasters
Time:
a time to try,
a time to try,
a time to triumph,
a timer by your side.
Listen:
let there be Grammar,
guttural, graceful grammar,
linguistic tightrope walking
past lazy language,
unkempt utterances
savage sentences.
Let your inner Grammarian prod you
from slovenly, sleepy mouthfuls.
This is the season for rejoicing, rhyme and rhetoric.
Each to your way:
E-commerce,
E-cigarettes,
E-valuations.
Make meaningful the content of your desire.
You are a meaning-making-master
Toastmaster
distinguished,
a lowercase distinguished Toastmaster,
certainly.
You deserve this advent,
this good story,
this Promise of
Integrity for Inspiration,
Respect for Resilience,
Service for Solace,
Excellence for Eccentricity.
May Ralph be Santa to your sleigh,
crammed full of presents,
and presence on your stage,
your landscape,
your speachathon,
the speachathon of your mind.
May the love of leaders that lead with love
fill up your heart this year to come.
Call out this Festival from COVID,
unmask the pain within,
ring out the joy we comrades sing,
make merry when you can
and serve humanity lashings of trifle.
Ring in this season of reindeers,
ridiculous renditions of poetry and song,
With love to you all
Paul.
Sailing to Dover
floating to death on water
we hadn’t a chance.
Screaming for life
for breath, a hand to hold me
swallowing silence.
Sinking and drowning,
a cold wet graveyard for home.
I hoped for better.
It’s never been an easy ride to place
a photograph exactly where it ought to be.
Opinions clash, hypotheses contest the wind
before the taste of breakfast turns to memory,
and dust.
Witness the ease that trickles through your base
and turns a little sour, as morning drifts
apart. Is there not spice to whet your appetite
for war and peace? Is there no more sunshine
around the sound of jays and rooks and doves,
and dust?
Behold English Setter on banks prepared for fish
that jump before lunchtime for flies not moths,
a dog that saved my life with eyes he fixed so firm,
until compelled to sit and drools, and I to smile
through dust.
There’s no ending in sight or sound, no door
locked down, nor ice too cold to strip a breath of air
from lungs on fire. Who cut the brambles back,
murdered the blackberries, and left the path undressed?
Awake with life in mind, unheart me now before the rain,
you gods of sleep, come do your best, sustain
this chimera of dust.
I’ve heard the master say
He had a favourite shot
the best one in his bag.
He dares to whisper the name
Toastmasters for Golf.
_________________________
We are Toastmasters of today
we are Toastmasters for tomorrow.
I’ve heard the master say.
____________________
I have landed in the bunker
my ball’s gone out of bounds
My buggy has a broken wheel
My swing’s gone off the boil,
my ground’s under repair.
There’s a fairway somewhere,
it lies in greener grass.
I’m terrified of shanking,
I’m sure I’ll top the ball.
because I’m an ordinary leader
who stands upon the tee
out there every day.
in your community,
I’ve heard the master say.
I’m no more afraid of public speaking
than of playing a fresh-air shot.
I’ll feast my eye upon the ball
upon my words in flight
“It’s all a game of golf”,
I hear the Toastmaster say
– from concrete fears to metaphors
– from nightmares to the promised land.
I’ll practise my swing
until the rainbow’s end.
I’ll practise my voice
in solidarity with friends.
_____________
Let’s not squander time in fear,
let’s not hide away our talents,
let me be my best.
I heard the master say.
Ralph C Smedley used his wedge,
and built a club house fair.
Ralph C had days he missed his cup
Of this you can be sure,
but he never, ever, gave up.
___________________
Your leader in the zone,
on the eighteenth hole
he knew he’d done his best
he smiled to friends all round the course.
Ralph knew the putt was long,
from when he wore short trousers,
he dreamt of saving lives
he dreamt of players growing strong.
He’d dreamt there would be a hole-in-one
for YOU.
His inner core
Integrity
His outer layer
Respect
His clubs were called to
Service
In the dream of
Excellence.
I’ve heard the master say.
THE MASTER IS YOU
You don’t have to agree
You don’t have to agree with me,
or your father.
You don’t even have to agree
with the gods.
The proof lies in your rebellion
against the power of the authority
that would lord over you
– if you let it.
You don’t have to agree with these few words
or what you imagine they mean
for your own good
– the only good you’ll ever have.
You don’t have to accept
You don’t have to accept
the sun in the morning.
You don’t have to accept
the stars at night.
You don’t have to accept
the scars of words
uttered in your direction.
You don’t even have to attend
the funeral of hopes you used to embrace,
nor love the company
of those who profess to love you,
of those who crave to care,
of those that breathe your name.
You don’t have to accept.
You don’t have to pay
You don’t have to pay attention
to wagtails, butterflies and magpies
in your garden
nor the song of newts, frogs and moths
– symphonic bedfellows.
You don’t have to pay attention
to the call of those who claim
to need your time,
nor the screech of mates, pals and kin
– major keys, minor discords.
You don’t have to attend,
to be present,
to what matters most
to you.
You have your way
You have the power to forget,
the right to deny.
You have the honour to refuse,
the right to be blind.
You have the breath to be echt,
the right to find
your way.
[dedicated to the revival of writing]
When your pen’s been dry and paper blank,
when the ashes of your fire refused to light,
when you smelled the blossom and found no fragrance,
when you walked the streets and hummed no melody of thought,
when the Virus left you cold, too safe to care,
you’ve been doing research.
You’ve let the song of birds sink in.
You’ve let the sight of butterflies thrill your garden.
You’ve let the taste of tepid tea touch you.
When the temperature of conversations escapes your notice,
your pen is standing by, your paper clean
Full stop.
In hours twixt sleep and sleep
the breakfast
the lunch,
the dinner
and tea.
The dressing-gown, cereal, coffee, shower, shave, conditioner, moisturiser, deodorant, and socks.
From grumpy eyes to Elysian whim…
From walking the dog to stroking the cat,
and back again…
From negotiations with housework to a ceasefire over washing-up…
Labour without laughter
Marketing without melody.
Did the postman deserve that bark?
Did the car drink too much petrol, on the road to Moanbaun Woods?
The family, the family, the family
the WhatsApp…
Where have all the contracts gone?
Remember the Burning Bush?
Commandments
Agony in the garden
Resurrections and assumptions
Ablutions…
And all in the twinkling
twixt sleep and sleep.
“I was an abducted child
driven to exhibit wild.
They tied me up in knots,
secured my love in lots
until the ice cream melted
all over my childhood.”
“Take you head out of that book
and come in here and watch Netflix with us.
I’m fed up with you wasting your time reading.”
“I have the right to read”.
“See, there you are with your empty head
full of drivel.
There’s a lot more education in Love Island
than in your Pride & Prejudice.
It’s time you took in more love than that high falutin sex
in carriages and grand houses.”
“I want to learn to read.”
“Tis how to slouch proper on a sofa you need young lady.”
“Why do I have to watch all those stupid serials on Amazon Prime?”
“Because it’s good preparation for life. Imagine what sort of a life you’d have
if you did nothing but read. You’d be company for no one.”
“But I love books.”
“Will you cop yourself on child.
Disney Plus is the future.
Reading is for writers.
Television is for interesting people.”
“Like you Mam?”
“Why not. At least it got me a couch … “
When you eat sponge cake at ten minutes to midnight,
and rain clatters on the roof above your dinner table,
and the French mustard pot seems wrapt in conversation with black peppercorns and pink salt,
you might as well drink the mug of tea while it’s hot enough to warm your tummy.
Otherwise those pens on the counter, alongside the scribbled page of names you meant to invite to Clubhouse, might accuse you of neglect.
I ran out of drinking water.
Thirst, dry mouth, swallowing hard against the draining of the light,
that used to support my fetish for
mammy’s food before bed.
There’s a learning opportunity in a haystack, even when you can’t find a pitchfork
and your calling is to notice things out of place.
I met a poet on my way to the toilet,
a stubbly fellow on his way to the kitchen.
He looked as if he’d seen a tiger upstairs
in the master bedroom.
I wasn’t long sitting down, staring at wallpaper,
when a knock came to the door.
‘Is there anyone there?’
There was a blink in one eye
while I ruminated.
You can imagine whatever you like.
It was the poet’s voice that disturbed me.
The fingers stained with verse turned off the light
and it was dark as pitch.
You can imagine the tiger at work,
minding his business.
Come quirk your path
into the shape of night
and breathe in time with light
It’s never too late to close your mouth,
rest those vocal chords,
and swallow your children
before they are born.
Draught under the door
to stars too cold to burn
on a short month
Glowing embers
Warmth fading
Like melting ice.
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 