No self-respecting poet would ever write the words ‘quality assurance’ in a poem unless the poem was designed to win an award from the health and safety officer.
Only a desperate composer of verse would droop their pen down into such stale ink and think they might get away with being mistaken for an ironic metaphoric genius.
‘Quality’ is for beginners in poetry – an abstract expression that begs to stir the soul to life, without breathing a syllable with guts or garters, and delights people asleep.
As for ‘Assurance’, rhyming with insurance, half -rhyme to insouciance, indifference personified, the word doesn’t even dance, or dalliance, eat ants, glance or entrance.
However, put them together, send them on a date, engage them, marry the buckoes – that way lies a turd of a turgid teaser, the type elephants lay for hyenas to admire.
and there was snow on the peaks of MacGillycuddy’s Reeks.
The following year was bad
though earthworms flourished, corn crakes called,
and more books were sold than ever in the history of humanity.
In nineteen hundred and fifty two,
I escaped the threat of extreme unction.
The Quiet Man was found Waiting For Godot
Another journey towards maturity and posterity.
II
Remember Christmas
Miracle of life and death
A butterfly flapped.
III
Mary Oliver wrote “You don’t have to be good”
My parents showed “It’s best to live the way you should”
Conscience was a fashionable word,
Contrition was the world,
Confession insisted upon.
Surrounded by Holy Water fonts,
it was a miracle I grew up in Limerick
among books.
In those days, someone had to match Christmas cards with envelopes.
IV
I remember meeting Picasso’s woman.
– perhaps that was Dublin –
I’m sure she had three heads.
Five heads flowed along the banks of the Shannon
Frank the Wisdom, Patricia the Joy, David the Magnificence, Deirdre the Talent
Peter the Intelligence.
Siblings under one roof
Chislers
V
Resurection is much more attractive than birth. Rising from the dead.
Recovery is a form of absolution – a revolting cry
Recognition is a quintessence that collides while opening eyes
I stand on the shoulders of great mothers and grand fathers
The example
The permission
The encouragements
“This is for you to consider.“
“It’s your eternity”.
Chapters of dialogue alongside the AGA in the kitchen
– like a primary school for the rest of my days.
VI
There were Nurses marching outside the maternity ward of Bart’s Hospital, as he was born.
An amniocentesis in Homerton Hospital.
A whirlpool for my head
The nurse from Manilla crushed under the weight of a fainting father to be.
Moleskines
Filaments for the chronicle
So many fragments to stitch together.
VII
Let’s celebrate the glory days of life No matter where the gold and silver lie and put aside those thurd’rous hours of strife until they shed fresh light upon our cries. It’s time to paint with colourful design To decorate our home and dress the bed In case this tide flows out and we decline Beyond the spit of smiles and slump misread. It’s Fall, when leaves turn brown and drift away A season to renew the bridge we built Back in the days we loved the wind that swayed The leaves of barley on the field of quilt. There’s no magic will disguise the mystery Of how to grow without complicity.
So there, dear friends, are lines composed to mark the twist in the road
After walking by the lake & tall hills by Gougane Barra this afternoon, I came home to a cake.
A cake deserves a photograph, or a painting – especially when it’s as magnificent as this one.
Especially when it’s handmade by someone who’s dearer to me than the confection is sweet.
She spent a goodly proportion of the day in the supermarket & kitchen – and cleaned up after herself – which I have often not done.
I had half an eye on England v Belgium when she visited my sofa, and asked if I would really like a candle for every year of what I call my maturity.
I almost took pity on her.
“Of course I’d love that.”
And so it was that when my two sons, two daughters-in-law, three grandchildren & two dogs joined us in the kitchen (via Zoom), there were candles lit.
Imagine trying to light that number of short candles on top of this cake. Imagine three of us with flaming matches, and melting wax trickling on to the icing.
Etched into memory, never to be forgotten until my memory muscle has grown too limp to last.
Joy, fun & glee. How fortunate I am to have such company to love.
When I was a child in Limerick my imagination didn’t stretch to Africa.
It never crossed my mind that I would go to Accra in Ghana or Bamako in Mali.
But I knew the name Timbuktu, the city that’s Tombouctou in French.
It never crossed my mind that Timbuktu in Mali might be twinned with Hay-on-Wye in the Black Mountains. That’s Wales.
My father collected National Geographic Magazines. I got the impression there were photographs of African people, animals, rivers, mountains, trees, and skies in every issue. The pull-out maps were big.
I had coffee in West Africa yesterday. I brought with me the best wishes of the people of Glanmire.
Two countries “bridging the gap” they said. You could see it happening in front you as you were drawn into the conversations.
613,200 or thereabouts. As a Greek tongue uttered,
“Being exact is superficial – and misses the point.”
For example, there is always something singular about a droplet of acid – especially when it’s deoxyribonucleic.
And when I said there were 31 days in my ‘birthday’ this year, I trusted you wouldn’t take the news literally.
As suspected, I’m a bit of a codjer – a seanamadán.
“To play with words is to tickle your imagination” – as Socrates’s mother said, the day he made the Brazilian team.
The poetry of numbers is infinite and tangential to the main stream. That’s why particles of verse – those that pass the litmus test – prove to be a promising investment during pandemonia.
What a demon of a number that has been – at times.
It’s the conundrum that’s a treat to understand, I imagine.