Imagine …
There’s a new discovery
– an imagination machine
you carry round with you.
It generates
daydreams & fairytales
at the flick of a switch.
Will you use it today?
Walt Whitman on Thanksgiving Day
Note: I found this (via Google) published on Every Writer (1 November 2010)
_____________________
THE PLACE GRATITUDE FILLS IN A FINE CHARACTER
by Walt Whitman
From the Philadelphia Press, Nov. 27, 1884, (Thanksgiving number)
Scene.—A large family supper party, a night or two ago, with voices and laughter of the young, mellow faces of the old, and a by-and-by pause in the general joviality. “Now, Mr. Whitman,” spoke up one of the girls, “what have you to say about Thanksgiving? Won’t you give us a sermon in advance, to sober us down?” The sage nodded smilingly, look’d a moment at the blaze of the great wood fire, ran his forefinger right and left through the heavy white mustache that might have otherwise impeded his voice, and began: “Thanksgiving goes probably far deeper than you folks suppose. I am not sure but it is the source of the highest poetry—as in parts of the Bible. Ruskin, indeed, makes the central source of all great art to be praise (gratitude) to the Almighty for life, and the universe with its objects and play of action.
“We Americans devote an official day to it every year; yet I sometimes fear the real article is almost dead or dying in our self-sufficient, independent Republic. Gratitude, anyhow, has never been made half enough of by the moralists; it is indispensable to a complete character, man’s or woman’s—the disposition to be appreciative, thankful. That is the main matter, the element, inclination—what geologists call the trend. Of my own life and writings I estimate the giving thanks part, with what it infers, as essentially the best item. I should say the quality of gratitude rounds the whole emotional nature; I should say love and faith would quite lack vitality without it. There are people— shall I call them even religious people, as things go?— who have no such trend to their disposition.”
“Thanks-Giving Day” – poem by Paul O’Mahony
sometimes our thank you is said so casually
or quickly that it is nearly meaningless.
(Martin Seligman)
______________
I was never thankful
to my father
or my mother
I wasn’t even thankful
to the Universe
for what I had.
the house, clothes, water, food, shoes, shirts, bath,
garden, roses, grass, apples, hens, cabbage, loganberries,
hedgehog, lizard, bushes, even the bees
tortoise, trees, dogs, cats, fire, pocket-money, prayers,
holy water, statues, carpets, paintings, music, jelly, eggcups,
fireplaces,books, radiogram, even the plums
school, transport, brothers, sisters, God, cod-liver oil, mass,
chickens, eggs, lamb, salmon, ox-tongue, bread and butter pudding,
golf clubs, cut glass, even the gooseberries
ice cream, pancakes, rice pudding, red currants, peaches, pears,
record player, transistor radio, Luxembourg, milk, football, rashers,
cards, chess, rugby, even the blackberries
dobbers, conkers, tiddlywinks, compendium of games, holidays,
stories, photographs, confession, friends, short trousers, novenas,
nuns, thermometers, even the wagtails
pillows, pencils, bicycles, blazers, socks, sweets, pepper, porridge,
underpants, sandals, gospels, rules, knives, teaspoons, commandments,
gongs, conversations, birthdays, even the earthworms
If you asked me then whether I was grateful
I’d have said ‘yes’
If you ask me now whether I was thankful
I shall stay silent.
If you’re curious to know whether I am thankful today
I am more full of thanks than ever
– for all that and more.
The Walt Whitman Show (25 November)
ThoughtForToday – 26 November
If I was a creative
I’d put three syllables after my name
If I was a muse
I’d go amusing
If I was inspired
You’d find me high on a church.
ThoughtForToday – 25 November
Being kind to others is fluffy
sweet
noble
soft-hearted
an aspiration
like living a sin-less life
admirable & saintly
apt for heroic souls bound for salvation.
Horse-shit.
Avoidance of the issue …
What kind act will I do today?
“I used to love hating poetry” – poem by Lars Blichfeldt
I made the poem ‘one day’ after a period of not being able to write anything I thought was good enough.
No matter what, it ended up with me being frustrated or disappointed.
It left me with two choices.
I could give up trying to write because I wasn’t the new Whitman – just an average guy that actually needed to practice and make mistakes to learn and improve.
To actually believe that two months of writing would place me anywhere near what others have taken years to master is ridiculous…. I know.
Nevertheless, it was exactly what I hoped for. Being good at something without doing any kind of effort to achieve it.
But maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe that’s what stops us from giving up before we even begin.
My second choice was to face the facts and just carry on practicing. To keep writing no matter how lousy the outcome would be.
I choose the last.
Now give me 10 years and I will write you a masterpiece. In the meantime, here’s a hell of a try😉
Thank you for taking your time to read this.
_______________
I used to love hating poetry.
Written by those who failed
living the expected life themselves.
Now wrapping-up words
in riddles and fancy glitter.
To attain the unattainable.
Narcissistic socialists
breathing the universe
while reminding the masses
to be satisfied just looking at the sun.
I did.
I looked at the sun.
Astonishing…
Perhaps I was wrong.
Perhaps I was the failure.
I started writing.
It felt refreshing.
Pats on the back,
Polite comments and praises.
I was seduced,
intoxicated by appreciation.
Soon I would be the lump of coal
transforming into a diamond
The winning ticket
The one in a million.
Flawless.
Unique.
Without practice.
Without effort.
A unicum.
This “new” me..
A thinker..
A writer..
A word wrapper..
A poet..
What I loved to hate,
I now hated to love.
Thinking like a child,
naive like a child,
I believed the sun turned around me.
One day I might grow up.
One day I might loose this spirit.
Hopefully it won’t be soon.
________________________
Note:
A big thank you to Lars Blichfeldt
ThoughtForToday – 24 November
How young are you?
You look so fresh.
So free of the cares of life.
What desires flourish in those soft folds?
How long have you sucked on milk?
How young are you?
Clung to your Mother the Earth?
How childish your spirit?
How lively your smile?
ThoughtForToday. – 21 November
The most attractive story
you can tell
about yourself
is
how
you went from
corrupting to trustworthy
rags to riches
carnal to holy
alpha to omega
– thanks to a force outside your control
ThoughtForToday – 20 November
Time is a word.
It’s meant to mean something
to people.
But
the passing of time
means different things
within different cultures.
Obviously.
How would you like a second helping of time?
The Walt Whitman Show
The Walt Whitman Show is live streamed on Periscope.
The show is a gathering of people who
- want to hear Whitman’s poetry read to them
- love the good company of other people who like poetry & chat
- are curious to find out what’s going on
- like the sound of my accent
- are motivated by some other reason
“Sick” – poem by Paul O’Mahony
“I am sick”
the old man said
fingers interlocked
behind a hairy neck
as he rocked in a kitchen stool.
Arrogant son of a bitch
nowadays referred to more kindly
as “self reverential omnipotent”.
Paul loved his style
even more than the secondhand suit
he had from Armani.
His journeys to charity shops
were retail adventures
in the stories he expounded to strangers
on anthropological field trips
to pubs
in search of the community
where he’d be appreciated.
Because he was sick to himself
he made a difference
to the universe.
Personal pride in his sickness
his tombstone he designed.
It would say
“Here lies one sick man
– look up to him“.
ThoughtForToday – 19 November
Being kind
is tough
demands an effort
stretches your love.
Not a marshmallow.
Being kind
is easy
demands an effort
grows your love.
Warms the heart.
Tough love is kind.
Binkie Braithwaite RIP
This morning – sipping coffee in Cafe Beva – I heard he’d died. News came via text message from my younger son.
It’s about 13 years since I’ve seen Binkie.
I didn’t cry. He’d have taken the piss out of me if I had.
He lived on the edge
all his life – aware he could be dead before he finished his latest project (or so I imagined ever since we knew each other in Bradford on Avon, Wiltshire, UK.)
No one’s a perfect fit to deliver the oration in memory of Binkie – he had so many sides. But I wish, I wish I could be there to stand in honour of his presence. (He never entered a room without making an impact.)
It’s fitting that this is the first prose piece I’ve written on this blog.
Binkie Braithwaite funniest inventor I ever met.
He invented Gut Barging. None of you have ever heard of gut barging – but many have in Japan, UK & North America (many “mad raving fans”).
There was much more to Binkie than Gut Barging. He was an arch conversationalist, centre-wing stand-up comic, beard-grower and a host of other spirits.
No one’s ever met another Binkie – a true snowflake.
Let us celebrate the Life of Binkie (I’m not sure when this movie will go on general release.)
Thank you Binkie
for all the smiles you brought into my life every time I was in your company, and every time you dwelled in my memory & imagination.
____________________
World class media reports
on success of the sport Binkie invented/revived from Sumo.
(1) The Sport of Belly Jousting (2001 by Wertperch)
“…a contest of skill and controlled violence…” – Binkie Braithwaite, The Independent
Honestly, I couldn’t have made this up. This is one of those sports which seem unbelievable, made up for April Fools’ Day. Imagine two ahem large people in a ring, using only their ample middles to oust their opponent – it seems too far-fetched for words. The truth, however is stranger than the fiction would have been.
According to Binkie Braithwaite, founder of the World Gutbargers’ Association, it is “…borrowing from the traditions of Japanese Sumo. Basically it gives fat, drunken people the opportunity to excel…” Some have tried to place the origins in mediæval jousting tournament sideshows, but there can be no doubt that it is growing in popularity in this 21st century.
The rules seem to be quite straightforward. The two combatants, stripped to the waist (male or female – there are no barriers here) face each other across a mat twelve feet by eight, and with bellies well oiled, attempt to force one another off the mat using only their gut. There are a number of moves which attract points. Two of the more colourful are the Full Johnny Turk (a single thrusting blow which propels the victim off the mat) and the Shunt or Full Blubber (a full-strength push over the line), each of which scores 15 Points. No contact is permitted other than the belly – arms are held out at the sides for balance, but no wrestling is involved.
The sport is taken semi-seriously by the athletes, the first championships being held in Trowbridge in 1988. Scotland seems to like the sport, and it has made its way into some Highland Games events, although perhaps viewed as less traditional than tossing the caber. Australia too, has organised events. ‘Binkie’ has even been called on to organise an event at the Royal Albert Hall, as part of the support for The Stranglers 20th anniversary gig.
There are already traditions, borrowed, as might be expected, from sumo wrestling. The combatants hurl Bombay mix (a spicy snack food) into the ‘ring’, face up and shout insults at one another, before being told to prepare for battle, with a cry of ‘Guts Up’ by the Balou (referee). At this point, the contestants adopt a position of readiness, their knees bent, shoulders back and guts out. On the command ‘Meet’ the contest begins, they meet in a cataclysm of blubber, grease and sweat, before one is hurled from the ring in disgrace. At least it is more exciting than darts.
(2) Games: On the trail of the abdominal showmen
From the pages of `The Independent’ to the stage of the Albert Hall, Binkie Braithwaite – `the Gutfather’ – explains the finer points of Barging to William Hartston in 2011.
“Fourteen months is a long time in Gut Barging. Just over a year ago, few of us had heard of this ancient British recreation, but yesterday night it completed a remarkable return to prominence with its first high- profile international contest, “The Brawl in the Hall”, which formed a weighty part of the 21st anniversary concert of The Stranglers at the Royal Albert Hall… (read a lot more here and gut barging Royal Albert Hall)
(3)
Definition:
- (Britain) A sport (or slightly mock sport) in which two men with big fat guts (ie. their bellies) try to push each other off a mat, pushing only with their guts.
ThoughtForToday – 18 November
As Oscar Wilde wrote
“for all men kill the thing they love”
But
what about the women?
“For all women love the thing they kill”?
Venus & Mars eh
Chalk and Cheese
_______________________
Note:
The Oscar Wilde quote comes from “The Ballad of Reading Gaol”
[of course you knew that already – but not everyone is as well versed as you]
ThoughtForToday – 17 November
Imagine
you’re an explorer
– bold organised adventurer
–
you go where no one’s been before
– sharing your findings generously
– where are you going today?
Would you go
with the mentality of a traveller
seeking your trail ?
Trail- blazer
ThoughtForToday – 17 November
Blue
– dichotomy.
One minute it’s sucking us up
into the sky of imagination.
Another minute it’s pushing us down
into the septic trough.
Blue is the human colour
– torn in contrasting directions
“They are dead” – Poem by Paul O’Mahony
[If you can’t see the player below, click here]
They are dead
my verse is blank
my spirit violated
my heart hurt
my mind
struggling
confused
torn.
What can my verse do?
What can my fingers do?
What can my flesh do?
What can the atoms and molecules of my shape do?
_________
A lot …
a huge amount:
I can stand
in solidarity
I can hold out my hand
in love
I can be compassion.
There is a lot I can do
I am not helpless
in the face of massacre
I am not helpless.
___________
Alongside the dead,
the dying
the injured
the frightened
I am not powerless
I can love
I can be kindly to others
I can be generous
I can be compassionate
___________
Though my verse is blank
and
has no rhyme
though the rhythm be uneven
though the metre be hard to find
I am strong enough
I have the courage to be human
to be mixed-up
to have mixed feelings
to be at sixes and sevens
to be lost.
I have the power to find myself
I’ve done it before.
There have been other massacres
There have been other assassinations
My heart has been injured
my feelings hurt
I have been attacked
I have been close to death.
I have strength enough to be human with the people of Paris, the people of France the people of Europe, the people of the whole world
I have that strength
I have the strength to remember I am a human.
I may not have died in Paris
but my humanity has been disturbed
into life
Enough
Enough
Enough
Rest in peace.
____________________________
Note:
This poem was first composed on the audio you can listen to above.
The photograph is of “Peace for Paris”, an illustration by the French graphic designer Jean Jullien
ThoughtForToday – 14 November
Je suis Paris
today there is nothing to do
but
stand in solidarity
with the people of Paris France
and
wish for peace
remembering
#wearehumans
#jesuischarlie
#JeSuisParis
“Islander” – poem by Paul O’Mahony
Chapter 1
He could have been on Sherkin, Inishbofin, Skelligs or even Rathlin…
He was an outlaw, cast away from the land,
away from his people.
His face didn’t fit,
his family were not from the right side of town.
There was no time for him, he could rot there.
Eventually his spirit would break,
he would comply, he would conform,
he would be broken
– or so they thought…
________________
It would teach them,
it would show them not to meddle with our family,
not to get above themselves.
Yea, 27 winters on Sherkin
27 springs on the Skelligs
27 summers on Rathlin
27 years of nightmares on any island you fancy.
It was good to keep him there, disappeared.
Our family had need of safety,
his family were dangerous,
thugs, revolutionaries, communists, rapists.
oh yea, uncouth, uncivilised, Untermenschen.
______________
Chapter 2
Our family is special,
we have survived our own wars.
We’re used to feeling superior
our family before all families
our tribe before all tribes
our village – the white man’s burden
Everyman is an island
We have not balked at blood sacrifice
We have buried our enemies in unmarked graves
– even displayed corpses to teach families how to behave themselves
We survived war against an Empire of superior force – that gave us backbone.
That gave us good enough reason to turn the tables on families of inferior beings.
Oh yes, our family is special – forever.
______________
Chapter 3
You will not leave that island
You will languish in your dreams
You will scratch your balls
You will scrape the fleas in your hair
You will freeze your bollocks off.
We will control you.
When we let you out – it will be to die.
Our family is ordained to carry the burden of ruling this land.
Yes, your family is bigger than our family
Your family’s so big it’s disgusting.
Your people are everywhere – but your people are worthless
– we’ve made sure of that.
________________
The sea the sea the sea
the waves the wind, the ocean, the cold
the fish the seaweed the waves the wind the cold the ocean
the seaweed the waves the wind the cold the ocean the seaweed
____________________
Eat your heart out Islandman – we have you.
Oh yes, we’ve had you now for 27 years.
How did you pull through?
_____________
Chapter 4
Are you coming off that island?
Are you coming to take our land from us?
Are coming to obliterate us, are you coming to wipe us out?
are you coming to leave a bloodbath?
are you going to come off the island
like an avenging angel – the Assyrian descending on the fold?
are you going to be the Inquisition?
are you going to be ethnically cleansing us?
are you going to force our children to leave?
are you gonna split up all that we’ve created among so many people and leave everybody with hardly anything?
Who are you?
who are you after?
who are you after festering anger resentment?
you must be a walking bomb
you must be a walking terrorist
you must be a killer of all of our dreams.
I see you now, we see you now, step ashore
______________
Chapter 5
I must say you look rather good after 27 years.
If I’d been there for 27 years I probably wouldn’t have stood up as well as you look
maybe your family has got some kind of metal in your DNA?
maybe you’re just bloody tough?
who are you Islander?
who are you warrior?
what’s in your mind?
what’s in that heart?
Why should we trust you?
the only thing we can trust is our own fear.
yes, we’re outnumbered
yes, your family is bitter.
What are those words forming in your mouth?
what’s that look in your eye?
what’s that breath from your nostril?
You’re walking towards us,
are you coming to wipe us out?
now your time has come
now every other bastard has abandoned our family
left us alone
left us isolated
left us rejected
Yea, we were at the forefront of fighting for what we believed in,
for what we thought others believed in.
yes we were the top dogs once,
Now,
yea we’re lepers
my family is spat on
my family is rejected
no one from my family can get married into any other family.
And you will inherit the earth.
I expect you’ll get revenge now
you’re coming
you’re coming across
you’re coming ashore, you’re coming inland.
What’s that you hold in your hand?
what are you doing with your hands?
towards whom are you
outstretching?
You don’t mean to offer me a hand
you cannot mean to stretch out a hand.
It’s a trick.
You want to persuade me you are a friend
come from 27 years of incarceration
on that …
on Sherkin, on Boffin, on Skelligs
You want me to believe that that’s a genuine hand?
as soon as you grip my hand you’ll pull me under
you’ll squash me to death.
I know,
that’s what I’d do if I was in your position.
You want my hand.
your hand is warm
your eye is warm
you are forming words
you are looking over my shoulder
beyond where I stand
you are looking beyond my family
You have brought a flag with you
a towel, a canopy, a rug,
something that will go over everybody.
You expect me to join you
you expect me to work with you
you expect me not to run and hide
you expect me to accept you
you expect me to be your partner
And you will not take everything from me?
you will leave me with my money intact?
you will leave me with my capital acquired?
you will leave me with some shred of self-respect?
God it feels like you’re offering me a route to Salvation
Where the hell have you come from?
where the hell did you become like this?
You stretch out a hand of friendship
a hand of warmth, a hand of the future
to my family.
You restrain your family from eating me alive
you restrain others from decimation
you prefer us to be together than all go down.
You are serious?
Islandman,
what kind of a resurrection is this?
what stones have you rolled back?
what cave have you come from?
what sort of Heaven on earth are you trying to create?
When you were on that island, and I was on the mainland,
you were a small guy.
you were locked up in a place where I didn’t have to see your eyes
where I didn’t have to feel your hand.
but now I cannot avoid you
I cannot ignore you
I cannot step away from you.
That island: Sherkin, Inishbofin, the Skelligs, Aran Islands, the Saltees, Lambay, Rathlin…
– they’re all our islands.
we’ve always used islands to lock inferior beings away out of sight.
now those islands have turned everything inside out,
have turned everything on its head.
I don’t know what to say
I don’t know where to look
I’ve embarrassed by your strength, by your courage
by your power
and you know what the worst thing is?
you’re so bloody humble
you are so bloody humble
you offer warmth, friendship
you offer togetherness
you offer hope
you offer a future
My children – they don’t have to die
my children – they don’t have to run
our children can play together.
Where have you come from?
What happened to you
on that island?
Is there any chance I can do 27 years on that same island?
_________________________
Chapter 6
The Unknown Unknown…
We are all the creators
all families creators
all individuals creators
Any chance we can all do 27 years on the island?
The end of the beginning.
_______________________
Note:
Written in honour of my hero Nelson Mandela (18 July 1918 – 5 December 2013)
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 