Listen to the tree
Hug it if you like
Put your ear up close
Tell no one what you hear .
Cricket is a curse
(work in progress)
Cricket is the curse of the bowling class,
an ode:
the catching team an echo,
the batting class a sestina,
the fielding team a muse.
Cricket is the curse of the tea break:
line, length, time, and rhyme,
bad light and rain.
Refrain stops play.
Cricket’s a mug’s game,
a heroic couplet,
yet more of the same.
A Haiku running between stumps,
legs and symbols before wicket
a foot, outside the line,
an Alexandrine.
A forward defense with cadence,
against the seam,
like a no ball, a simile,
Cricket’s a testing game:
the toss,
a full toss
hit for six. Epic.
The cover’s on.
the cover’s off,
a song.
The bat, the pen, the runs, the words,
a coin spins
out comes the side, and the ink.
The follow-on stanza,
mid-on,
mid-off,
side-on.
An innings defeat.
Cricket is the curse of the umpire’s hand,
a satire.
a verse at square leg.
Onomatopoeia.
a mug’s game of innings and googlies.
Pitch, bouncers and reverse swing.
Centuries and ironies.
Ducks and golden pairs.
Stress,
a wrong’un.
Englynion:
Two new openers
batting long boring innings – sleeping time
quite a crime every ball
blocking bowlers, playing crawl
soaking pressure, scoring nothing.
Drift, line, and length.
a flipper and villanelle.
flight through the air.
Cricket is the curse of the leg spinner,
the third man.
The tail, the tale, and off-cutter.
Metaphor.
Wisden’s dictionary.
Ashes and syllables.
Lords, the Gabba,
and the popping crease.
Cursed be thy name
The pen is always heavy,
when it’s months since you lifted it.
The weight of the space left behind
undressed, unaddressed.
Time without colour,
days without commas,
seconds stripped asunder,
drunk on the spirit of everlasting
full stops.
———
This pen has a cough,
the sign of an infected life
lived as if there was no editor
round the corner
waiting.
No publisher
cracking teeth,
chewing toenails,
waiting
for the pen to impregnate the page with filth,
for the ink to copulate with lines
that conceive parables,
that deceive imaginations
so much that the nib cries for rest,
prays for time off
howls for sleep,
from having to be so good
and having to deliver best-selling sentences,
gobsmacking phrases,
gut-wrenching couplets.
——
No poet needs a pen.
The essential requirement for poetry is a mouth,
a voice box,
a larynx,
lungs.
We have ways of transcribing your dung,
software to soften your crudities,
Code.
——
Give us your guts, your flint, your rock.
—
We can knock you into marketable shape.
Give us your foulest wake,
your Finnegan.
I’ll even take your Sappho to bed
and snore ‘til dawn,
with her panting for more.
I’ll make Shakespeare disappear,
and Bashō re-appear
as a disgruntled dung beetle,
before I grant your pen
the right to light the rite of the brightening word-scape.
——
The Pen,
R.I.P.,
survived lovingly by its mother’s quill,
its significant other Bottle of spirits,
its children Procrastine and Prostatinus –
lies with coffin open all night
to the quickening sky,
in the front room of OMani’s Bookshop,
in the toilet of your treadmill,
in the dustbin of your mind,
in the gutter of your good manners,
waiting for eternity,
and, if that’s not long enough, tough on you,
with your expectations of Heaven,
with your confidence in being reincarnated
as the elephant god of wisdom,
or with at least a modicum of respect
for how you’ve served
the progeny of cave carvings,
the issue of hieroglyphical outbursts,
the offspring of juggled alphabets,
and the latest emojis.
Trend-setter you,
cursed be thy name.
——
No matter how heavy the pen,
no matter how sick the ink,
no matter how smelly the script,
no matter how disreputable the collection,
the air will carry your sentiments
alongside the letter Cain wrote to Abel,
the note Judas wrote to Joseph,
the missive Abraham scribbled to the Buddha,
all the smoke signals,
text messages,
emails,
phone calls
and whisperings.
The wind will amalgamate the lot,
and you will be branded
another infant in the long line.
How about you?
Blue, blue, my pool is blue.
Blue is my sky.
How about you?
White, white, a butterfly flies.
White is my house.
How about you?
Black, black, the shadow’s black.
Black is my back.
How about you?
Black and white martins glide
smooth on the breeze.
How about you?
Blue, blue, forever be true.
What do you say?
How about you?
Unbent
(in honour of Eavan Boland)
It was a London summer. It was dry.
Half of June was full of Downing Street,
the Tower of London,
Hampstead Heath,
Stoke Newington,
Speaker’s Corner,
the Abbey,
the City.
The other half was Chiswick,
ticket machines,
waybills,
route maps,
accident reports,
“Fares please.”
I worked on a bus.
It had a number.
There were stairs to climb,
passes to inspect,
cash to collect.
There was a woman. She got on in Camden Town.
She carried shopping. She knew where she was going.
She never spoke to me.
As I walked along the lower deck, issuing tickets,
she showed her travel pass.
I nodded and moved on.
She got off at Swiss Cottage.
I was sure she went on to Golders Green on the 28 bus.
She kept to herself. I wanted to follow her
back through what it had been like during the war
before she escaped Germany.
I wanted to know what happened to her family,
and if she lived alone in London.
I walked from Chalk Farm after work
past Primrose Hill to the bus stop where she got off.
I saw her going into a flower shop on a Friday afternoon.
I was curious. Did she buy them for herself, or for the cemetery?
By August, whenever my bus skirted Trafalgar Square
and drove down Whitehall, past Downing Street, around Parliament Square,
I imagined the bombing,
the woman who commanded the bus,
the woman who conducted the number 24.
The quiet woman recovering in Golders Green,
I asked myself whether she’d got a job
at the Ministry after D-Day.
Whatever she spoke of during the Blitz,
I wanted to know where her country was in those days
and where it was that long dry summer.
The Tower,
the Heath,
Hyde Park,
The Abbey,
Threadneedle Street
faded.
I went into and beyond the city,
put on the uniform and badge number 115364,
walked to the garage, signed in, sat in the canteen.
NBA, no bus available, hoping I’d be sent home early.
I went down the stairs into the output,
handed in my box, spare ticket rolls,
cash bags, the machine, and the key to the locker
on the Routemaster where I kept my things.
I walked to Camden Town hoping to see her again
with the face of an unbent survivor.
When the poet died
When the poet died
the keyboard lost all its notes,
the black and the white.
The slippery green frog
and blue horses
were the poet’s own song.
She talked to stones,
felt the deep sting of a wasp,
knew loneliness too.
She passed this way,
playing high in a wild sky,
attracting the sun.
Not for her the fumes of the city.
It’s not enough to care
It’s not enough to care:
thousands dead,
millions hurt,
angry Earth,
the rubble of unopened life,
a massacre,
a visit from Hell.
Two minutes is all it took
to bring the walls down,
to bury infants,
to suffocate sinners,
to exterminate, obliterate, create terror
without relief,
with overflowing coffins.
My mother’s heart attacked,
my father suffocated under dust,
there will be no recovery,
the Lion has died,
as if the goodness has been squashed out.
Let’s not forget the geckos, cats, dogs, goldfish, spiders – even the cockroaches and earthworms
– all creatures grand and precious –
I am Kahramanmaras, Malatya, Antakya, Gaziantep, Iskenderun, and Aleppo.
I am You.
Open the crossings,
let fuel in,
light the heaters,
let love flow across the border
between life and death.
Aid your sisters,
save your brothers,
dig your children out.
It’s not enough to care anymore.
My dad’s the queerest fish
He comes downstairs at the last minute,
unshaven. You can tell he hasn’t showered.
One sock black, the other blue.
He doesn’t even grunt.
Heads for bog-standard tea,
flicks on the kettle switch
squeezes the last drop from a tea bag,
drops milk into a half-full mug.
“I’ll see you in the car, come on Louis”
My Dad takes dog to everywhere
– to school – to park – to Toastmasters.
That setter’s sat at a thousand meetings.
My Dad’s weird, drives without opening his mouth.
I’m sure his ears are half-awake.
He wears one hearing aid, lost the other.
and doesn’t even care.
My father doesn’t curse,
he doesn’t even burp.
He holds it all inside.
He loves the dog and cat,
forgives them all the time,
while they drive me insane.
A man whose memory’s shot
insists on time to write
and listens with a sieve.
He loves my school results,
no matter how well I do,
swears you can’t change the past.
Whenever I’m compliant
he sure looks disappointed,
until my will’s my own.
His singing voice is foul,
flat as a flat fog-horn.
My protests spare me pain.
I wish he’d close his mouth
not interrupt my sleepy mind,
until I’m gone to school.
Letter To A Soldier
what are you looking at soldier? what business is it of yours? you haven’t even slept inside Knocknasheen camp. tents dripping with the same water your grandmother drank, way back. ice at bedtime. crystals for sleep. you’ve pitched your tent. before you went home to snuggle up with a yellow hot waterbottle full of blue from the squalling cloud. what’s the point of interrogating you in county clare, under cratloe woods? there are monsters there. buried under the minefield. if only the men-in-tents, behind the wire, knew when there’d be time to masticate your secrets. no dogs or cats to huddle with, inside. no hugs or touch to dilute the night. quintessentially pathetic. empathetically immovable. whose birthright? where have you buried the houses, the logs, fireplaces, under-floor heat? the limerick leader suggested your parents invited your birth. inhabitants in the camp invited to freeze, and free food. what are you looking at soldier? did you hear the question? how deep did it sink into your wounds? what business is it of yours? warrior for refugees. you are seen with arms, folded now. they used to be fond. you exploded with the scent of love. wrote lust letters to kyiv, odessa. crimean tears watered fruit trees that never blossomed. from inside the tents, scrutinised. from trench-mud, proudly begged, like the rough smelly body on o’connell street at noon. why are you looking? it’s not your business now, surely. after sleep, you’ll be back soldier. statue. your mouth ready to fire missiles back, take out drones, tanks for tents. itching to fire your pen. alert. chattering for freedom. shattered. worn down by fitness to serve desperados with the courage of your convictions. conscious of conscience. considering whether today’s the day to enroll as a conscientious objector. the cold won’t linger, will it? soldier, welcome back. how was dinner for you?
12 Days of New Year
On the first day of New Year, my deep gut said to me
one wet nose
and a Lemsip in a fine mug
On the second day of New Year, my deep gut said to me
two fried eggs,
one wet nose
and a Lemsip in a fine mug
On the third day of New Year, my deep gut said to me
three sweet teeth,
two fried eggs,
one wet nose
and a Lemsip in a fine mug
On the fourth day of New Year, my deep gut said to me
four smelly socks,
three sweet teeth,
two fried eggs,
one wet nose
and a teabag in a fine cup.
On the fifth day of New Year, my deep gut said to me
five yawning sighs,
four smelly socks,
three sweet teeth,
two fried eggs,
one wet nose
and a low blood sugar level
On the sixth day of New Year, my deep gut said to me
six whatsapp texts,
five yawning sighs,
four smelly socks,
three sweet teeth,
two fried eggs,
one wet nose
and a low blood sugar level
On the seventh day of New Year, my deep gut said to me
seven strong ambitions,
six whatsapp texts,
five yawning sighs,
four smelly socks,
three sweet teeth,
two fried eggs,
one wet nose
and some great hopes for a grand year
On the eighth day of New Year, my deep fear said to me
eight lightning strikes,
seven strong ambitions,
six whatsapp texts,
five yawning sighs,
four smelly socks,
three sweet teeth,
two fried eggs,
one wet nose
and a cluster of crude Russian bombs.
On the ninth day of New Year, my deep fear said to me
nine kids homeless,
eight lightning strikes,
seven strong ambitions,
six whatsapp texts,
five yawning sighs,
four smelly socks,
three sweet teeth,
two fried eggs,
one wet nose,
and families made refugees.
On the tenth day of New Year, my deep fear said to me
ten missiles fired,
nine kids homeless,
eight lightning strikes,
seven strong ambitions,
six whatsapp texts,
five yawning sighs,
four smelly socks,
three sweet teeth,
two fried eggs,
one wet nose,
and nuclear plant set on fire.
On the eleventh day of New Year, my deep aims said to me
eleven hopes a yearning,
ten missiles fired,
nine kids homeless,
eight lightning strikes,
seven strong ambitions,
six whatsapp texts,
five yawning sighs,
four smelly socks,
three sweet teeth,
two fried eggs,
one wet nose,
and invasion half turned back.
On the twelfth day of New Year, my deep wish said to me
twelve months of peace,
eleven hopes a yearning,
ten missiles fired
nine kids homeless,
eight lightning strikes,
seven strong ambitions,
six whatsapp texts,
five yawning sighs,
four smelly socks,
three sweet teeth,
two fried eggs,
one wet nose,
and a rising of heartfelt love.
2022
I will remember the year.
Ukraine survived
Rasputin’s curse.
Moscow central:
tanks, troops, terror
into houses, homes, hospitals
into schools, shops, ships
amputating the land
obeying the command
of Grendel’s cabal.
I will never forget my ignorance –
how my faith
led me to trust
Mother Russia, Gorbachov’s legacy,
seduction by MacDonalds,
and the gas.
Shame on me,
mea culpa.
I failed to believe the intelligence,
predictions, forecasts, warnings.
I was too smart for my own good.
I didn’t remember Crimea.
I have nothing to be proud of,
I slept through 2014.
What good was that war?
The Crimean War,
“The Charge of the Light Brigade”,
imperialistic glory,
another empire
glorified and defended.
“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.
It’s been eight years
since my last confession.
These are my sins:”
Blind – to the pain
Deaf – to the cries
Dumb – too voiceless to fight
for the integrity of your homeland.
I was cavorting with earthworms
the day Crimea fell.
Russian Orthodox
sanctimonious stooges
of Rasputin’s regime.
No heaven for Ukraine,
only hell.
Belzebub at work.
I’ve been a disgrace,
a disgrace to my mother and father.
They had Hungarians to dinner
on Christmas Day.
Short trousers on,
across the table, in Limerick,
I saw strangers
and brothers in one,
conjoined in solidarity.
He carved the turkey,
she passed the plates
to God’s children
worthy of everlasting love.
The cock crowed three times.
Ireland, silence.
“It will never happen here,
in Europe.
Didn’t we have the Nazis?
Haven’t we learned?”
Chicken Ki-ev,
How do you pronounce Kyiv?
Vladimir’s Mecca
missiled, starved, frozen, flattened, bombed, burnt, killed, refugeed, droned, wrecked, obliterated,
smoldering,
mud, trenches, shells, graves, amputees,
Dulce et decorum est …
It is sweet and fitting to war
for one’s country.
Moscow smiles,
the dachas warm,
swimming pools of vodka and champagne.
More boys to throw into the special military operation,
more mouths
more guts,
more coffins,
blankets and pillows for the other world.
Let them go loot and rape,
berserkers
in the breadbasket of Europe
in wheatfields,
in the eyes of infants, schoolchildren & pets.
Isn’t it easy to smile
surrounded by sycophants?
I will remember the weather,
the sun,
the fires,
the drought,
the melted ice,
the desertification of holiday homes
for a few days.
Forever, I will remember the six million
crossing borders,
looking for helping hands,
succour, shelter,
food, friends,
fleeing from freezing cold.
thirst,
hypothermia
and the pleasure of gonorrhea.
I will remember the dead,
my naivety, ignorance, and safety,
insolence and impotence.
I will not forgive.
November 2022 – Day 5
“WEEKENDS are sacred” in the eyes of the RIVER.
Categorically.
Springboks are here.
How did they travel from the south?
Coracles, currachs, gigs, paddle boats …
On the back of a bird?
“Arriva Aviva”.
The point of watching is to practise counting the points.
_________________
Rugby is headache.
Midges’ heads manage to swarm
without tough tackling
———
“We will be doomed”
unless we COP ourselves on.
Irish Times headline:
Another trauma coming around your corner.
Cassandra whines,
she knows,
risks speaking-out
after catching Gretta
on the wind
and RUMOUR.
According to that infallible crowd-sourced authority,
dooming is glooming.
November 2022 – Day 4
It’s too late to change the way.
Even the moon has moved on
and the occasional star imploded.
Such is the secret of eternal strife.
It’s too late to remember the way
the beginning began with a raindrop and a puddle,
the way it always has.
As if a merry-go-round mattered,
as if a smile could make up
for all the sins,
for all the fragments.
In a nutshell, the end may be already beginning.
As STONES cried, “All will be revealed – in due course”.
November 2022 – Day 3 (part 2)
Arena of terror
Arena of death
Arena of negligence.
Howling eyes,
Tears over-flowing,
Anger welling,
Hope, barely daring to appear.
Lead us not into the River Styx,
ever again.
November 2022 – Day 3 (part 1)
Wake up.
Smell the rotten eggs.
Listen to the missiles.
Feel burnt,
flooded,
high.
Continuous improvement,
permanent revolution,
infinite pain
– the ups and downs
– the ins and outs
– the far and wide:
PERMACRISIS VICTORIOUS
“Word Of The Year” today.
______________________
Once upon a time,
there was an illusion
that assumed it was a TRUTH,
while living in a dreamworld.
Like three little pigs,
Illusion was the one that smiled
– butter melted to sugar in her mouth
Confusion, the silly pig,
Disillusion, the vicious one.
Houses of barbed wires,
houses of foolish fashions,
houses of blocked arteries.
Not much talk of NFTs.
————
November 2022 – Day 2
The second mystery of the melody
is no poem.
The improbability theorem states:
“A mystery always repeats itself
until the end of Time,
when all is revealed
to be inside-out.”
Do you know
Alice in Wonderland picked her nose,
scratched the hare’s ear,
and was dealt a royal straight flush?
Alice “Winner of the Penultimate Hand”.
You might well wonder what happened
before the final whistle,
the last over,
the penalty shootout.
After the inkwell imploded,
the pen paused,
and the heavens opened.
Patience …
the tale has barely begun.
———
What rises, is alive and never sleeps?
The RIVER.
——-
November 2022 – Day 1 (part 4)
The Path to Ukraine runs into West Cork.
A plan to raise the bar, and drink a toast,
was hatched while zooming with a knife and fork
that shaved black ice, and broke into the host.
Who’d swap their seat around this RIVER bank
for half a loaf of time or tide before
the end conspires to start anew with frank
exchange, with heart exposed to soul like yore?
____________________________________
Begone sweet doubt, uncertainty beguiles
the fool that rests, while hedgehogs sleep beneath
the fallen leaves of oak and ash, the trials
of our winter begging respite, a wreath.
We’re all Ukranians from far and deep,
a measure and a half, too proud to weep.
November 2022 – Day 1 (part 3)
A friend in pain is a friend in need,
a man worth love,
Stumbled, Limped Crippled.
Drugs make a difference
to his creation story,
Worth manufacturing,
worth consuming,
Stained.
November 2022 – Day 1 (part 2)
Barmbrack
The Barn
“I was born in a barn …”
SEE WHAT IT MAKES YOU FEEL ABOUT YOUR OWN LIFE
___________________________________________________________
1st
“I am the RIVER.
I dance
the dance of a thousand eyes,
the ballet incarnate,
the paso doble personified,
I tango through the hard times,
like a squirming earthworm
seduced by a chrysalis
copulating with one of its own kind
We rivers lust for sea.
November 2022 – Day 1 (part 1)
Once upon a time,
before the EARTH was born,
there wasn’t much to think about.
There were no feelings,
no wars,
only explosions.
No worms, grasshoppers, spiders, bees, crickets
disturbing the peace.
No Ukrainians, Moldovans
No Cork.
But there was SILENCE waiting for wind,
and a voice.
This is The VOICE,
The Voice that lives.
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 