Autobiographies

Autobiographies

I drank coffee over bacon and cheese
writing autobiography,
as easy to swallow as Rapunzel and Guinness.

The woman in a cream suit
shook gold earrings and munched
waffles from Idaho
soaked in organic maple syrup
with her mouth open

reminded me of my mother,
Paul, close your mouth when you’re eating.

I read the wine list
in the mirror
behind my back.
That was as difficult to do
as swallowing cod liver oil neat.

How many autobiographies live unwritten
within this life,
under the surface,
scratching for release
from Purgatory?

Am I lost in Dante’s wood,
or sunshine?
Is this Idaho real,
or escaping on the page,
a fleeting fairy tale?

I couldn’t catch her name.

I’m not creative

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

artists, designers,

theatre, television, radio, film people

engineers, architects

marketing 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

I’d understand.

 

The one thing I’m sure of,

I don’t dream of myself as a creative being.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Easter Passover & Resurrection 

https://anchor.fm/embed/a6520d

I rose from the dead 

We’d all love to rise from the dead
and snatch a second chance
from the teeth of history.

Which of you would refuse resurrection
and leave the stones in place
until the winter breaks?

My death was cold
and stank of feces
left by swallows fit to glide away.

I never knew how long my death would last
until I rose again from the jaws of a mystery made
before the stars exploded

and the universe was saved.

 

Loving you 

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Loving you 

Loving you

does teach me

day by day

how deep the blocks to love

within me lie.

Loving you

is worth all

mistakes and blind

stupidity

born on my weakest side.

Loving you

is changing me

bringing out

twin creatures :

one dying to bond

the other to be safe.

Oh to be wrapped with you.

November 1997

Poem by Paul O’Mahony: “Life-saving anthem: I stand against the crowd

I stand

against the crowd

I stand out from the crowd

I am an individual

Odd

Different

Singular

Misfit

Awkward in my comfort

Edgy in my skin

Alive in my own little way

I live my say

I give the best shot I can

Every day.

I stand against the crowd

of wasters who fritter

their life away their way.

I waste my life my way

I fritter my days into

the oblivion I fashion

every step I say.

Because I am who am

Me

Condemned to be myself

I stand out from the crowd

comfortable in my discomforting way

that comes from every pore

every sore

every score of my expressions.

It’s my art

The heart of my song

The liver that cleans my spleen

seen in all my glory every time

I stand against the crowd

Each and every difference

Friction

Grating

Unconforming

Uncomplying

Understandable me.

See that fella

hovering on the edge

the one who isn’t fitting in

the one with the shifty eyes

the glint of his own

You can smell that he’s

An outsider

A weirdo

An awkward one

An individual

Heart

A body of imagining

Power

Wealth

Stealth

Scheming to survive

The crowd

The collective view

The “what we all think”

Thinkers.

I stand against the crowd

I stand out from the crowd

Away from the crowd

Proud of my own way

Fiddling the melody

Composed of notes

I’ve assembled from the crowd

Playing the game I’ve invented

The rules I’ve annunciated

Predicated on the shoulders

of giants who have fallen

in battle

Against the crowd

Castigated on shoulders

Of heroes that have died

For the cause of being

Themselves.

I reject the way of the crowd

Every time my heart pumps

Blood from the flat of my soul

To the peak of my imagination.

Consternation

I will cause

Conflagration to

instigation of the self

Opinionated

Author of my fate

Creator of my faith

Born to be wild

Not filed away in a box

I defy

I stand against the crowd

That would

Categorise me

Classify me

Entomb me in place

where they could ignore me

where they could make me safe

from causing a splash

from making a difference

from changing

The course of history

The dreams of others

The Universe.

For such a cause

I stand against the crowd

I stand out from the crowd

to welcome you

Fellow traveller

Fellow awkward person

Follower battler

For your way.

For your way is my way too

Your way is yours

My way is mine

Our way stands out from the crowd

We stand against the crowd.

We stand up for ourselves

We stand who stand.

Against the crowd

Unto death.
_________________________

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