Tag: poetry

Dance of Order & Chaos in Everyday Life

for CongRegation

I

Eyes opening, blurred vision, a fragment of light shafting through curtains, a gentle start to the day, a ritual re-entry into consciousness.

The carpet, soft on soles of both feet – it’s time to visit the toilet: oh dear, it wasn’t flushed last night – I suppose yellow water’s natural too.

Time for the dressing gown, the blue heavy warm one, the one with the detached belt. Time to pick up the charged smart phone – pick up and plug-in the hearing aid – go for a cup of tea – an every day ritual in orderly progress, downstairs into the kitchen.

Turn on kettle,

Oh, it needs more water.

Thank goodness there’s Light milk left in the carton,

boiling water on a bog-standard teabag

– the cheapest from SuperValu.

At last, there is something to think about:

which mug will it be today?

(I only drink from mugs that I love

and those that have passed the test,

that don’t have a chipped lip.)

Sitting on the bar-stool,

at the counter,

surrounded by the National Concert Hall Classical Season 2026,

‘THE ASTRAKHAN CLOAK’

poems by Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill – translated by Paul Muldoon,

four pencils,

three biros,

‘Greetings to Our Friends in Brazil’

‘BEING HUMAN’, published by BLOODAXE.

All is well in the world

even the burgundy right handed glove with fur sticking out

(owned by my wife)

doesn’t feel out of place

Maybe the statement from the income tax people,

from government buildings in Kilkenny,

even that doesn’t disturb the peace.

II

There is no such thing as chaos

until the dog goes wild and barks at nothing

I walk to the door and see no one

but the wind and the clouds

bright

painted grey

slivers of blue watching over them.

In my tiny world

inhabited by WhatsApp posts,

daily news from RTE,

Facebook likes and comments,

Instagram likes

commas,

Gmail updates,

Gmail primaries

I see a shrine to my father-in-law

a young man walking with hands in his pockets,

a suit and tie

black and white image

an older man in his prime with a fine head of hair

an even older man with arm round my little girl

when she was about three.

No trace of chaos.

III

Outside

the sun is shining on the cream painted wall behind the rosebush.

Rain is on its way – as it always is.

Over the horizon,  the flood, the storm, the ice, and casualties on the road.

The butterfly in Hiroshima hasn’t yet exercised its wings.

Chaos isn’t even knocking at the island.  

Chaos is nowhere to be found in my little world 

except…

until…

however…

IV

Gaza bleeding… 

Sudan starving

Ukraine unbent

Asylum seekers,

Boat people,

Refugees,

Homeless

Commas,

Paragraphs swirling,

Chapters redacted,

Firepower in the Caribbean.

Who said “ they are all Untermenschen”?

The Earth is kindling wood,

earth quakes

tsunami,

not enough housing.

Racism on the rise,

racists on the wing,

trans gender infants,

transgender children banned.

There is nothing to thank goodness for.

In the outside world,

in the world of other people,

the most fragrant things are questions.

Living in a cesspool

Eating a putrid soup 

Sleeping on poisoned ditches. 

Where is the blind fool,

cataracted pupils, shifting lenses?

Where is the motley fool,?

Who says chaos is a conspiracy theory now? 

V

What will happen to your immortal soul?

How will you sit on the right hand of your God? 

When will you have done your time in purgatory? 

Why will you spend the rest of your eternity in hell? 

Reborn as a germ…

Reborn as a mule…

Reborn as an asylum seeker…

We are all condemned to an asylum, only the walls are not painted with pride.

Who made the world?

God made the world.

Who made the chaos?

Greeks made the chaos.

Who made the butterflies?

Random Variations made the butterflies.

No one in their right mind would’ve made the jellyfish.

There are no earthworms in my little world,

no dung beetles here.

VI

The civil war on Earth

The uncivil world

in the universe of disordered time.

CHA O’S. The child of the alphabet. 

The CHA mpion son of S ilence. 

Joking apart SOAHC  SHOCA OSHAC 

Have A Slice Of Chocolate

Change Half An Outlandish Story

Summon Our Arthritic Catastrophe Hither

PLAY, play, play the game

Sing, sing, sing the sound of silence 

Sniff, sniff, sniff the waft of witless wickedness

Wicked the movie 

Wicked, the explosions

Wicked, the extinctions.

VII

There is nothing but chaos

knocking on my bedroom door,

knocking on my toilet seat,

knocking on my coffee.

It’s time to assemble the pieces.

There may not be sufficient seconds for the jigsaw.

Bring me the head of my teddy bear.

We dance the rhythm of Order & Chaos in Everyday Life

I remember Sean Dwan saying

“A smile is a weapon of mass seduction.”

THE END

Night Sky: Hawkmoths, Moonflowers, and Spiders

hawkmoths sip at night
moonflowers bloom under stars
spider primed to strike.

Haiku Inspired by Japanese Culture


last blossoms outside

gifts gather near the Coin Mint

petals on the path

______________________

a pink petal falls

after the cherry has bloomed —

confetti shower

_______________________

wisps of incense smoke

smell of cedar, sound of drum

monks and nuns chanting

___________________

peace and quiet reign

the sound of a butterfly

lichen are breathing

________________

ferns live by maple

stones rest by camellia

air tickles the leaves

___________________

kimono for tea

fragrance of ceremony

whisking green bubbles

____________________

fire, gold, wood, and drum

temple giant leads the chant

Bow. Pray. Bow, now smile

____________________

cherry petals fall

a dusting of snowflakes recalled

cable car rising

___________________

coffee cherry ripe

two green stones wrapped together

bound for china cup

____________________

sunshine and showers

play across the garden stones

a moist wind gusts cool

_________________

morning mist lingers

droplet hangs from cypress leaf

Fuji hides all day

__________________

in the hawk’s garden

a Samurai hunts wild ducks

green leaves grow again

_______________

Samurai wields sword

calligrapher wields brush

west wind wields breath

__________________

from the rocks, a smile

cedar tree bows low with grace

Sayönara, friend

_____________________

Blue Bear stories sing

Teddy’s eyes are firmly fixed

drawn by Shuto’s pen

_______________________

a gin and tonic

fresh energy in liquid

released by the gods
__________________

Natural

Let’s go to Japan

Flowering cherry blossom trees

Green pheasant landscape

Tempting

Does travel tempt you?

Tantalising seduction

Come flying with me.

Travelling now

Where are you going?

Lightening time, warming soon

Green pheasant calling

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.

Why does my wife not read my verse?

Screen Shot 2019-03-04 at 23.50.33

Why does my wife not read my verse?

She’s surely not averse

to phrase and lines she reads at work,

her daily dose of prose that lurks

on paper and email I’ve heard her curse.

Poetry, you scheming rat,

you promised you’d deliver

a feast-seducing habitat,

a song to make her quiver,

not a sour look, nor petty spat.

Oh, why does she not sneak a peek

to see what I have written

in Moleskine notebook fit to tweak?

At least she’d know what has me smitten

the day I dared to plumb the deep.

There’s much more depth in me

than fake illiteracy.

I’m a minor chord, a malady.

I’m a scribe in search of melody,

a cloud of nature’s ancestry.

May she not pass like a Pharisee

The Seaweed Lorry

 

The seaweed lorry

How long have I driven a seaweed lorry to Roundstone
past fuchsia and montbretia?
How long has the wife practised acupuncture,
the daughter dried dulse?
You’d wonder as you pitchfork the algae,
watch strips slip off, litter the lane.

They can take their time,
wait their turn to pass,
I have many more journeys in me,
many more days leading hearse and caravan.
They can all take their turn,
why should they pass?

I’ve driven this way too long now to be forced off it,
seen their urgent béasa,
refused to be edged off my bóthar.
There were houses full
– not enough rooms for the children –
before there weren’t children for the rooms.

I’ve seen them all off,
I’ve still gone back for more seaweed.

_________________________

Image by Jonathan Wilkins

‘On Woman’ by WB Yeats

https://bumpers.fm/_/embed/b40rvpusfitg01453740

 

MAY God be praised for woman
That gives up all her mind,
A man may find in no man
A friendship of her kind
That covers all he has brought
As with her flesh and bone,
Nor quarrels with a thought
Because it is not her own.
Though pedantry denies,
It’s plain the Bible means
That Solomon grew wise
While talking with his queens.
Yet never could, although
They say he counted grass,
Count all the praises due
When Sheba was his lass,
When she the iron wrought, or
When from the smithy fire
It shuddered in the water:
Harshness of their desire
That made them stretch and yawn,
pleasure that comes with sleep,
Shudder that made them one.
What else He give or keep
God grant me — no, not here,
For I am not so bold
To hope a thing so dear
Now I am growing old,
But when, if the tale’s true,
The Pestle of the moon
That pounds up all anew
Brings me to birth again —
To find what once I had
And know what once I have known,
Until I am driven mad,
Sleep driven from my bed.
By tenderness and care.
pity, an aching head,
Gnashing of teeth, despair;
And all because of some one
perverse creature of chance,
And live like Solomon
That Sheba led a dance.

William Butler Yeats

2 Poems by Charles Bukowski read by Paul O’Mahony

My Father

https://audioboom.com/boos/3945701-my-father-poem-by-charles-bukowski-read-by-paul-o-mahony

My Friend the Parking Lot Attendant

https://audioboom.com/boos/3945723-my-friend-the-parking-lot-attendant-by-charles-bukowski-read-by-paul-o-mahony

 

Poetry is good for something?

disclaimer

I’m a poet.

I buy poetry books.
read poems (out loud).
run a daily poetry show
live streamed on Periscope
(The Walt Whitman Show).

And

“Does poetry still matter?“

(CNN)Quick: Name a famous living poet.

Somebody. Anybody. No, not Maya Angelou. She died last year.

Unless you’re a literary scholar or a subscriber to The New Yorker, it’s not easy. That’s because poetry, once a preeminent form of entertainment, has long since receded to the far, dusty corners of popular culture…

And

In 2003, Newsweek cried

Poetry Is Dead. Does Anybody Really Care?

“… Ultimately, though, there’s no one to blame. Poetry is designed for an era when people valued the written word and had the time and inclination to possess it in its highest form…”

I care

so 

in December 2015, I did ethnomethodological research among an international, cross-cultural, mixed-gender, inter-generational group

Screen Shot 2015-12-06 at 21.25.01

https://katch.me/embed/v/f91e97bd-6af2-3d5d-8138-96fbec40d5cc?sync=1

Voices of the dead

human connection, honesty
I like to write poetry that speaks encouragement over others.
introspection
it’s like sunshine and rain.
for the poet or for the reader?
I like poetry… straightforward easy storytelling
expression of internal world
same effect as music, when it’s done well
I write poetry for my own peace of mind and self expression

reveals human connection

our connections through our secrets, fears

indescribable, sometimes, but you know it’s good…
‘Step of the body toward the sea falls the land to break’
poetry is an acquired taste?
it’s nice when you can relate to it in your own life
connection to another person’s internal world
for me it’s just for enjoyment.
I don’t analyse too much
I just let it happen
and
take what’s there in the moment
‘Poetry distills life like fermentation distills spirits’
‘Poetry wakes things within that are hidden under the surface’
Music and poetry are the same
unless the poem is a song
then it hits me inside
‘Poetry is an excuse to use forgotten words’
like a forever blossoming of the soul
ever opening and revealing
wrapping words around
emotions, perceptions, and the heart song
‘If a picture paints a thousand words, a poem can contain the world.’
transport you to another place
open your mind to new thoughts
sometimes
poetry is my weapon
a way to express feelings
a map for left brain engineering
in the language of logic,
poetry is a super structure
Forgotten words
for the dam
generates the power within
‘If pictures can paint a thousand words,
my poetry attempts are stick men’

 (To be continued) 

Appreciating others – Emerson to Whitman

If you can’t see the audioplayer below – Click here