francis mahon : scriobh

memoir: christmas eve 1997 (in progress)

2011-04-05T12:13:00.000-04:00

It feels like I have been neglecting this blog lately, and as I was conducting a little file-system spring cleaning I stumbled upon this snippet of work in progress...

Christmas Eve 1997

For me, Platform Five was Connolly Station. Even before I moved to Dublin, it was a fixture in the firmament of my life’s highlights, the day of a hurling match: an early morning walk to the North Station, which really was like a scene from ‘Dancing at The Crossroads’...

Well I remember as a young boy
The beginning of September
We were standing at the station
Waiting for a train.

There was priests and Christian Brothers
There was nuns and Reverend Mothers
There was Guards and drunks and others
But everyone was just the same

Well they came from Enniscorthy
From New Ross and Ferns and Gorey
There was busses from Bunclody
There was horses, carts and all

the track following the course of the Slaney, later hugging the County Wicklow coast, dramatically so as we moved further north... disembarking at Connolly... crossing the road to Graingers or The North Star for a quick pint... strolling through the north inner city... stopping to eat our packed lunch in Mountjoy Square if the weather was decent... squeezing through the narrow turnstiles... the crumbling concrete stands... the smell of piss in the toilets... the perennial optimism before the game, the perennial disappointment afterwards... and then the long trek home when it seemed like we were following a funeral cortege...

Of course, the previous year had been very different...

Damian Fitzhenry, Ger Cush, Sean Flood,
Rod Guiney , Liam Dunne,
Colm Kehoe, Billy Byrne,
Martin Storey John O’Connor,
Tom Dempsey, George O'Connor,
Adrian Fenlon and Larry O'Gorman,
Rory McCarthy, Larry Murphy, Garry Laffan,
Eamon Scallan ,Dave Guiney ,
Declan Ruth, (A)Jim Byrne,
Shane Carley, Paul Finn,
Tom Kehoe, are the team,
and the man that dared to dream his
name was Liam Griffin

Seamus Kavanagh, Joe Kerns, MJ Reck
and all the rest the brave young men of 96
will be remembered with the best

but that was a very different day, and a very different story, which we will get to, eventually.

I was standing on there, waiting for the train to arrive. It was late. I stifled a yawn as a railway worker passed, and he took my seeming impatience as a query. “There is a problem with the crossing at Merrion Gates. The wind is blowing the barriers all over the place.” “It’s a fair strong wind, alright”, I offered, and with a mutual nod we parted; he went on about his business, and I went back to waiting.

The wind, after all, was the reason I was here in Connolly Station. Usually my weekend commute started in Bray, which meant the train was already full, leaving me to stand at the end of the carriage, an area constantly befouled with smokers holding their cigarettes out the window. Today, the strong wind had encouraged the management to prematurely close the call centre where I worked - the metal roof was rattling, and the noise generated by frequent gusts made our job all but impossible. So, I hopped a DART towards the city in the hope of securing a seat for the journey to Wexford.

The students that made up a sizable chunk of the usual travelling public had already adjourned to the provinces for the holidays, so that for once the grubby cement and tile platform was visible; scuff marks, grime and rain stains. The communal warmth and shelter of the crowd was missing too, and this wind carried pinpricks of icy air, bombarding the exposed faces of the hardy would-be-passengers.

- o O o -

The train arrived, an hour late, which was tardy even by Irish Rail standards. A handful of passengers disembarked, some of them wrapping scarves around their mouths and noses as they braved the elements. In a concession to the weather, we were allowed on the train while it was being prepared for the journey southward - the air was warm and still. A sole cleaner moved from carriage to carriage, paying lip service to the idea of removing the detritus of the most recent trip.

I settled in to a seat, resting my feet on the lukewarm radiator. I had a newspaper sticking out of my pocket, and a paperback in my bag, but they could wait - a comfortable nap would do for the moment.

poem: oíche nollaig na mban

2011-01-06T12:38:00.002-05:00

In Ireland, the Feast of the Epiphany is also know as "Little Christmas", or "Women's Christmas" - in the Irish language "Nollaig Na mBan".

I remember studying this poem in school.

Oíche Nollaig Na mBan

Bhí fuinneamh sa stoirm a éalaigh aréir.
Aréir oíche Nollaig na mBan,
As gealt-teach iargúlta 'tá laistiar den ré
Is do scréach tríd an spéir chughainn 'na gealt
Gur ghíosc geataí comharsan mar ghogallach gé,
Gur bhúir abhainn slaghdánach mar tharbh,
Gur mhúchadh mo choinneal mar bhuille ar mo bhéal
A las 'na splanc obann an fhearg

Ba mhaith liom go dtiocfadh an stoirm sin féin
An oíche go mbeadsa go lag
Ag filleadh abhaile ó rince an tsaoil
Is solas an pheaca ag dul as,
Go líonfaí gach neomat le liúirigh ón spéir,
Go ndéanfaí den domhan scuaine scread,
Is ná cloisfinn an ciúnas ag gluaiseacht fám dhéin,
Ná inneall an ghluaisteáin ag stad.

Seán Ó Riordáin

Update:

I didn't have time to post my own translation this morning, but fortunately, my friend and neighbor, renowned Irish language scholar Antóin Ó Cléirigh sent me the following, which is much superior to any translation that I might have written:

The Eve of Little Christmas

There was vigour in the storm that escaped last night
Last night, the eve of Little Christmas
From a remote madhouse behind the moon
And screamed through the sky to us like a maniac
So that the neighbour's gate creaked like the gaggling of geese,
So that the snuffled river bellowed like bull,
'Til my candle was extinguished like a smack in the mouth
That ignited my anger in a sudden spark

I would like that that self-same storm would come
The night when i will be weak
Returning home from the dance of life
With the light of sin declining,
That every minute would be filled with cries from the sky,
That the world become a procession of screams,
And that I wouldn't hear the silence sneak up on me.
Or the engine of the car stopping.

poem: for what died the sons of róisín?

2010-11-23T19:07:00.000-05:00

In the light of current events in Ireland, this piece of writing by Luke Kelly has become something of an anthem. I have underlined a couple of lines of the poem below, and repeat them here:

Will German, French or Dutch inscribe the epitaph of Emmet?
When we have sold enough of Ireland to be but strangers in it.

For what died the sons of Róisín, was it fame?
For what died the sons of Róisín, was it fame?
For what flowed Ireland's blood in rivers,
That began when Brian chased the Dane,
And did not cease nor has not ceased,
With the brave sons of '16,
For what died the sons of Róisín, was it fame?

For what died the sons of Róisín, was it greed?
For what died the sons of Róisín, was it greed?
Was it greed that drove Wolfe Tone to a paupers death in a cell of cold wet stone?
Will German, French or Dutch inscribe the epitaph of Emmet?
When we have sold enough of Ireland to be but strangers in it.
For what died the sons of Róisín, was it greed?

To whom do we owe our allegiance today?
To whom do we owe our allegiance today?
To those brave men who fought and died that Róisín live again with pride?
Her sons at home to work and sing,
Her youth to dance and make her valleys ring,
Or the faceless men who for mark and dollar,
Betray her to the highest bidder,
To whom do we owe our allegiance today?

For what suffer our patriots today?
For what suffer our patriots today?
They have a language problem, so they say,
How to write "No Trespass" must grieve their heart full sore,
We got rid of one strange language now we are faced with many, many more,
For what suffer our patriots today?

teaser: nanowrimo

2010-11-01T22:55:00.000-04:00

A few years ago I heard of the NaNoWriMo concept - designating November as National Novel Writing Month. I'm doing the whole Movember thing too, but I'll deal with that in my other blog.

This excerpt is from my first day's work. You'll have to wait for the paperback to read the rest...

Christmas Eve 1997

For me, Platform Five was Connolly Station. Even before I moved to Dublin, it was a fixture in the firmament of my life’s highlights, the day of a hurling match: an early morning walk to the North Station, which really was like a scene from ‘Dancing at The Crossroads’...

Well I remember as a young boy
The beginning of September
We were standing at the station
Waiting for a train.

There was priests and Christian Brothers
There was nuns and Reverend Mothers
There was Guards and drunks and others
But everyone was just the same

Well they came from Enniscorthy
From New Ross and Ferns and Gorey
There was busses from Bunclody
There was horses, carts and all

the track following the course of the Slaney, later hugging the County Wicklow coast, dramatically so as we moved further north... disembarking at Connolly... crossing the road to Graingers or The North Star for a quick pint... strolling through the north inner city... stopping to eat our packed lunch in Mountjoy Square if the weather was decent... squeezing through the narrow turnstiles... the crumbling concrete stands... the smell of piss in the toilets... the perennial optimism before the game, the perennial disappointment afterwards... and then the long trek home when it seemed like we were following a funeral cortege...

Of course, the previous year had been very different...

Damian Fitzhenry, Ger Cush, Sean Flood,
Rod Guiney , Liam Dunne,
Colm Kehoe, Billy Byrne,
Martin Storey John O’Connor,
Tom Dempsey, George O'Connor,
Adrian Fenlon and Larry O'Gorman,
Rory McCarthy, Larry Murphy, Garry Laffan,
Eamon Scallan ,Dave Guiney ,
Declan Ruth, (A)Jim Byrne,
Shane Carley, Paul Finn,
Tom Kehoe, are the team,
and the man that dared to dream his
name was Liam Griffin

Seamus Kavanagh, Joe Kerns, MJ Reck
and all the rest the brave young men of 96
will be remembered with the best

but that was a very different day, and a very different story, which we will get to, eventually.

I was standing on there, waiting for the train to arrive. It was late. I stifled a yawn as a railway worker passed, and he took my seeming impatience as a query. “There is a problem with the crossing at Merrion Gates. The wind is blowing the barriers all over the place.” “It’s a fair strong wind, alright”, I offered, and with a mutual nod we parted; he went on about his business, and I went back to waiting.

The wind, after all, was the reason I was here in Connolly Station. Usually my weekend commute started in Bray, which meant the train was already full, leaving me to stand at the end of the carriage, an area constantly befouled with smokers holding their cigarettes out the window. Today, the strong wind had encouraged the management to prematurely close the call centre where I worked - the metal roof was rattling, and the noise generated by frequent gusts made our job all but impossible. So, I hopped a DART towards the city in the hope of securing a seat for the journey to Wexford.

The students that made up a sizeable chunk of the usual travelling public had already adjourned to the provinces for the holidays, so that for once the grubby cement and tile platform was visible; scuff marks, grime and rain stains. The communal warmth and shelter of the crowd was missing too, and this wind carried pinpricks of icy air, bombarding the exposed faces of the hardy would-be-passengers.

about: scrabble dictionary

2010-09-27T12:16:00.000-04:00

A very cool little widget from Collins...

poem: vampire

2010-09-20T17:37:00.000-04:00

With all the supernatural heros in the public conscience, ranging from 'True Blood’ to 'The Twilight Saga', I decided to resurrect an old piece titled 'Vampire'… I wonder if I have one called 'Werewolf' stashed somewhere?

It is night when I awake.
The darkness deeply invades my every pore.
I enjoy the silence and stillness.

The future enrages further.
A trillion billion particles fuel the well-lit tumult.
The world is open for business.

Contemplation runs a shiver
Up my spineless spine, and back down again.
My dictionary is incomplete.

Indecisive haste sways me.
I try to sway myself in sympathy with sound.
Melancholy, lullaby, silent.

Then the sun comes up, and I hide my face.
It's radiance burns welts
Of fear and redemption.

071

fiction: the last of real dublin

2010-08-21T11:26:00.001-04:00

I wrote this piece fourteen years ago, as an entry for a short story competition run by a now defunct evening newspaper, in conjunction with Smithwicks. The characters are from a series of Smithwicks TV commercials that ran at the time. "The Gravediggers” is a real pub in Glasnevin, Dublin.

The Gravediggers was busy, which meant that either someone was dead, or Ireland were playing a soccer match. It was a Friday in December, so it couldn’t be a soccer match. Who was dead this time, and it only the week before Christmas?

I had only got off the plane at eleven o’clock. There was no-one at me ma’s, so I left the suitcase with Mrs. Casey next door. She said all that stuff about hardly recognising me, but I reminded her that I had only been gone a year. She said Australia was a long way. I smiled and said goodbye.

Old Kavanagh was behind the bar. Someone important must be dead. Pat hadn’t set foot in the place after handing the reins over to Junior. It was Junior that spotted me. “Pint of Smithwicks”, I called. He came over for a quick chat. “Terrible about poor Jack, wasn’t it?” My face must have went chalk white. “You mean Whispering Jack?” “Of course, you wouldn’t have heard. Only home for Christmas, are you?” “Yeah, just flew in this morning. What happened him?” “Had a stroke, the first week of October. Never really got the better of it.” I shook my head in disbelief, and exchanged my money for the pint. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the residents, in the corner. I turned to face them, and offered a nod of recognition. Fred indicated the empty chair. I made my way through the crowd, shaking the outstretched hands. Fred, Glasses, No Calls. “Where’s the woman?” I asked Glasses. “Over with Jack’s missus”, he answered.

As the afternoon wore on we got to remembering the good old days. Fred said that this was the first time the old crowd had been in here since the summer. Junior had got in one of those big tellies, and was showing the Sky Sports. That attracted all that young crowd down from the University. Soon he had a jukebox, and some fellow playing records on a Thursday night. Jack, Lord have mercy on him, lost heart in the place after that. He was still there at half ten of a morning for his pint, after the breakfast. It wasn’t the same though. Glasses put on an imitation of Jack at this point, “The Dublin I was young in is disappearing. Soon it will be all gone, and so will all the people who lived in it.” I nodded solemnly, “Never a truer word.” I was only gone a year, but I could still see the tide of progress sweeping across the city. Disco music in pubs is all right for New York or London, but let Dublin alone!

“You’ve been quiet all afternoon, Doyler”, accused No Calls. “Yeah, I’ve been thinking back to the old times. I can remember the day I was eighteen. Me da brought me down here at twenty past ten. Jack was there, outside the door, waiting for the clock behind the bar to chime. “Well, young fella”, Jack said to me. “Don’t be calling me no young fella, mister”, I said to him, “It’s my birthday and I’m eighteen.” Jack and me da smiled, and looked at each other funny - I suppose it was what you’d call “exchanging a knowing look”.

The old man opened the door on the stroke of the half hour. Jack strolled into the place like a king might walk around his royal gardens. Kavanagh gets behind the bar, and the scene is set for the business of the day. “The usual, and a pint for the young fella”, he says, winking at me da. The three of us sat at the bar, and talked about the football. I was all into the football that year, after meeting Kevin Moran in the school. He was around teaching us how to pick up the ball properly, and all that.

“Did Jack ever work?” asks Fred. “He’d been a gentlemen of leisure for as long as I can remember”, says Glasses, “But he’s wasn’t much more than retiring age.” “Didn’t he get attacked one time out at the hospital, by some madman?” I offered. “Yeah, when he used to be working on the radio with the ambulance lads. Left the door of his office open, and this escaped looney comes in, threatening to kill him and all.”

Junior brought around a few sandwiches in the evening. The crowd was starting to thin out a bit now. People were heading in to town for a last little bit of Christmas shopping. Then a few of the student crowd came in, with accents as thick as their da’s wallets. Doused with aftershave to keep down the smell of the countryside. Laughing and joking on a serious occasion like this. Had they no respect at all?

By half ten even the young lads were gone. Heading in to some disco in town, no doubt. Then me ma came in. “Sean Doyle! Is this where you’ve been all day, and I worried sick about you? Where’s Orla and my grandchildren?” “Mother”, I says, “You shouldn’t be worrying. I’m thirty years old, and well able to look after myself. Orla and the kids are gone to see her mother in Sydney, on the way. They’ll be here on Monday morning.” “Well, finish that drink, and come on home with me, I want to lock the place up for the night.” Some things never change! I finished the pint, “Tomorrow evening, lads.” They raised their glasses in mock salute. I could hear a murmur of laughter as soon as they thought I was out of earshot.

-oOo-

I was there, standing outside, at twenty past ten, on my own, humming… I realised, “Ring a ring a rosy, as the light declined…” Junior was five minutes late. “Two pints.” I set one of them on the bar, in front of Jack’s spot. I raised mine in silent tribute, under my breath, “Here’s to Whispering Jack; the last of real Dublin."

poem: at george ross’ graveside

2010-08-09T09:17:00.000-04:00

On August 10^th last, my wife’s brother, George Ross Cramer, took his own life. He was 24, and today would have been his 25^th birthday. I never got to meet this remarkable and talented man, whom I would have been privileged to have as a brother-in-law. Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam (May his soul be on God's right side).

I wrote this piece after my first visit to the Moravian Cemetery on Staten Island, where he is buried.

At George Ross' Graveside

Flowers, balloons, and the trappings of mourning
Tussle with the sombre stones and crosses.
The evening breeze draughts sadness across the lawns;
Sunshine sprinkles light among the mosaic of graves.

"This isn't how it is supposed to be."
I inhale my father-in-law's despair,
And taste helplessness as I breathe out.
He whispers again, "It's not right!"

I hold my wife's hand, mimicking her gentle tears.
Her brother lies beneath us, cold and dead.
He should have been my brother-in-law,
But I grieve for his shared memories, instead.

A security man drives by and stops,
His voice a study in sympathy,
Affording us time and passage through locked gates,
Before the cemetery closes for the night.

On the trip home, I reflect on Saint Luke:
Let the dead bury their own dead.
A part of my wife, departed with her brother,
Remains behind us, like the setting sun.

327

fiction: November

2010-07-27T16:18:00.003-04:00

This is the first part of a longer piece I tried to write as part of NaNoWriMo, a few years back. Maybe I’ll get around to finishing the whole thing this year. I was reminded of it today when “SAD” (Seasonal Affective Disorder) came up in a conversation with a neighbor.

2007

I

Dark nights brought dark thoughts. Days stacked like dominoes, falling into each other, collapsing into a sawtooth flat-line of misery. Such was November, the first month of the Celtic New Year.

October ended with a bang, quite literally – a wonderful Halloween parade followed by a loud, percussive fireworks display. For those few short hours, the clouds over Dave's head seemed a little less hostile. Adjourning to the closest bar, he restored his usual level of gloom with whiskey chasing Guinness. In the private laughter of the couples, in the smiling faces of the children enjoying a rare treat, in the efficient effort of the staff – he saw everything that was missing from his life.

He looked out the window. The bridge across the river was festooned with decorative lights, twinkling as the wind caught them. The slow wide flow into the estuary called out to him. He wondered what it would feel like – cold, wet, welcoming, final?

He was in love, but she had seen the darkness that tortured him, and grown afraid. She was sweet, beautiful, thoughtful and troubled. He hadn't managed to uncover her hurt, but he knew it was there – a cancer eating away at her self-confidence. Every time he thought of her, the same image came in to his head – holding her, telling her everything was going to be fine, drawing comfort from comforting her, strengthening his confidence and courage by virtue of her very presence. They hadn't spoken in weeks, text messages and little notes on social networking websites don't count. Her profile picture made him smile and cry at the once, several times a day. All he had was an image on a screen and a fantasy in his head. Was it his own idealised invention that enthralled him, or did he actually love the real woman behind it? He closed his eyes and whispered her name under his breath.

II
Dave's cellphone woke him at eight. Why did he bother setting the alarm? It wasn't like he had anything to do, apart from checking his email, hoping against hope that there would be one from Michelle, suggesting that they met for a coffee and a chat. Every text, every message he sent her, he made sure to demonstrate that he still cared. Reassuring her when she was nervous, offering advice when she was confused, cracking a joke when she was down.

Those few weeks they had been together had been the happiest of his life. He'd smiled at everyone, enjoyed the simple pleasures like waking up in the morning and jumping out of bed. His phone had never been busier – sweet 'good nights' before he fell asleep, cheerful 'good mornings' as soon as he woke. She had turned one of the most difficult moments of his life into one of the most wonderful – he was trying to explain that he was afraid to touch her, that he'd been through some terrible things, but that he cared about her and that she was beautiful – she held his hand, kissed his cheek and told him it would be alright.

He threw on some clothes, and stumbled downstairs. The postman had been around early. There was a single white envelope on the mat, with his name on it. He scooped it up and headed for the kitchen. The remains of the burger and chips he'd brought home last night were sitting on the table – he scrunched up the brown bag and threw it at the bin. It landed on top of the banana skins and crisp wrappers, a two-point shot. He put on the kettle and opened the letter. It was from a hospital in Dublin.

“Dear David,

Regarding your recent attendance for interview. We regret to inform you that you have been unsuccessful on this occasion. Thank you for your interest...”, blah, blah, blah...

Another one for his impressive collection of rejection letters. No one wanted him – not the hospitals, not the local IT companies, not the civil service. He knew he was good enough for the jobs he applied for, but something about interviews spooked him. He'd worked so hard on so-called 'soft-skills', and could deal with anyone or anything, except, of course, interviews.

Kettle boiled, coffee made, he sat at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. Where had it all gone wrong? He tried to remember his happy childhood, but it hadn't actually happened…

…Summer 1979. Watching 'Batman' on a Saturday morning. The sun streaming in through the tall window, so it must have been summer, just weeks before he started school…

…Summer 1987. Standing up with his scout troop colleagues as their names were announced as the winners of the regional competition. Crying as they marched towards the altar to be presented with their trophies. Beforehand, the scout leader had been unsure whether to put himself and Derek on the team, they were very young, not yet twelve…

…Autumn 1990. Exorcising the torment of a difficult year in school. The Intermediate Certificate exams had been held during Ireland's first foray into the soccer World Cup in Italy. The teachers weren't hopeful about his performance, one of them confidently predicting that he would fail. Scoring the top marks in the whole school was a miracle…

This highlight reel, brief and unrealistic, wandered through his head as he waited for the coffee to cool down. These were moments of light in an otherwise dismal life. Growing up had sucked the joy out of him.

Dave didn't believe in coincidence, so he reflected on some of the events of the day before. As he'd headed home, Niamh had driven past him. Intelligent, understanding, sensible Niamh. She was the first, and one of the few, to have heard his full story. They had flirted at times, he'd written poetry for her, but it had come to an abrupt end on a dance floor. All he had to do was say something, or kiss her – he hadn't the courage or confidence to do either. They had remained casual friends for a while, but that had eventually petered out too.

During the parade he'd spotted Alan too. The man who had pretended to be his friend and confidante, who advised him how to best handle his pursuit of Niamh. The man who, one November night in 2000, had taken advantage of his despair and drunkenness to lure him in to bed.

It hadn't started then though, that was just the final nail in an ebony coffin that had been many years in the making. If he wanted to trace the very roots of his condition, illness, defect, whatever damned label it demanded or deserved, he had to go much further back – to a day he had made his parents proud.

1982
The third Sunday of November. He'd practised for the past six weeks. Bell, chalice, water and wine, second water and wine. Already he looked forward to the day he would be tall enough, old enough and trusted enough to light the candles on the altar just before mass started. That was Billy's job today, and after it was done the six of them bundled out of their pokey changing room, proud of their gleaming white soutanes. In the main sacristy they lined up opposite the imposing figure of Paddy Cummins, the parish priest. A large man, with a deep and serious voice, given to impatience and a low tolerance for the simple mistakes that children tended to make. He looked across the line of small boys, and when his eyes reached the framed copy of the altar-boy's pray, he made the sign of the cross and began reciting. The boys joined in. When it was done, they lined up in pairs, facing the heavy door that led to the church. Fr. Cummins gave the signal, so Billy pressed the button to ring electric bell. As the door opened, the sound of the congregation standing rolled like a wave along the church. The mass was straightforward and uneventful, apart from an impromptu lecture on manners, delivered (in Paddy Cummins' usual blunt style) from the pulpit, directed towards a couple of teenagers who where “acting the maggot” at the back of the church.

Dave's grandmother was in the front row, and he looked forward to calling down to see her after mass. There would be a choice of fizzy orange or lemonade, and a plate of biscuits. Maybe there would be cake or buns to mark the special occasion.

poem: do not stand at my grave and weep

2010-05-31T18:44:00.001-04:00

A timely post, on this Memorial Day

Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

Mary Elizabeth Frye

poem: prayer and psalm

2010-05-08T19:27:00.002-04:00

I guess this is the first piece I have written on this new chapter, of my new life, in the New World?

I hear a gentle rhythm of prayer,
Whispered breathing as you sleep.
I smell the sweet exhale of air,
Joyously inhaling deep.
I see a floating wisp of hair;
The urge to touch, to taste, to leap.

A louder hymn, a psalm to life,
To share that rhythm with my wife.
To watch your eyes, their shining lights
A beacon in the darkest nights.

326

poem: facebook

2010-04-16T09:30:00.000-04:00

With all this recycling of my archives, isn't it about time I posted something new. Haven't been writing a whole lot lately, between one thing and another. Here is a short little piece I put together, reflecting on Facebook. I wonder if anyone else has ever written a poem about Facebook?

Life Update: It is often said that a good book can change your life, but I've managed to transform mine with the help of a mediocre poem - this one! I'm now more than halfway through my third week of marriage, and looking forward to starting my new life with my lovely wife.

Tech Update: In a nod to the all-conquering ubiquity of Facebook, I've installed RSS Graffitti on my profile, so all new posts will appear on my Facebook wall.

Acronymic laughs at deliberate gaffes;
Imagining smiles across thousands of miles.
Tapping on keys while daydreaming a squeeze;
Instantaneous communication is hardly a cure for isolation.

325 - published 03/03/2010

poem: daughter of the sun

2010-03-02T19:45:00.002-05:00

First of all, I feel like if I don't keep up at least one post a month, I may as well give up. Secondly, I know I have posted this piece before, but my recent exposure to John Banville's "The Sea" which uses some words that I find obscure, and preparing to delve into "Finnegan's Wake", reminded me of unusual words.

I've used/invented a few myself, in my time, and the first one that springs to mind is "preconsequent". Not really sure what I intend it to mean...

Anyway, I looked up the archive, and found the piece where I coined the word, originally posted three years ago.

Excuse me daughter of the sun,
Would you lie naked in long green grass
And let nature dance upon
Your body until night comes to pass?

When darkness falls would you shawl around
Yourself fibres of warm and free,
As you lie on the glory ground
Between the mountains and the sea?

Could I be the moonlight
And caress your blushing cheek?
Would it be alright
Your passioned soul to seek?

Could I give you this ring
And dare your lips to kiss?
Could I say anything
Preconsequent to this?

168

link: claire tully

2010-02-02T07:50:00.004-05:00

Perhaps better known for baring her bits, Claire Tully (Ireland's only 'Page 3' model) puts another, more intimate aught of herself on display in her blog posts, including the short story "Red – it’s my favourite colour", linked to below.

claire-tully.com

poems: yeats

2010-02-01T23:40:00.002-05:00

Last Saturday marked the 38th anniversary of the day that will forever be known as "Bloody Sunday", when British soldiers attacked civilians in Derry, fatally injuring 14.

A less well remembered 'Bloody Sunday' occurred in August 1913, when an attack by the Dublin Metropolitan Police on a trade union rally during the Lockout injured hundreds, and left two men dead. One of my favourite poems comes from this era, W.B. Yeats' "September 1913". I usually read it in conjunction with his later composition, "Easter, 1916".

Some of the lines below resonate, in my mind, with the events in Derry in 1972, particularly the refrain "All changed, changed utterly".

September 1913
What need you, being come to sense,
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
You have dried the marrow from the bone?
For men were born to pray and save:
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Yet they were of a different kind,
The names that stilled your childish play,
They have gone about the world like wind,
But little time had they to pray
For whom the hangman's rope was spun,
And what, God help us, could they save?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Was it for this the wild geese spread
The grey wing upon every tide;
For this that all that blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitzgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,
All that delirium of the brave?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Yet could we turn the years again,
And call those exiles as they were
In all their loneliness and pain,
You'd cry, 'Some woman's yellow hair
Has maddened every mother's son':
They weighed so lightly what they gave.
But let them be, they're dead and gone,
They're with O'Leary in the grave.

Easter, 1916
I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road.
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse -
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

snippets

2009-12-31T09:07:00.004-05:00

Was up until 05:00 this morning, and I'm not sure how well I slept even after that - my train of thought was running more like the new Chinese high-speed model than the Eurostar! A couple of seeds germinated, anyway, so I'll plant them here, filed away for future development...

(1)
A worn out collar
Waiting for a lipstick stain
To save a stuffed shirt.

(2)
Middle-aged mother earth
Hot and cold flushes
Joints aching from constant wear.

Voracious children
Milking her dry
Stealing her best years.

(3)
To hell with a New Year's resolution,
What Ireland needs is a revolution!

poem: indispensable man

2009-12-04T19:04:00.003-05:00

I haven't posted here for ages, I really must get back on track. The reason I'm posting now is that I know I'll be looking for the following piece at some stage in the future, and at least now I'll know where to find it. Ben Dunne read it out on 'The Late Late Show' last night.

Sometime when you’re feeling important;
Sometime when your ego’s in bloom
Sometime when you take it for granted
You’re the best qualified in the room,

Sometime when you feel that your going
Would leave an unfillable hole,
Just follow these simple instructions
And see how they humble your soul;

Take a bucket and fill it with water,
Put your hand in it up to the wrist,
Pull it out and the hole that’s remaining
Is a measure of how you’ll be missed.

You can splash all you wish when you enter,
You may stir up the water galore,
But stop and you’ll find that in no time
It looks quite the same as before.

The moral of this quaint example
Is do just the best that you can,
Be proud of yourself but remember,
There’s no indispensable man.

Saxon White Kessinger (as Saxon Uberuaga)

poem: angel

2009-07-04T18:27:00.003-04:00

I resume, after a brief hiatus, which included a wild weekend which started and finished in Wexford - with a Saturday night in Dublin sandwiched in between.

This short piece is about the same young lady as "Perfect". I hadn't thought about her in a long time, until, during the week, I chanced to meet another lady, a newly qualified teacher and just as beautiful as the young target of my past affections.

I'd try not to love you, if you had fault.
The wound I would find, and smother in salt.
I'm hooked and I know it. I've fallen for God's gift.
I crave to ask you out, but my conscience takes the fifth.

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poem: red cap

2009-06-16T05:34:00.000-04:00

As mentioned yesterday, I wrote a couple of pieces about the 15/06/1996 bomb attack in Manchester. This is the second one.

Eight years ago I bought a baseball cap,
A red one with a white 'C' on the front,
At the Arndale Centre, today the scene
Of the Provo's latest publicity stunt.

I gave the woman a five pound note.
She gave me a penny and smiled.
Was she selling caps this morning,
When that Manchester street went wild.

What went through the bomber's mind
As he parked the car and went?
Is he haunted by the news
Or the price of ten fags that he spent.

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poem: arndale shopping centre

2009-06-15T08:31:00.003-04:00

Today marks the anniversary of the 1996 bombing of the Arndale Centre in Manchester. It was the seventh attack on Britain following the end of an IRA ceasefire in February of that year; the previous attacks had all targetted London, including the infamous Canary Wharf bomb. I'm posting the first of two pieces that I wrote in the aftermath of this bomb. I'll post the other tomorrow.

They put on the language of condemnation,
An evening suit that's dragged out
Of the wardrobe and dusted
On serious and solemn occasions.

Three hundred and nine lives
Are set in different orbits,
Without so much as a recognised code word
In a shopping centre in Manchester.

A terrible beauty? On the Falls Road
They might call it a beautiful terror.
We did not bow our heads through years
Of shameful imperial occupation.

I'm proud to be an Irish Republican.
I'm happy that my heart burns,
With a flame of freedom.
But I'm not too stubborn to negotiate.

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poem: not a sonnet

2009-06-14T04:27:00.001-04:00

I wrote this piece longer ago that I care to remember. I was younger and a lot more foolish than I am now. Looking back, it is a wry reminder of the first (though not the last, by a long way) time I experienced love and lust at the same time, but for two different women.

The clouds of last night are a mist in my head
As I lie fully dressed on a seldom made bed.
I want to forget that you didn't say yes,
But you didn't say no - that's something, I guess.
I need to taste you to wipe out the pain,
Though I know I'll end up regretting again
The fact that I can't be so brave
To expand or express on the hints that she gave.
She asks me if I've asked you yet,
I mean, how obvious can she get?

Doing you would be like healing,
But don't expect genuine feeling.
I don't want to hurt you either,
But you're nothing, stood beside her.

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poem: second bloody sunday

2009-06-12T17:38:00.003-04:00

While on my recent trip around Ireland, I fulfilled another long held ambition. I stood at Free Derry Corner, the spiritual home of the modern Republican movement. It did feel like a pilgrimage, and I was privileged to be shown around the area by a man who lived through the worst of 'the Troubles'.

The annual stand-off at Drumcree in the mid- to late- nineties brought to international prominence the same bitter and entrenched sectarian bigotry and triumphalism that lit the flame of the civil rights movement in the late sixties. I remember welcoming representatives of the Garvaghy Road residents to Wexford, at around the same time as I wrote this piece.

They proclaim their right to process
Down half a mile of Garvaghy Road.
They shout allegiance to the Crown,
As Orange as their fires glowed.
Their hidden anger seeks release,
At a churchyard in Drumcree.
So they assault their own police,
Her Majesty's men of the RUC.

The province still is torn apart,
Peacetime sutures fading fast.
A civil war about to start?
How many decades will it last?

A latent army, ready to arm.
Could we really fight a war?
God between us and all harm.
What would we be fighting for?

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poem: a moment's memory

2009-06-02T15:03:00.005-04:00

While on a whistle-stop tour of the country over the past week, I spent some time in Coole, the former Gregory estate. How could I fail to be inspired?

31 May 2009

Today I met my inner Yeats, at Coole
Above, green leaves and birdsong
Temper blue sky glare.

The breathless heat of summer noon
Welcomes lively days of June.

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poem: waiting room, rirb*

2009-05-23T08:47:00.004-04:00

I originally posted this piece about four and a half years ago. I had just come through the experience of accompanying a friend of mine to the Residential Institutions Redress Board, which was located in an unassuming business park in South Dublin. It shared a building with the infamous Morris Tribunal, which was set-up to look at Garda corruption in Donegal.

The idea of the RIRB was to assess (on an individual basis, according to a defined scale) the financial compensation due to those who had suffered abuse in "residential institutions", which were basically industrial schools run by religious orders on behalf of the State.

It seems timely to republish, as a long awaited report in to the abuses of the past is published. In line with a suggestion by Damien Mulley, you can access the report by clicking here: Catholic Church in Ireland.

*residential institutions redress board

Outside the window, tower cranes and heavy machines toil
Building another piece of a better, newer Ireland
On a pitch where we used to play football.

The tyre threads of modern enlightenment
Reduce those green fields to a dark, damp mess
Best avoided, bypassed or ignored.

We used to steal apples and knock neighbours' doors,
So they sent us to the priests to learn the difference
Between good and the evil that they practiced.

There is a box of tissues on the table
To catch the overdue tears of innocent children
Being cried through grown men's eyes.

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poem: birthday

2009-05-20T13:24:00.002-04:00

I wrote this piece a long time ago, and to be honest, I can't remember exactly whose birthday it was originally composed for. I'm fairly sure it was one of the many colourful characters that frequented a certain hostelry in Redmond Square, Wexford...

Your birthday is the time of year
To look back over the last.
Hopefully this year gone by
Was as good as those in the past.

But if it wasn't, what the hell?
I would safely bet
The year that you'll enjoy the most
Is only starting yet.

So when it comes to closing time
And you can hardly stand,
We'll all be around you,
To lend a helping hand.

We'll help you from your seat,
And guide you out the door,
And when you arrive at your own little house...

...you'll collapse in a heap on the floor.

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