Niall O'Connor ~ Dublinepost

Snow

2012-02-11T08:47:00.000Z

published thefirstcut5 Feb 2012

The water of life is stilled

and I watch

as in slow motion

the falling eyelashes of snow

whisper me towards sleep

each and every fractal variation

yet unstained

by hormonal recreation

life is the messy one.

From orifices that weep, and secrete

and defecate,

weaved between soiled and tangled sheets,

in oyster stains drawn by semen filled sacks,

we find little deaths:

preambles in the dark.

all men, and beasts,

and sentient things

fear death's embrace

whether it comes gently,

or without warning

because death reorganises, recycles

base elements once more

in concert;

a symphony rewritten.

©Copyright Niall OConnor Text and Images

30

2012-02-04T10:07:00.005Z

The interests that fascinate and dominate a person's life can often make absolutely no sense to anyone else. What is important is that they fascinate us, and allow us to focus the passion for living in some tangible way. This might be poetry, or painting, gardening, or baking. It might begin with the child who wants to collect stones they find beauty in. It might be the older person with their daily crossword. It might even be numbers. We must respect the absolute value of this passion in others as we accept a key, with its apparent nonsensical shape, can turn the hidden workings of a lock. Everything has this potential to be fascinating, given the right degree of passion and application . . . even the number 30 . . . .

30 days, 30 years, 30 pieces of silver;

the rule of trinity extended

three horizontal realities to One vertical,

and the no-beginning, no-end zero

30 poems, 30 constructs, 30 lives,

by a hologram

from the edge of the real,

30 bells toll for thee.

A moments attention, now please,

for 30 the square pyramidal number,

30 the smallest Giuga number

primorial and natural;

both semi-perfect,

and Harshad(giver of joy).

To bake a really big cake,

you require just two and a half dozen,

or 30,

fresh eggs.

-30-

©Copyright Niall OConnor

P.J. Bermingham

2012-01-28T10:55:00.000Z

published Madrush Jan 2012

Ageing solar flares,

rusting dark bullet holes

in a chamber piss pot

that is an alzhiemers riddled brain,

this mourning, washing hands and face,

fresh spring water memories

mixed with taste of toilet bowl.

In my father's wallet, there is a picture;

28 year old hurler, bow-tensed to strike,

flying head of blonde hair, Hermes' wings,

New York 1962.

I asked, 'Do you know who that is?'

'Lovely, lovely,'— the fading, farewell reply.

©Copyright Niall OConnor

irishfilminstitute.blogspot.com

Beach.

2012-01-21T08:54:00.000Z

Couples walk the beach

all thinking the same thoughts

all echoing the same ancient feelings

all utterly, uniquely

alone.

©Copyright Niall OConnor Text and Images

Funeral

2012-01-14T11:36:00.000Z

After the Funeral

previously published in : thefirstcut #4

After the funeral we gathered

four full-bodied men;

once a clutch of speckled purpose,

now dulled and awkward with grief.

We toe the line that is the parents' death,

and notice with embarrassment,

the scuffed toe cap,

side by side

with the brand new shoe.

This is a time for disentanglement,

and each drawer is trawled,

each picture scanned

for memories to be shared.

We look for clues as

to why an object was cherished

so long, — why an after image

can represent a life.

In the attic I find my treasure tin:

a horse made of clip-clops,

a ball of stringed ideas,

a soldier stiff backed, with no fear,

a car of squeals and vrooms,

the forgotten pet beetle now hollow,

the conker with a chestnut tree

still inside,

the butterfly painter of meadow's flowers, pinned,

and the skipping stone, still waiting for the next attempt.

All these things, that held my life suspended,

since the lid, was last pressed down,

now have the strange familiarity,

and distance,

of an overheard conversation.

©Copyright Niall OConnor Image borrowed from the Net.

New Year Knot

2011-12-31T21:45:00.000Z

no new year yet, old year still not knotted

more time to delay a resolution

to breech the weir of dammed ideas

held back by education

and a wall of the inherited and acquired

placed brick by brick, by the same hand

that must now dismantle

fear of failure, is not an option

for the living

no new year yet, old year still not knotted

but there is always time to tie another climbing

knot

time to string old ideas into new rosaries of reveal

time to speak out

no new years,

just old years, not knotted yet.

©Copyright Niall OConnor

Roots

2011-12-30T14:04:00.001Z

Published Carty's Poetry Journal Christmas 2011

I come bearing sheets of forked ideas

and web-linked names of strangers

from whose loins I'd sprung.

I come as a city dweller,

to find in what small and mean house, or field,

my predecessors had struggled, unaware as yet

that more could be known than the next harvest,

the next child.

At first I found three modern houses,

complete with double garages, new cars,

and trampolines.

Each fresh house, with an apron of closely manicured,

useless grass, whose clippings, heaped to rot,

led me up the lane way. to where the ditch was still agrowing,

and the years were taken back to when the moss

covered stones, were still naked in their busyness,

and when a bend was first turned,

for God knows what reason.

It is to this bend I go, this willful, or unconscious

hieroglyph, where one man stopped

and made our family’s home.

I find the first, weathered and decaying house,

single storied, single roomed, one eyed

and open mouthed, silent in its memories

of house proud ornament, busy courtesan hens,

and other 'yard to pots.'

At the second house, a horse waited, half door, open.

I was recognised as one of those who braided straw

to bend its will, and so, it tipped its head and snorted.

We gazed; exchanging memories, and

I saw in his stead, Maureen, and Delia, mother

and farmer’s daughter, glad for the break in weather,

that allowed the half door to stand open,

and the sun break in;

names I know from a census night, that were impressed

by pen, clumsy in thickened hand, listing proudly

read and write; English for the future,

English and Irish, for the past.

Three cottages in all, with no door facing another

so each man, father and son, could leave in the morning

and go his own way.

From here, at the age of fifteen, my great-grandfather,

had left, and crossed the fields to another farm, picked

by the same calculation and observation, he learned

at the side of a towering leg, that was never uncovered,

never revealed, as flesh.

Even in death, those trunks had remained so,

covered by a shroud that strangely stretched

from chin to toe, and those great hands

that had spread seed were now knuckled, and bound

restrained by prayer, and rosary bead.

III

In the graveyard of Kilcolman, where he lies now,

within a worms length of farmers who once eyed his land,

with intent; between the lichen and the moss,

I searched in vain, for a carved name,

that would tell me, I too lay here in part.

The western wind, that is without beginning

or end, fills all the empty spaces between them

and me, and around these stone placements

I stagger, not knowing where, and when,

I am to fall.

Then from the derelict church, of rounded stone and sky,

a shivering dog fox bolted from where the hunters lie,

and I was shocked to see, as if it was always there,

a landscape shared with toil and care,

and rough hewn cart, followed by skipping waif,

and a tired, stooped man, with chin on forearm,

on upright spade, gazed wistfully in my direction,
and saw his future, before him laid.

©Copyright Niall OConnor Images and Text

Christmas and Winter Solstice

2011-12-21T16:21:00.001Z

Winter Solstice December 22

Christmas choristers drown out the robins instructive chirp. He chip-chips away, patiently, with no doubt that on his own, he will eventually wear out the darkness, and return light to the world. He awaits my passing, and the careless tossing aside of some leaves that will reveal the light scurrying beings, whitened by the dark below.

Indoors, artificial boughs are weighed down with holly stripped from the fields and the wild. New clothes, and no tomorrow. Dutiful presents, and the acceptance of gifts you know have nothing to do with your dreams. What we do want, is to achieve a goal, once deemed to be lost. To see a loved one long departed. To live again in a world where the imagination is the only reality that matters. The older the Christmas, the more populated it becomes with the spirits of Christmas past, and slowly, as we become one of these spirits, we become the memories of others. Chimeras, shadow beings, finger shadows.

Christmas is when time is told to stand still . . . rest a while. The earth holds its breath at the nadir of its days, before starting the upward climb to sun and renewal. Life stirs everywhere, after this day; in the earth beneath our feet, in the skies above our heads, in our souls of seasons, in this season of soul and spirit. There is a promise, a contract renewed. In winter, we learn of death and sleep, and so every year, we choose growth to replace hibernation, change over stasis, life over death.

Christmas December 25

Trees and baubles, glitter and light, symbols of magic . . . and a light to lead us on; a journey to follow a star whose course we can never hope to alter.

©Copyright Niall OConnor

Home for Christmas

2011-12-17T09:42:00.003Z

Every Christmas, the long journey

—interest and boredom in equal measure—

passage punctuated by the tease and the elbow,

or the almost touch, between four little angels,

ensconced in the back seat of our father's car.

With each town, the annual pilgrimage route reinforced:

mother happy and confident, father resigned

to being the half accepted cuckoo

once more in the mother's nest.

The first sign is a fairy fort,
standing circular, in a linear ploughed field

and then we cross the Shannon river,

and the roadside walls reveal themselves

as boulder stone, and we are now in the West

the West of Ireland.

When we arrive at my grandfather's house

the great rush, to get inside,

and final confirmation that all is, as it should be,

for another year.

The stuffed fox,still alert, chosen eyes pointed,

waits inside the entrance hall,

his permanently fixed landscape of brown

and green, and the wet shine of lacquered stone,

unchanged.

We are home!

Shame on You

2011-12-10T09:11:00.000Z

A poem inspired by the video below. The power of the chant. The use of language as a weapon, is as ancient as language itself.

shame on you: who pass this way and do not see

a life is shared and no one lasts

shame on you: who look and see and do not show,

to tell, not show, is not enough

shame on you: who do not work,for toil is yours

as every seed is formed to grow

you can go: but leave this world a better place,

for you are neither start nor end

you can go: depart for here with what you brought;

a different view, a chance to give

you can go: all you have a right to know, is

never this way can you pass too slow.

©Copyright Niall OConnor

Shame on You by nialloconnor

Because

2011-12-03T12:42:00.000Z

http://sarahjoym.wordpress.com/

Why is the sky blue, when your eyes are brown?
 Why does the rising sun signal hope,
 and the retreating tide despair?

  Why does love visit  when least expected,
and just as mysteriously  pack its bags;
all ready since God knows when?

  Why do questions, spawn further questions 
while answers shrivel up redundant? 
And why is the thinking adult forced to pause, 
as the child explains simply, it's just because . . .

©Copyright Niall OConnor

Because by nialloconnor

The Pole Dancers of Crosskeys

2011-11-19T20:22:00.011Z

On the old coach road,

between Ballyjamesduff and Cavan town,

there is the village of Crosskeys,

pubs three, residents four, and a road that runs through it,

crossed by an other that rises from the village green

to the nearest hill where the church was built to be seen.

On the other side, the same road falls,

through a passage in the drumlins,

until it gets lost in the black earth fields,

terminating in a rusted gate, as all great roads ultimately do.

That is all there is; a remnant of a village,

once a mill, and a thriving barracks,

the village is now just a curiosity item;

a jigsaw picture added, piece by piece,

each time you drive quickly through.

We stopped there one day, late in the summer,

when in the country, all is either saved or lost,

harangued by posters at every turn on the approaching roads,

we stopped to investigate the Crosskeys Harvest Festival.

First we walked the green, and discovered a small stream,

with pansies and closely cropped grass,

and a juvenile River Erne once set to work at the mill,

in a time when the young were always for hire, for a pittance.

Then the sun scuttled quickly behind the clouds,

its work of introduction completed,

and we were ushered to the pub by a dark squall,

and the threat of rain.

Moments later, the lights were turned up,

and a small timbered dance floor

was separated from the dark,

and while I supped, with rising anticipation,

a woman passed in, long ski bag under arm,

and quickly erected a polished pole

of stainless steel, ratcheted expertly

between ceiling and floor.

Two youths then came, and ordered cokes;

they sat whispering excitedly

behind cupped and sweaty palms,

while women appeared from doors and dark

to dance the pole, just for the lark.

My small-town preconceptions were instantly smashed,
as one by one to the pole they laughingly dashed!

Pole Dancers at Crosskeys by nialloconnor

©Copyright Niall OConnor

http://dublinepost.blogspot.com

Lost

2011-11-08T18:15:00.001Z

Borrowed from http://www.layoutsparks.com/1/104603/lost-in-thoughts-dark-31000.html

The night is dark — full moon smothered

heaps of winter blanket cloud.

When I awake, I do not know,

if the world has faded, or is it just,

I cannot see?

From the safety of my bed,

I step off into the dark,

in a room well memorised, one step, two.

Then reaching out, grasping air,

drowning. Where is the door?

Hands threshing, mind confused,

I am lost in this room, of walls and limits;

panic in a box prison, mis-made by me;

the only key, locked inside.

When the door is opened,

from outside,

the wall I searched, stares blankly white,

and the black is hidden,

returned to night.
Lost by nialloconnor

©Copyright Niall OConnor

The Fire.

2011-11-06T13:03:00.001Z

Sun filled days of delusion times

mock me now

and leave no room for unhappiness

a few dreams tipped out

libation to the gods

lets the now come flooding in

I sit in front of the fire

release of summer’s sun

and beat of birds’ wing undone

memories in branches now felled, and

heaped upon the grate of past, -

present and future stilled.

©Copyright Niall OConnor

Image from aideon.deviantart.com

The Fire by nialloconnor

The Rock

2011-11-05T17:36:00.001Z

A rock . . .

well really the brow of a rock . . .

it's heart lay deep and hidden,

but when I lay my cheek against it

in the heat of the summer, it cooled

and I could feel the great primeval thump of its heart

comforting me, when nothing else was understood.

I clutched this great rock;

my only constant in a life of changes,

while the earth itself, with me holding on tight,

flew at increasingly careless speeds,

through my teenage years.

Beneath the arched viaduct it squatted,

uncomplaining of the shafts of steel

driven deep, and the weight of the stone it carried;

my teenage weight, of little importance.

It was always there when I came,

in dream or even in reality,

taking the time to be calm and listen,

as I told it of my hurts and confusions.

One Summer, I foreswore all others

and promised it my heart

if it would only turn it to stone,

but though the rock listened

I knew its answer without it having to speak.

I was being selfish,

and it would have given all of its great strength

to feel,

just a little,
of my pain.

©Copyright Niall OConnor

The Pub Cat

2011-10-29T08:03:00.000+01:00

It was the feline that gave me status

permission to listen, analyse.

I sat by the fire in the country pub

cat napping. If the house pet

would use my lap to sleep

then they too would bide my presence.

They came from small farms

of handkerchief fields, and told their stories

each shared memory, safe and familiar,

in its retelling

tribal feelings of self reservation

disarmed temporarily.

I drank from their well

as thirstily as any parched man might do

the cat purred, content with his new lap

and the stroking I gave

she was smug in the knowledge

that I as stranger,

couldn’t say shoo!

©Copyright Niall OConnor

Image borrowed from Web

Jesus and Mohammed.

2011-10-22T12:41:00.001+01:00

The young Jew took his seat at the bar
ordered wine, and a milk for his friend.

— You've heard then, Mohammed smiled.
—Yes. Not that I would approve, the joking response.

— Oh well, each to his own.

— I don't know what Our Father would think. —And you think you know Him best!

— I suppose He does have a sense of humour
— Never would have created mankind if he hadn't.

—Ah!

Then they supped quietly.
Another rest.
Another gathering up of thoughts and lives.

— You can say that again . . .

The young Jew and the Merchant of Mecca sit quietly,
each thinking the Father's thoughts.

Sons of the Father, fatherless Sons,
and I wondered was it because of the mother,

One had taken the more peaceful path.

Jesus the Nazarene, adopted son of Joseph,
Mohammed the righteous, adopted son of Abu Talib of the Koreish,
brothers in more sense than One.

Image borrowed from Web

Behan, Kavanagh, and Roddy Doyle.

2011-10-15T17:48:00.000+01:00

Behan, and the culchie poet Kavanagh,
was making their way home to Drumcondra,
after sinking a parade of pints in Keogh’s pub
. . . . . earlier.

They was coming up Russell Street,
by the canal, when who should they spy,
but young Roddy Doyle, and he sittin’
in the gutter, feasting from a snot.

He was writing on the footpath
a stub o’ chalk,
robbed from the school
in his hand, and Behan says
tottering over him,
Fighting Words? What’s that?
Cause that’s what was written
you understand . . . ‘nanyway,

A man out-standing in his own field.

didn’t the little imp, turnip head
shout up at him, as bold as brass.
It’ll be your epitaph mister Behan,
if you don’t get the fuck home
to the Missus rite away . . .

Says Behan with a smirk
I tink he’ll be a righter!

Images borrowed from the web.

Writing Poetry

2011-10-08T14:40:00.002+01:00

Old fumbled feelings

remain coiled with vicious potentiality

in the dark cave that is my mind

unsatiated, unresolved.

thoughts are cast aside

like tide-worried stones,

rounded from comings and goings

with relentless polishing of everything between.

words-like beached bones

remain as runes of mind, and

I continue to send out the invitations

to those words who have been uneasy bed companions

elsewhere

‘Come sit together at my wedding feast’.

Seating arrangements are difficult,

and rarely final.

The Sea

2011-10-01T17:07:00.001+01:00

and the river feeds

the vast insatiable hunger of the sea

where it meets the land

and me

and men place stones

that were born elsewhere, from fire

to enclose this birthing place

of land and soul

dark wall of granite

bearded, worn

and the sea reaches out

for the sky she meets but cannot touch

by the shore for which she

yearns so much

rebuffed.

Images borrowed from web dogdaisychains.blogspot.com and alaska-in-pictures.com

Climbing Kilimanjaro

2011-09-25T15:40:00.000+01:00

The garden zone - friendly, forest zone - cool.

Night fell too soon, when the steeply sloped rain forest,

and the servant hills, slipped underneath us, in the dark.

I fought my way upwards, headlamp illuminating nothing

but poring dirt; all around me, the sounds of leopards,snakes

and — geography confused, in this primordial forest,

where life springs from decay.

We camped, and stripped to nakedness,

trying to rebuild our shattered spirits with fresh clothes

and tea. Sleep came uninvited like a burglar,

silently stealing half finished cups from suddenly

limp arms.

Next morning, saw the departure
of those who could take no more

of this risk route; trip turned task.

Each day, life thinning out, nothing to be shared,

but pollo, pollo, slowly, slowly,

and then we left the earth.
There could now be no rescue,
even helicopters need air to breathe.

On we climbed, and lungs heaved normally,

but tired muscles never received relief,

and no sound, other than those you made,

to keep an empty skull company.

We were now beyond the zone of life.

Beneath us, the jets, like pond skaters,

criss-crossing the expanse that was Africa,

and the curve of the world lay below and beyond.

On the last night, we tricked the mountain;

using its frozen steps to climb, when she slept.

By the time the sun had risen, we had reached her top,

standing ragged for our moments glory,

each a god among men, albeit with feet of clay.

Descent was by the coca cola route,

and with each thousand metres we fell,

fresh tears came,
as emotion, and life, and oxygen returned.

I looked back
calling out your name
so you might save me

but even my footprints

were already erased.

Images borrowed from Web

Winter

2011-09-17T17:55:00.001+01:00

Clothes pegs perched uselessly in the driving rain

echo rows of swallows lined up for migratory flight

and twisted hazel’s banshee fingers rake the sky.

Still dry chestnut buds, dream of conker fights,

and helicopter stick-attacks, by children

late for school.

Child of Mine

2011-09-11T14:39:00.001+01:00

You are the hard pressed slippery bundle,

heterotrophic,

that forced tears of happiness,

equally hard borne from my eyes.

You were the teacher of love

with your first breath,

and the eyes of trust and belief

with all your growing, and now

you are the tabernacle of my existence,

diminished only by me;

custodian of both our dreams,

keeper of the secret

that has already passed,

and lies within you.

Peace and Love.

You are the child I trust,

to always be yourself.

With each thought and breath you grow,

- strange intimacy of life -

that this makes us strangers.

You were in my first breath,

and I will be in your last.

Copyright Niall OConnor

Image borrowed from George Hester's photo book. Brush and ink.
Published thefirstcut #3
www.issuu.com

New Angles

2011-09-09T11:23:00.003+01:00

to write

poems in triangles

but most of my good

friends use rectangles

so I thought that

today I would

find a

new

way, to inveigle

first prize from new angles.

The River Blackwater

2011-09-03T19:48:00.001+01:00

I once owned a river

and it owned me

we walked together, mind and spirit,

and it set my childhood free.

I loved a river once

and it loved me

neither eddy nor current

concealed any mystery.

I once hit that river

beat its back with a stick

but then I cried for my river

and it cried for me.

When I wept over its waters

it mixed its tears with mine

Flow gently sweet river

'till the ends of time.

When I walked with my river

it seemed to dally for me,

now it takes my ashes

all the way to the sea.

Images borrowed from the web