"...THE POSSIBILITY THAT HAS BEEN
OVERLOOKED IS THE FUTURE..."
( for Michael Hartnett )

found
penny in a puddle
year of my birth

I pocket it
as the poet passes
cap in hand

this brilliant man
sculpted from sadness
loneliness falling like rain

he goes to greet me
knowing he knows me
but my face escapes him

I only ever meet him
when the drink has
taken him prisoner

inside his head
haiku breed
"..like maggots!" he says..."...like maggots!"

"I don't want your company
or your pity!" he snarls
"Just the price of a pint!"

I have only
the old puddle penny I've found
I give him my coat

he puts his hat on
his head
at a rakish angle

the tree flies away
the bird hangs still in the air
neon scribbles on the puddles

*

The title is taken from one of Michael's poems as is the idea of a tree flying away leaving the bird in mid-air! It always greatly amused me.

The only other time I had gone to hear him read and he was too drunk to perform. I had to get a last bus back to the Curragh and by then I think he finally got around to reading.

It was absolutely lashing rain and he carried his hat scrunched up in his hand and had only a thin tee shirt on.  

He put my coat on and tramped off into a future that was falling before him.

I never saw the coat or Michael again. He had asked me if I wrote poetry too and when I said I did he said:  "Ahhh then....I pity you!"

I had two coats at home and he had none so it was a no brainer. The giving away of your coat in the rain to someone who needs it more than you must be in the Dempsey DNA.


Jesus Christ Is Alive And Well (In Memory Of My Mother Ita)

she is thoroughly wet
through & through
as if a someone

(I don’t know who)
had upended
a bucket of water over her

the rain holds
a conversation
with itself

“Where’s your
new coat? ”
we incredulously ask her

as she continues
to drip
at us

the rain is laughing
at something
it has told itself

“A poor woman
hadn’t one…”
“…so I gave her mine.”

she explains
as
to a child

we her children
stare at her
hair plastered to skull

a large drip
at the end
of her nose

my mother
could be kind
in an almost

Biblical New Testament way
as if she were
Jesus Christ

before
he had gotten
himself crucified

and was alive
and well
and living in her

”NON SO COME..SI PUÒ VIVERE IN QUESTO FUOCO?

after
the war
we returned

ourselves
(but not)
our selves

to Our Country
right
or wrong

that was
like a life sized
replica of what

we had left
only alien
to us now

we were guilty
(guilty as hell)
of surviving

this hell
that made ghosts
of so many

& we these
ghosts
of flesh and blood

haunting
the living
envious of them

and their ability
to forget
by remembering

we hoarded
our tears
we couldn't cry

went on living
because...because
we didn't know how

to die
each moment a battle
we could never win

*

"I do not know how it is possible. . .to live in such fire."
Dante

IN THE MYTHOLOGY OF FOXES

the foxes blood
on the stone
still there

two days
after
staring at me

only
the day before
a daring raider of

my uncle's henhouse
the talk
of our household

but my uncle
was patient
& stalked the lonely hours

until the fox
came to meet her death
thinking only of her cubs

& how big & bright
the moon loomed
tonight

and how
the fearful thunder
of the gun

had ended
everything
and how now

shot through the head
her carcass thrown
behind a hedge

she finds herself
still staring back
into the mind

of the little boy
even more aware
of her presence

now that nothing
exists
and how for

ever after
the boy
carries her death

cradling it
in his mind
trying to

comfort her
with his human
tears

TEA & GHOST

usually I
never leave home
without it

but(I don’t know why)
today
(it just slipped my mind)

and I left home
without my body I
didn’t even take my shadow

I just floated
free
free of me

enjoyed being
whatever
I encountered

...a stone...sea...cloud...
...a me
that wasn’t me...

rain...or just
the falling of rain
but then came full circle

& ran into
my  “me”
again

I had being enjoying
being rain
just falling...falling

but then my ghost
grabbed hold of me
and put me back

in my dream
and I awoke
to find myself

only me again
it was
very disappointing

I got up & made
some tea & toast
chatted with my ghost

who quoted
William Blake
to me:

“Body, is a portion
of the soul
discern’d by the 5 senses.”

I sat there
& chewed it over
“Yeah, I guess...?"

then I grabbed
my hat and coat
and went to work

SKIN & BLISTER

we grin & grimace
drop candle wax
onto our fingertips

as the storm
rattles our window pane
angry that we won’t let it in

All night
it rages
toppling chimney

pots with a crash
smashing slates
it strips from rooftops

as we safe
giggle & peel off
our waxen fingerprints

hold them
(tiny whirlpools)
in our palms

those whorls
of self
unique to each

I wearing my sister’s
fingerprints
she... wearing mine

*

SKIN & BLISTER is Cockney rhyming slang for sister. We were so close we could have worn each other fingerprints and as a little boy I was delighted to do so. I was her and me was she. This I guess is something we did to amuse ourselves before...telly arrived.

TINY CLINGING CURLS

I remember you
looking almost
Audrey Hepburn-ish

my big sister
& oh...
that smile

touching my world
with the wonder
of your love

we are Christmas-ing
the place
living in the candle's glow

love
nothing but love
in almost slow motion

the holly bites
your little finger
I **** the drop of blood

that grows
& grows
until it is kissed better

you laugh
'Ah...my little
saviour! '

and sigh
with an almost
mock Victorian swoon

tiny curls cling
to the nape of your neck
like the tiniest of tiny seahorses     

we swim
in the sea
of our laughter

the next Christmas
you were dead
lost to this

world
leaving me alone
to mourn you

I...
unable to
save you

now...all these years
later
(years you never knew)      

the holly
bites my little finger
& I **** it quickly

tasting through
my tears
the sweet tang

of your blood
still so alive
in my mouth

"DO YOU HAVE A QUESTION?"

her heart was a red
fire alarm
going off with nobody

paying it
no mind
at all

her heart was
an evening hillside
as the sun went down

the light
stealing
into the ground

her heart was a favourite
pair of cufflinks
with one link missing

or an earring found far
too late many many
years later

her heart was a lute
that was mute
un-played for

many
many
moons

her heart
was a house
burningburningburning

down
razed
to the ground

the sneer of her
pyromaniac lover
lost in the shadows

her heart was
the junk mail
that came in one door &

out the other
instant
*******

she felt as if
someone had
pressed DELETE

her heart was
a crystal ball
that could foretell

nothing....
nothing
at all

her heart was
a knocked over
cheap cocktail

that left a nasty stain
on the carpet...
on the wall

her heart was
a tiny torn pink knapsack
that held all she had known

her heart was
the forgotten
iron

branding itself into
her nice new
blouse

her heart was
a field of poppies
seen

from a passing train
there&gone
again

her heart
full of the perfume
of memories

that refused
to ever
...go away

her heart was
the same train journeying
in and out of...love

*

Memory is seen( and felt )as a perfume...in its there and not-there-ness whereas the poppies are a splash of red glimpsed from a passing train.as she is overwhelmed by her senses falling falling...in and out of love. It's a bit of an emotional rollercoaster ride with what her heart was experiencing as she tried to put into words feelings that could not be...put into words

The poem issues forth from Rimbaud's commands to the energy of the time...." Le Poète vous dit: 'O lâches. soyez fous!' " to " Le Poète te dit: 'Splendide ta Beauté' "

The Poet says to you: "O cowards, be mad!" to The Poet says to you; "Your beauty is marvellous!"