WILD WAVES CRASHING
ABOUT THE OLD HEAD OF KINSALE

I scramble
into your bed

like I'd do when I was 2
or four or more.

Rub your back for you
(you my 95 year old child )
until sleep gathers you in.

Just like you did for me
when I was your little boy.

I listen to you as slowly slowly
your dreams capture you.

I love your each and every breath.

And when you awake
two hours later

there I am
still rubbing your back.

You smile and tell me
your mother would do the same

when you were a tiny boy
waves crashing about the Old Head of Kinsale.

So here we all are
the back rubbers of the ages

all in the one place
sharing different times

comforting soothing
easing all the pain

waves crashing about the Old Head of Kinsale.  

*
I would rub his back for him and the warmth and friction and affection would calm him down and he would drift off to sleep but then if I stopped he would begin wake up again and start to cough...so I continued for two hours and he finally woke up rested. He was surprised to see me still there rubbing his back for him. Said his mother would do that for him when he was small and I said you used to do it for me when I was small. So there in that one magical moment were all the backrubbers paying no attention at all to the different times and all time became this one moment.

His mother used always be terrified of him lying on his belly and looking over the edge of the cliff at the furious waves eating the land. He would then run down to Mrs. Fitz who had a big gramophone and she would always play him and he never tired of it...the instrumental OVER THE WAVES which would become in time THE LOVLIEST NIGHT OF THE YEAR as sung my Maria Lanza.

He would often sing it to me or play it on his harmonica or accordion and I was enthralled by it and him and amazed that he could have been a small boy just as I was!

I simply adored him and he was the loveliest man and the most gentle of souls.


One day I sneaked back into life and was able to write a new poem and start the Vole News Letter on Michael Donaghy and post posts. The next two days I had become mist fading into a nothingness.

But here I am now with my Granny and me Da….guess it must be my turn now to be walking by the Old Head of Kinsale and the wild waves singing to me. I couldn’t be in a more wonderful place

YOUR LITTLEST SMILE

Death, rather diffident
(rather shy)

comes to me & says:

'It is time to die.'

'Ok...' I say '...when? '

'...like, this moment? '

'This second...? '

I struggle
with my heart attack

as Death
(feeling bad about it)

reposes my artefacts.

Outside, a van pulls up
with neat Gothic script

DEATH - REMOVALS.
it spells out in big bold letters.

I like it.

Death's got style
(& a nice smile)

& is a kind...
...of groovy guy.

Or is he a lady...
...boy...it's hard to tell

this here heart attack
sure hurts like hell.

'Ok, boys - take it all
away! '

Death's little helpers
all big bruisers all over 7' 2'
(former nightclub bouncers)

set to it with a will.

They take away
the blue sky
under which I had first kissed you.

They take away that night
sky under which I had kissed you more.

They took away
the little day to day
things

I always loved

the shape of your mouth

your continuously falling hair
brushed impatiently away

from your eyes

...your eyes...

the smell of your perfume
in an empty room

the littlest of your smiles
I had saved
for a rainy day

meanwhile
like a living Houdini

I had done it

somehow wrestled out
of the heart attack's strait jacket.

'****! ' Death
spat in a peevish manner.

'How, in God's name
did you do that? '

Death, sighed:
'Ok, kid...ya got me
- this time! '

'Right, boys... put it all back!
Put everything back! '

Les boys, scowl at me
as if to say: ' I'll remember you
...sunny Jim! '

'You...' Death
snarled from the side of his mouth

annoyed now
(no more Mr. Nice Guy)

'You...I'll see you
again! '

A tear...trickled down
my cheek

(unable to speak)
all I could do

was glance down

(your littlest smile)

clasped tightly
in my hand.

THE ***** WHISPERER

Little did Donall Dempsey realise that when he woke up that morning( his head full of Canaries)he would step from the ship to not his home but to The Twilight Zone of The Catheter Club. Here in intensive care his body not his own but in medical hands trying to deal with what the hell was wrong with this usually reliable body.

"Do you know
what a
catheter is Donall"

(oh you're not
gonna do that...
but do that so they did)

two brave NHS nurses
worked womanfully
but all to no avail

I tried to escape
into the Greek
etymology

"to ****** into"
or "to send down"
but it didn't help any

"Kathíemai!" I yelled
in badly pronounced
broken Greek

"Call Chloe!"
the cry went out
and Chloe came

she tucked a lock
of blonde hair
behind her left ear

"They call me
'The ***** Whisperer'
if anyone can I can

and so she sets
to work on me
explaining procedure

as only
a Chloe can
in simple laywoman terms

"You know when
you are trying to
get in fancy club

but a big fat bouncer
won't gain you
admittance

well your prostate
is that big fat
******* bouncer!"

"I see..." I say
not really
seeing

but not even a Chloe
can manage it
this time

but then
a nice unassuming
Chinese chap

does it
with ease
Chloe looks miffed

so here I am
tied to a bag
of my own *****

afraid to guess
what else is
in store for m4

"καθίεμα!" I swear
my Greek at least
seems to be improving

LES PAS PERDUS

"What did I do
in the war?"
I kept on trying not to be dead

all my friends were no good
at staying alive
( I keep them alive in my head )

the voices of the dead
shouting why are you
still alive & not I

good ole' Fred
lost his head
easy as a nursery rhyme

Tom holding
his guts in his hands
trying to stuff them back in

all we found of john
were his boots
with his feet still in them

"What did I do
in the war?"
I kept on trying not to be dead

I kept on trying
I kept on trying
to get back to you

*

LES PAS PERDUS (stepping stones or the lost steps )halfway buried stones forming a walkway. The stepping stones between one generation and the next....the war to end all wars merely produced the next war. He and his father were making such a path together as the old man told of his time and the horror that is contained in a survivor's head. Also the very act of surviving creates an agonising guilt that gnaws at the soul. He would often cry and say better men than he died...why not me...why not me. And he would see his dead friends everywhere.

THE MEMORY OF MARMALADE
(For Michael Donaghy 1954 – 2004)


ah howya Michael
strange to be meeting ya
off the coast of Casablanca

now don’t say it –
that would be too
corny altogether

‘At least we’ll
always have
Haringey!’

ah ye devil ya,
ya said it
didn’t ya

‘well I heard ya
reading my poems
to your wife

so I thought
I’d just drop in
like

for an auld chat
not let a little thing
like death come between us’

a moment
as it happens
where I was

only a second
from falling off
the edge of the world

into that great
wide nothingness
that awaits all of us

sometime or another
and all my mind
had to offer me

was this tiny fragment
my first memory of
marmalade of all things

as if it were
the most precious
moment ever

sun bursting
through marmalade
held forever

on the edge
of a shining
silver knife

so beautiful
like a tiny jewel
that the mind could taste

before
the body
could

and the lovely
slice of a smile
that was my father

and if this was
to be my dying
this would be the last

thing seen
and sure if it was
wouldn’t it be

a great memory
to go out
on

and you Michael  
I remember you
whipping out

a penny whistle
where it was hiding
in an inside pocket

playing something
unknown
to me

telling me
it didn’t have
a name as yet

maybe the dance
of the fingers but
that could change

the next time
you played always
a new beginning

now you smile
it’s become
the memory of marmalade

don’t forget
put my father’s smile
in it will ya

‘I will surely’
he smiled,
as the ship turned

towards an horizon
I couldn’t
recognise

and the deck quoits
went quiet
and I lost my shadow

and indeed
that was a good thought
to go out on

‘Dónall auld fella
you’re getting your quoits
and shuffleboard mixed up 

you’d better go on living
ya’ave still got a lot
to learn’

and the marmalade
dances as Michael
plays it into being

and my father
and I
oh we’re smiling

BECOMING THE MAN MY FATHER ALWAYS WAS
( For brother Brian

Each night
I would follow you

through the rituals
of what you had to do

being Daddy.

I wanted to be Daddy too.

Mimicking your gait
becoming an exact

copy
of you

trailing along
in your footsteps

like a lone seagull
following in the wake

of some great ship
of state

watching the water
burn

'til it was all bubbles

then letting it
calm down

before filling my mother's
hot water bottle

carrying it to her side
like a lover's gift.

I was
your little shadow.  

She'd always smile:
"Thank you Danny! "

"That's alright love"
was always the answer.

These the ritualistic words
in the hot water bottle ceremony.

Then he'd teach the clock
to ****

adjusting it with his hands
and wind up Time

so that it spit tick & tocks
all through the night

then go lock doors
turn keys
draw bolts.

"That's it, son!"

I used to imagine
being you

and now I am
my own man

winding up Time

bringing my missus
the gift of a hot water bottle

(the gift of me)  

both equally
heart warming.

'Thank you Donall! '
she always smiles.

'That's all right love! '
I always answer.

Me the man
I am

because of you.

A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT

the river stood up
its head in the clouds
marched off to find the sea

it took the river time
to find its feet but when it did
it ran & ran & ran

tired now the river
took the bus
spilling some of itself goin' 'round a bend

the river
kicked off the bus
for not having a proper ticket

the river
trying to hitch a ride
no luck

mini skirted blonde
tells the trucker
"This here river's with me!"

river weary now
just wants to lay it self down
and meander

at last the sea dawned
the river plunged in
losing itself in its joy