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Sep 2024 · 45
LIGHT ON WATER
Donall Dempsey Sep 2024
LIGHT ON WATER

Memory cuts up the past
sticks it back together

this the wrong way up
that the right way down

this year
to that sky

the tear away thrown away
callender that lies

here a voice
with no picture

here pictures
without voices

just the sense
of what has been

the real and yet
the not real

stranded now
in whatever year

time refusing to be
pinned down

your laughter stitched
into a burst of bird song

written upon a sky
that will be a forever

a patchwork quilt
of days

the constant writing
over what has past

a  palimpsest
of the mind.
Sep 2024 · 46
NEW YORK STATE OF MIND
Donall Dempsey Sep 2024
NEW YORK STATE OF MIND

Walt Whitman
walks by me
somewhere in 1892

I nod to him...he nods to me
lost in himself
Clinton is being inaugurated

Brooklyn Bridge
saunters by
dressed in the summer of '67

the subway
wears its best graffiti
the music of trains and Coltrane

the Flatiron Building is jaywalking
the Empire State
chats him up

a child's hopscotch
almost washed away
a moment's masterpiece

Robert Moses
looks across Long Island
longs to build the city only he sees

he gazes into my future
I look into his past
I pass Robert Mapplethorpe

a man in a white suit
nailed to the darkness
by so many stars

an old saxophone player busks
Rogers and Hart in Central Park
"...I didn't know what time it was..."

two obese Chinese
take up too much of the sidewalk
both speaking fluent - Irish?

"Leaves of Grass"
lies scattered across the road
read now by the wind

a car caught in traffic
blares out Joel's
"New York State of Mind"

I laugh at such
a happenstance
a walk-on-part in my own movie

escaping the borders
of the body
I walk through times

I am all the times
of the world
they intersect in self

Walt and I
sitting on a park bench
waiting to go somewhere else

an 1990's rain
falls on an 1870's NY
they are beginning Brooklyn Bridge

I meet my self
coming and going
an older and a younger me

time held prisoner on the wrist
I turn and walk away
into this the newest of centuries
Sep 2024 · 41
BRIAN DEMPSEY'S BROTHER
Donall Dempsey Sep 2024
BRIAN DEMPSEY'S BROTHER

so - I see
you are the future
people of a 1000 years

beyond me
my words see you
even though I can not

I am the long dead
how curious it is
to be so

and to have you
read me
or of my ever

thinking that
you would
hear my paper voice

finding it hard to believe
this scribbled scrap of paper
could outlive the mind that. . .

never mind
never mind
so you are the new

here and now

and I am
not
am nothing

my only merit
being this
somehow survived

an ordinary
human
from 2017

paper I
must assume is
an outdated mode

of transport
for thought
or word

I am as precious
as papyri to you
my future archeologist

maybe now
mind merely talks to mind
and so you are amazed

to find me
wandering about in country dark
the wind roaring in French

as it prowls and howls
about a house somewhere near
Saint-Priest-des-Champs

I mock the storm
howling at the death
of a loved one

to a night that does not care
It is like I have
never been. . .

so people of a 1000 years
from now
all you can know

is that I was
Brian Dempsey's
brother

and that a night
finds me here
in my despair

calling out his name
the only thing
I own

I am
just this
side of sane

perhaps by now
you have
abolished death

and life goes on
and on and on
without end

or even eased
despair
to such an extent that. . .


here there is a tear
and words alas lost
to what men

used to call time
and to a creature called
a mouse

fire...
a fragment of a mind
reconstructed from

what documents
could be
found

all we know for certain is
that he was
Brian Dempsey's brother

and that seemed to be
his only reason
for existence

and what
we can only
wonder

was this thing
the writer calls
"...despair"
Sep 2024 · 40
A TIDY MAN
Donall Dempsey Sep 2024
A TIDY MAN

My  ghost came
to see me off.

"Just thought I
would introduce myself.

"You see...I'm you
in a few hours time

when you've shaken off
( as the cliche goes )

this mortal coil
as it were."

"Is this the done thing?"
I enquired politely

"...not too sure of
the protocol...so to speak?"

"I'm not used to being dead..."
I excused myself.

"Oh it's the new Heavenly Scheme
introduced by Him Above!"

I tried to catch my breath.
Found I couldn't.

"Oh well...let's
get on with it!"

So I hung my soul up
on the back of the door.

The wardrobe was packed tight
with all the selves I'd ever been.

I folded my life up
neatly.

I was always
and forever

a tidy man.
Sep 2024 · 43
LOVE REMEMBERED
Donall Dempsey Sep 2024
LOVE REMEMBERED

all that remains
her cigarette smoke
crawling lazily to the ceiling

her footsteps
echoing down the hall
the angry slam of a red door

from the pavement floats up
the clickity-clack of red stilettos
the Morse Code for loss

a Focus LP
caught on a scratch
caught on a scratch

the same pale pink
lipstick kiss
on cigarette and champagne glass

rain falling now
in the open window
wetting the still sleeping cat

a church bell
scatters crows
a drunk staggers down the road

the end never appears
to be the end and then
it just is

I stumble against the record player
Focus get back into the groove
"...'round goes the gossip...'.round goes the gossip..."
Donall Dempsey Sep 2024
BABY! I WAS BLOWING WITH YA ALL THE WAY!

Daddy's sax
croons to the baby
only thing that sends her to sleep

Daddy's sax
unplayed for years
given to the newspaper boy

Daddy's sax
alive again
in the hands of the newspaper boy

God that newspaper boy
can make that sax talk
"Swing it daddy...swing it!"

newspaper boy
becomes sax player
Daddy's sax in heaven

Daddy's sax
making the young girls
cry

Daddy's sax
its long journey
a litany of notes

*

Famous sax player came backstage after Billie Whitelaw's riveting performance in Sam Beckett's NOT I and said: "BABY I WAS BLOWING WITH YA ALL THE WAY!" I was looking after a little old lady and she used to play all these jazz records endlessly w
hich is where the story of the journey of her Dad's sax emerges from the darkness of time and glows in my mind like a glorious sax solo.
Donall Dempsey Sep 2024
LET SLEEPING PTERODACTYLS LIE

rusted scythe
perched on a nail
high up on a wall

a sleeping pterodactyl
I can't stop myself touching
it to see if it is - real

smacks its lips
laps up my blood
from my foolish fingertip

deceived by shadows
it's grin glinting
the smile come alive

the ghost of a horse
whinnies in the stable
that's gone long gone

the then
merging into
the now

or maybe
Mr. Death
too tired to go on

hangs up
the instrument of his trade
time to retire the old bones

“No way
to make a living!”
I hear him say

I back slowly away
blinded by the sunlight
that screams. . ."Run!"
Sep 2024 · 58
SOUL OF THE AGE
Donall Dempsey Sep 2024
SOUL OF THE AGE

Now, is the summer
of this. . .our content

made glorious
by love

the sunlight
kiss of leaves

yet through a glass
darkly

I am tolled by old
St. Saviour’s bell

back to
a December’d day

a Thames frozen
from Westminster to London Bridge

where Will
buries brother

young Edmund Shakespeare
on this the last day

of the year
1607.

I stand on the same
flagstones

as the King’s Men
gathered in black

rub shoulders with
Burbage

a Hamlet come
to life

a summer of tourists
walking through us

as the order
from the Book of the Dead

solemnly intoned

as his younger brother
is lowered

into an unmarked
grave.

Ferrymen call
from across the centuries

“Eastward **. . .
. . .Westward **!”

as Time slips
loose of its moorings

mastiffs strain
at the leash

await the bear
to be baited.

Methinks I see
the great Globe itself

flag unfurled
upon an horizon

“the forenoon knell
of the great bell”

as I return
to my self

and Shakespeare
stares at a wall

in Silver
Street.
Sep 2024 · 49
SISSONNE EN AVANT
Donall Dempsey Sep 2024
SISSONNE EN AVANT

Parc Du Champ De Mars
little girls practice their ballet steps
old man his T'ai-Chi

old man
frozen into
Carry Head Push Mountain

Time melts
old man flows into
Wild Horse Spreads Mane

"et maintenant...allongé ..allongé. . !"
dit Maman
the little dog rolls on the grass

the little dog growls
at the frozen man
little girl a statue in arabesque

little girl her
head in the clouds
old man...cloud hands

my moment
passes their moments
lost now in time

"... et maintenant
fermée, ouverte, développée,
en avant, en arrière, à la seconde."

*

From the old man shape shifting into his different positions of self to the tiny tiny dancers being put through their paces this was a wonderful moment of Paris that seemed to be part of a movie we had stepped into...a little piece of wonder.

A ballet student usually first learns how to do a sissone at an intermediate level and at young ages. This is to ensure the dancer has enough basic strength and comfort with basic steps like plie and saute.

From there, a student will learn variations such as jumping and landing on one foot in attitude or arabesque (sissonne en avant) or other positions. The step can also be done petit in variations or in petite allegro combinations.
Donall Dempsey Sep 2024
TRYING TO EXPLAIN HUMAN
LONELINESS TO INANIMATE THINGS

stares at the wall &
cries & cries & cries:
the wall doesn't understand

lonely  basement flat
the 5 o'clock train rattles
the broken teacup

apple on table
your smile bitten into it
you...no longer...there
Donall Dempsey Sep 2024
"AHHHHH...IS IT...YER SELF THAT'S...IN IT?

here I am
thin now fat then
thin again

here the hair
short now long then long
in the long long ago

the same features
scattered across time
sticky-out ears...bulgy eyes...

curly hair
only the eyes change
( and remain the same ).


still the sad shy smile
flickers across
the ages

here I am
almost
handsome

her I am
my usual not
always the same laugh

the photographs
play with me
change and amend me

shuffle me through years
tears...different me's
me's I never knew I'd be

I smile my
by now
characteristic smile

laugh my laugh
that is my own
and no others

I've a feeling that
the photographs
haven't yet

finished with me
that there will be
lots more me to come

I close the album
put myself back
on the shelf

get on with the
business of being
my self


*

Being punctuated is a fierce painful business altogher...I remembered being full stopped and clare ta God but wasn't I in a coma for weeks on end. I was then locked up in brackets for another week and all my quotation marks taken away from me so I could hardly speak at all. Then I was given a life sentence to be my self for the rest of my life.

Too many Dónalls spoil the broth of a boy...joining the dots of me...painting by numbers the me of I.
Donall Dempsey Sep 2024
THE BELL GOES FOR THE END OF HISTORY

her head all algebra
trigonometry and Heaney
and...boys...boys...boys

her mind crept
nearer & nearer...him
longing just to touch his...

she watched a trickle of sweat
make its way down his neck
imagined herself licki..ing...it...off

it is the end of WW1
thank heaven for that
she watches him....mmmm...stretch...yawn

his name surrounded
by doodled hearts and flowers
her first poem....ahem...HYMN TO HIM

she had eyes only for him
he had eyes only for Siobhan Winterson
she hated Siobhan Winterson

oh my God oh my God oh
he just looked. . .
. . .past me

oh please oh please oh please
look at me
he doesn't give her a second look

she cries herself asleep
dreams of him
requiting her unrequited love

years years later
two kids and a divorce later
HYMN TO HIM in a battered shoebox

she reads her
13 year old self
sobs her heart out
Sep 2024 · 44
LIGHTLY CHILD LIGHTLY
Donall Dempsey Sep 2024
LIGHTLY CHILD LIGHTLY

the wind is reading
Aldous Huxley's ISLAND
dropped among the hollyhocks

the wind speed reads
skips entire sections
a fat fly walks over the title

an obese raindrop falls
upon the author's name then
another & another &. . .

ISLAND
turns to mulch
raindrops batter the book

it comes apart
at his touch
islands of words remain

"...two thirds of all sorrow
is homemade and so far
as the universe is concerned..."

the rest is lost
but he can fulfil the words
". . . unnecessary. . ."

now here at your grave
my fingertips trace
the curves of your name

as a lover might
trace the taut
muscles of a back

a ladybird pauses on
the H of Huxley
as if learning its letters

their metal inlay
glinting in the sun
"...it isn't a matter of forgetting..."

your words scattered
across the years
"...what one has to remember is..."

"...how to remember and yet
be free of

the past..."

I still grieve my lost book
eaten by the weather but
glowing in my mind

I laugh and tell your grave
"Give us this day our
Daily Faith but...

...deliver us
Dear God
from Belief."

*

I live not far from where Aldous is buried and often go to chat to him in his realm of sunlight and shadow. His ISLAND book was highly formative to me in my early years.
Donall Dempsey Sep 2024
SO THAT’S WHAT THEY GET UP TO!
(for Onelia)

The love poems
in my note book

creep from page
(at night)   to page

no longer beholden
to me.

They visit
each other

have secret
love affairs

(well, they are love poems...after all)  

Poems elope
let down a rope
of words

escape the confines
of their particular page

being of one mind
longing to be individual.

Poems 6 & 9
emigrate to page 69

and seem to be
enjoying themselves.

They search & search
for a voice

to say them.

In the morning
bleary eyed & looking

a little the worse for wear

they sneak shyly
slyly back

tip-toeing to their proper places

yawning
& just about

make it

back into their appointed positions

as I turn to...

see them
as if nothing

had happened.

*

“I wonder what love poems get up to at night
between the covers of a book? ”

Onelia

I am afraid I blatantly stole this from a passing comment by Onelia which greatly amused me.  I pleaded with her to turn it into a poem as it was such a novel idea but alas...& so I was forced to write it myself which is a pity because she would have done it so much better than I.

I hope she will still write it as it was after all her idea & I only stole it!
Sep 2024 · 62
FÉACH AMACH!(WATCH OUT!)
Donall Dempsey Sep 2024
FÉACH AMACH!(WATCH OUT!)

gan guth
i measc guthanna
gan focail

(without a voice
amongst voices
without words)

gan réaltaí
cén áit é seo?
báthadh faoi ghloine

(no stars
what place is this
drowning under glass)

ag breathnú amach as
an taobh mícheart
den scáthán

(looking out from
the wrong side
of the mirror)

ag faire ar mo mhachnamh
ag siúl amach
ag gáire

(watching my reflection
walking away
laughing)
Donall Dempsey Sep 2024
'WELL, WELL. . WELL !" SAYS THE GENERAL

Time falls
like snow
gently slowly

our footsteps
showing where we
go hour by hour

a statue
wears a cap of snow
it cries bitter white

pigeon **** tears
gazing at the years
that come and go

remembering when
it was a man
and snow falling

in this vey square
and he a child who
did not care

about statues
of the famous men
he threw snow ***** at

until he lost
an arm
a life

and became one
looking better than
he did in life

became the statue
of him self
and now some child

hits him dead
in the eye with
a well aimed snowball

and if he could laugh
he would laugh at
how it all

came to this
death now by tourist
oh the shame

the bells of the town
announcing another
new year
Sep 2024 · 424
THE USELESSNESS OF MAPS
Donall Dempsey Sep 2024
THE USELESSNESS OF MAPS

You were always
the bit

where the map creased & tore
leaving us unsure

looking through a hole
at our own big toe.

You were always
the bit

where the map was folded in four
and had to be awkwardly unfolded

just to see
where you were.

You were always
the bit

that was just off this map

ending in mid air...

...see next map:

...the missing map!

You were always
the lost map.

You were often
the wrong map.

The map that there was...

...no map of:
Sep 2024 · 56
HOW NOW RED BALLOON?
Donall Dempsey Sep 2024
HOW NOW RED BALLOON?

the balloon
crossed the road
on its own

cautiously at first
then becoming
a little braver

there wasn't a human
in sight
the balloon was red

why did it cross the road
you would have to
ask a chicken

it made its way
into a nearby field
just out of reach of

a host of thistles
angry at the invasion
of their territory

a bee followed it
across a ditch bemused
at  such a  solo flight

the balloon came to rest
on the back of a huge
black and white heifer

and there it remained
as I passed
and hurried by

cow and balloon
as one
living on in

my mind
all these 40 years
later.

*

Wish I had a time machine and could go back..get out of the car and see if the red balloon and the black and white cow ran away with each other and had cow/balloon children and lived happily ever after.  

There was also, now you mention it, a laughing dog. And when we went to eat we were both dishless and spoonless. The cat on the fiddle was playing the Divil came down to Cork.
Donall Dempsey Sep 2024
"THE SMALLE RAYNE DOWNE CAN RAYNE?"

you bloom
in my mind
like a fast forward

film of a flower
going from seed to blossom
in a second or seven

I looking down
from on high
as you pass by

under the bridge
you " no bigger
than your head"

that line from Lear
a chestnut red
flowing over your shoulders

you the only one
with head uncovered
everyone else

suddenly become
an umbrella
with legs

a river of people flowing
down the street
like different coloured leaves

and you look up
and even from this distance
of several

years or more
your smile
the only thing

I see. . .
Death
unable

to take
that
from me


*

Westron wynde, when wylt thow blow
The smalle rayne downe can rayne?
Cryst yf my love were in my armys
And I yn my bed agayne!
Sep 2024 · 55
SHORE LEAVE
Donall Dempsey Sep 2024
SHORE LEAVE

the sea louder in the dark
throwing off its shackles
walking into town

mystified seagulls
flying over with a caw
a sea no longer there

a tram screeching
on its points
the sea jumps aboard

the sea sat at the bar
somehow getting its vast bulk
perched upon a high stool

the sea enjoying the karaoke
singing along to The Honeydrippers
eating bag after bag of peanuts

"Have ye no beds to go home to!"
barks a barman
his belly slopping over his belt

the sea happy
to escape itself
even for the time being

drunk on being
human if only for a while
the sea staggers back to the shore

*

I don't think this really happened at all. I think the sea got drunk on the idea of being a person...what it would be like to be human...and fell asleep under a witching moon and dreamed the whole kit and caboodle. It did seem like it enjoyed the experience though.
Sep 2024 · 90
MISS PRUFROCK REGRETS
Donall Dempsey Sep 2024
MISS PRUFROCK REGRETS

in the loo
the women come and go
talking of Michael & "Oh...Angelo!"

knickers down around
her ankles
she pees& weeps...weeps&pees

her running mascara
turning her into
a giant panda

she tries to put
her smile back on
the Shady Lady lipstick breaks

her mouth
a jagged ****
making her a scary clown

she locks her self
in her golden compact
it snaps at her fingers as it shuts

"Oh fu..fu...fu..!"
she bites her bottom lip
endeavouring not to( "Feckit!" )swear

the loo door opens
she can hear THE MERE MAIDS
singing...singing

"Come with me my love
to the sea
the sea of love..."

the loo door closes
THE MERE MAIDS fade
"oh oh oh...oh. . . OH!"

her friends come to
powder their noses
***** about her

she stops peeing
in mid-flow
a solitary tear trickles over her nose

their vicious laughter
stabs at her heart
their cruelly coloured chatter

"And her dress that
trails along the floor..."
And this...&...so much more

"And ah ha ha when
she spilled the yogurt over her
shirt...skirt!"

"It looked like someone
had ohhhhhhh
come all over her!"

"I know...I know
I almost wet
myself!"

"How her hair is
growing thin"
a squeal of high pitch giggles

"And her arms and legs as well!"
these her friends
putting the knife in

"She's such a bore!"
her best friend chimes in
"Et tu Bunty?"

they leave en masse
the many headed
beast

THE MERE MAIDS
are murdering
Kylie's CAN'T GET YOU OUT OF MY HEAD

I have measured out
my life in facebook friends
do I dare...delete them?

And do I dare...
go back in...greet them
false face to false faces

in the lamplight
her upper lip downed with
light brown hair

I am..yes...I am
that cockroach
scuttling across these toilet tiles

she pulls her knickers up
the elastic snaps
they fall to the floor

she steps out of them
sniffles...sniffs
tries to maintain a stiff upper lip

"Let us go then you & I..."
she tells her reflection
her reflection doesn't budge

"Just...what is it...about me!"
overwhelmed by her own
question

she prepares her face
the mirror
sniggers

she parts her hair behind
puts it up in bunches
smile...scowls

I know...I know...I am
almost at times ridiculous
almost at times...the Fool

she goes back into
the solitary confinement of
the toilet cubicle

smokes her last
crushed cigarette
flushes the **** down the loo

"Toilets is an anagram for T.S. Eliot!"
the scrawled graffiti informs her
she doesn't get it

lapses back into
her native lingo
"J'en ai marre d'en avoir marre!"

the Disco ball
tears the shadows and the souls
out of the dancers

THE MERE MAIDS are singing
'I'M TOO **** FOR MY CAT!"
her ****** friends sway together as one

Mademoiselle Prunella Prufrock
has left
the building

in the loo
the women come & go
talking of Michael & of "Oh...that Angelo!"
Donall Dempsey Sep 2024
JOURNEY
( for Seamus Heaney )


I, the only guy
in our yoga class

we cut short
our meditation

decanting ourselves
from the Samuel Beckett Room No. 2

to a room up above
to see you...be you.

Why man, you doth bestride
the narrow world like a Colossus

and we petty people
walk under your legs

and peep about
we like a crowd of cows

staring at an open five-bar-gate
on a frosty morning

heat rising from us
perspiration stains under oxters

when
an ordinary looking man ambles in

taking his time

looking like a kind uncle
from a long ago summer holiday

and then
you open your mouth

words dancing about in our heads
delighting the senses

and all my female yoga class
moan and groan

"Oh...I so want to...fk him!"

"Shhhhh..!" I shush 'em
"Listen...listen!!!"

I cut back the dogwood
to the bone

it throws its fecundity
about this August garden

as your death is
facebook'd thru

and I stop
to think of you

in the Samuel Beckett Room No. 2
and its orgasming females.

I see you
dig alongside me

dig down
through years of time

a passing nod to your da
peeling spuds with your ma

you laughing at me
telling you of the yoga-ites

"Ah, sure, they only
think they do!"

And in answer to a something
or other I had said:

"Everything takes time...even time
takes time!"

I grasp your hand
in mine

that shy smile
the sheer generosity of you

now you gone
on your last journey

I nod to you
you nod to me

and I cut back the dogwood
a little more.

*


I was only after becoming a bookseller and this was my first foray into the getting of books....some little press had the coup( Seamus was like God then )of publishing new poems in a little blue collection and the first poem was ALPHABETS. I fell in love with it and bought 20 signed copies. In the ensuing conversation I told him about the yoga class and he laughed at this sudden *** symbol he had to add to the icon status. I was full of admiration for the then new ALPAHBETS poem and he told me a poem's main ingredient was time...time for it to filter through....percolate...like rain through limestone. He was such...such a generous man and oh...that shy smile.
Over the years i gave away the books one by one to friends and now have only one last copy which I gave to Jan on meeting her. Fond memories.
Donall Dempsey Sep 2024
A BLACKBIRD CHIPS AWAY AT IT

here on the shore
of your death
only time between us

remember walking with you
in the last century
this century I walk alone

Time lends me sleep...dreams
I conspire to meet you there
together we outwit death

I assault the world
with my grief
embarrassed it turns away

the world
not big enough
to contain your death

I am bound
in a nutshell
even grief tires of me

happiness hurts
even for daring
just to be there

I don't forget you
I just can't
remember you as you are

happiness shushes me
'Hush...hush! ' it soothes
my guilty tears

an invincible sky
frozen silence
a blackbird chips away at it
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
"ALTHOUGH I FOUND HER THUS, WE DID NOT PART..."

the wind walks
about St. Mark's Square
stooping to ******

this and that man's hat
or slyly lift a lady's skirt
so that she drops

her purse with a curse
before chasing off
some offensive litter

a cat watches the evening
getting entangled in the magic
of a hurdy-gurdy man

who appears
to have stepped out of
a century other than our own

Venice and its passing
procession of pedestrians and cats
barely on the cusp of consciousness

this table I am
seated at is an island
of memory

and I am
shipwrecked
somewhere between

the present and a past
a wave slaps a gondola
as if it had told a ***** joke

about the filthy weather
and what a seagull
had said

I have brought you to Venice
because you have never been
your death has seen to that

one day
as the earth turned
away from the sun

you stepped off
into a greater
unknown

now I say: "See, sister
with my eyes
all the future you have missed

the moon landing
me - grown to be
this man

willing to share the world
with you always
I see the world for two

you shall exist
in the silence between
note and note word and word

puppets dance and laugh
show us ourselves for
whatever we are

all our gaudy follies
or brightly painted
foibles

a moon sits upon
a bridge as if it were
Humpty Dumpty his very self

the puppets now
half in-half out
of their many stickered

packing cases
look as if they
could run away when

the humans
aren't looking or
paying them no mind

even the hurdy-gurdy man
has stepped back into
the century he had come from

rain and a star
falling
falling. . .


*


Although I found her thus, we did not part,
  Perchance even dearer in her day of woe
Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show.         

  I can repeople with the past,—and of
  The present there is still for eye and thought,
  And meditation chastened down, enough;
  And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought;
  And of the happiest moments which were wrought         
  Within the web of my existence, some
  From thee, fair Venice! have their colors caught;
  There are some feelings time cannot benumb,
Nor torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb.

The beings of the mind are not of clay;
  Essentially immortal, they create
  And multiply in us a brighter ray
  And more beloved existence: that which Fate         
  Prohibits to dull life, in this our state
  Of mortal *******, by these spirits supplied,
  First exiles, then replaces what we hate;
  Watering the heart whose early flowers have died,
And with a fresher growth replenishing the void.

Lord Byron  - (From Childe Harold’s Pilgr
Aug 2024 · 41
WHEN THE REALITY RUNS OUT
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
WHEN THE REALITY RUNS OUT

The world is broken.
Like it is forever Monday.

One piece of reality doesn't
quite fit into another

piece of reality
a piano and an armchair

sitting on top of
a ******* tip

both wondering how
they had got here

as if they were
a discussion on

a TV
chat show

Springs sprung forth
from its tattered seat

the piano trying to smile
despite its broken teeth.

In the distance
a scarecrow semaphoring

abandon meaning
all ye who enter here.

This moment in time
without any time.

Sans this
Sans that.

The world runs out.
The pavement crumbles back into dust.

Scarecrow a crucified
Christ in a sunset.

A crow landing
on its shoulder

become now
the Cú Chulainn of Irish legend.

"If you want the world
to continue

please add more money..."

bleep bleep bleep bleep
Aug 2024 · 36
TOAST
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
TOAST

"FIRE. . .FIRE!"

The house was busily
burning down.

"Quick. . .quick!"
Mum screeched .

"Go fetch the marshmallows!"

I dashed back
into the inferno

& emerged
long minutes later

my eyebrows ablaze
my nostril hairs slightly singed

The fire had greedily gobbled up
all the marshmallows

for itself.

"****!" said Mum.
"****...****...****!"

slapping me
about the head

with...each...uttered
syllable.

"I managed to save a loaf
of Mother's Pride!"
I cried.

"It will have to go!"
sighed Mum.

And so, we had
some toast
Aug 2024 · 55
LIVING ON THE CEILING
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
LIVING ON THE CEILING

crisp white sheets
gleam white
I don't even know I'm dead

I'm on the ceiling
like an abandoned
Christmas balloon

the next tick of
the clock goes on with-
-out me

"Hey, it's...kinda groovy being
dead. .!"
an answer without a question

from my fly's eye view
I can see
the doctor has a growing bald spot

there's that nice new nurse
she's so cute
this is her first death

I can see her thinking
her words carved out of the air
"...don'tdiedon'tdiedon'tdie..."

Death is a free ride man
"...goin' all the way?///...sure am!"
"Hop in. . !"

"Ok, everyone stand back..!"
then the pain floods back &
I'm back...****...in this body

"Whoa...we nearly lost
you there good buddy!"
doc scratches his bald spot

the nice new nurse
her tears stop
half way down her cheek

I cursed my luck
I liked living
on the ceiling
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
"...A STRAIGHT LINE DRAWN CROOKEDLY INSIDE ME..."
( for David Olof Carney )

"Six months, if that...eh?"
inside the cancer
eating him cell by cell

life now
a death sentence
he couldn't live with it

"If it be now..."
Hamlet's solliquoy
comes to mind

in the car crash
his last laugh: "Thank you God!
You're a good sport!"

*

The title is taken from Alvaro De Campos aka Fernando Pessoa's  MARITIME ODE.

"But the song is a straight line drawn crookedly inside me.."

Curiously enough my friend Jan survived both the crash and the cancer. He thought he was dead on both accounts but would have preferred the car crash as a way to go.

But he pulled through at the last moment which as it happened wasn't his ...last moment. He fought bravely against his cancer and life still has its grip on him ten years down the road.

He's beginning to think he will never die. Don't know whether that's a good or a bad thing! But yes Jan lives on....long live Jan!
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
THE NOW AND THEN OF A DÓNALL BECOMING THE THIS AND THAT OF NEW NOW

me master of the trike
my own time machine
dashing from the past to a future

still always me
despite time gone
the time to come

still only me
with just a bit of time
added here...subtracted there

playing chicken
with the arcs of
my life's narrative

crashing into who I was
colliding with who
l will or. . . might be

*

Me dashing across the road at No. 31 O'Higgins Rd., on my trike and wearing my Dad's army hat. Les girls are sitting on the grass facing THE BATHS. My Dad has just probably come home and is inside kissing my Mam. I used to wait for cars to come and then dash across the road in a Russian roulette with my little life. But my trike and I were fast and survived these dare devil antics. The Military police were informed and asked me to desist in my trike thrills. I love the pile of bikes lounging around at the gate. That was the known mode of transport at the time...bikes and bikes and trikes!

They are sitting on the bank just across from the baths...me....I laugh death in the face....I think I'm untouchable...100 cars and counting....and I'm still not dead...I must be immortal!

As you can see although I was an immortal little boy...I didn't have a big head....that cap is nearly bigger than me.

I had a big mind and a small head back then...now...I've got a small mind and a big head!

The Maddens lived next door...Pete Madden was a lovely guy and ran the baths and only got slightly mad when we put a football through a window. Mrs. Madden was gorgeous and even as a little boy I was madly in love with her.

I love( still )the crusts off bread and she would cut all the crusts off her bread and give me a bag of crusts. I was in heaven and went around with a crust sticking out of my gob pretending it was a cigarette and I was a wise guy like Bogey making wisecracks and smoking crust-of-bread cigarettes.

Here's looking at me kid!

At least we'll always have the Curragh.
Aug 2024 · 86
THE BIG HAPPY EVER AFTER
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
THE BIG HAPPY EVER AFTER
( in ego Nursery Rhyme vixi )

she was one cool chick
dressed -  
très chic

she curved in all the right
places - if ya get my drift
her name was Miss Dumpty

claimed
her father Humpty
had been pushed - taken the fall

for some Mr. Big
and got his
I remembered the case

his smile was cracked...yoke all over
his face legs scrambled at an unnatural angle
the autopsy pics made me sick

said she had gone to
Sam ***** to dig up dirt
but no dice

Sam's paid..he's off the case
she spat the name out with
a thanks-for-nothing look

"So. I came to you.
See what you can do!"
"What's in it for me!"I smirked

"Me!" she clucked
in a Linda Darnellish way
turned out it was

Little Boy
would ya believe it
...Blue!

jealous of Humpty's
easy said-ness
and how he

got recited
more often than
Mr. B. Blue

Nursery Crime is
increasing
so they tells me

too many modern authors
making ***** parodies
or in the *****

Limericks Business
scaring the kiddies away
putting the frighteners on parents

me and Miss Dumpty?
we're going for the big happy
ever after!
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
AND THERE WAS ME WITHOUT AN I

Time dawdles
stretches out the crash
to an infinity of now

casually I watch the car
crash into my side
as if it were someone else's story

car runs red light
the crash about to happen
taking...its. . .( time )

I watch my door buckle
as if an invisible monster
wanted to eat its way to me

time...finally(stops):
I fade to black
karate chopped from luggage from the back

I drink up unconsciousness
thirsty for
the oblivion it brings

the world leaves me now
even my thoughts
don't even know me

I am no more
a me
without an I

"You knocked. . ?"
Death asks politely
"No..just...passing through!"

Life swims back to me
from a distant
horizon

"Hey!" shouts Life
"It's me!"
"Do I know you?" I ask
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
MONKEY IN A RED FEZ DANCING TO ABBA

I watch the children play
on a sunny Sunday in Rotterdam

like a stereotypical alien
studying humans.

Their cries rise and fall
like seagulls as they swing

sea-sawing or blurring into one
on a brightly coloured turnstile.

A man looking
like a badly drawn cartoon

turns the handle slowly  of
a broken down barrel *****.

A monkey in a red fez
dances on the end of a chain.

The barrel ***** spews out
everything from Abba to Franz Lehar.

The decrepit old man
and even more decrepit monkey

appear as if they have
stepped out of another century.

I am far from home.
The day is dying.

I read from my battered book
Hamsun's HUNGER.

It's lurid cover torn
half hanging on/off.

The park deserted now
as night steals its colours.

The last words of
of this the final chapter

are lost to me
swallowed by the dark.

The barrel ***** persists
the soundtrack to some forgotten film

The monkey's red fez
fallen at its feet.

The monkey blissfully
asleep.

The music caught
entangled in branches and  leaves.

I watch the yellow lights
blossom one by one.

Houses like cut-out silhouettes
an old stage set.

The last lines revealed
under a passing  lamp

"...where the windows shone so
brightly in every home..."

I laugh at such
a coincidence.

Leave the book on the bench
for some other me

to discover
when the sun comes up.

And return
to my space ship.
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
SLOVO LJUBAVI
(THE WORD OF LOVE)  

Here I am
nailed to this hated bed

with the bright shiny
nails of cancer.

Death smiles
& wants to take me

as his
bride

but I
remain unfaithful
to him

elope with life
(if only for this night)    

spending golden moments
as if there were no

tomorrow.

I fling my laughter
in his big stupid grinning face

as if he thinks
this is all a human is

a something to be
taken.

I hope to sneak out
when he is not looking

or looking the other way

before he discovers me
alive in your heart

(untouchable)    

my memory
safe in your memory

so that to **** me
he will have to **** you too.

So beware my friend
you will become

a marked man

& Death
cheated of my soul

will hunt you
down

and rip me from
your heart

to finish the job.

But I know
you will
hide me

hide me
among your words

little seeds
of me

that will propagate

so that Death
would have to **** the whole world.

I laugh to see
the little seedlings

of me
sprout in other

minds
other voices

see my laughter
blossom

on  a strange
tongue

unknown to me
but known

Death furiously
glaring.
Aug 2024 · 32
MURDERING HERSELF
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
MURDERING HER SELF

she felt like
her own understudy
who never gets to go on

oh how she hated
her public persona
could ****** herself

"Am I really this...
. . .shallow?" she cries
in the depths of her despair

"Oh how I wish I
could be anyone but me!"
she tells the mirror

she leaves her real self
still trapped in the mirror
became the self they all knew
Aug 2024 · 97
TEA BREAK EVERY OTHER DAY
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
TEA BREAK EVERY OTHER DAY

"Tea?" enquired
the Jabberwock
pleasantly

"Thanks awfully!"
smiled Alice politely
pleased to take a break

"One lump or
. . . two?"
growled the Jabberwock

"None, thank you very much!"
Alice replied
in her best mimsy voice

"I keep changing
dress sizes
these days!"

"Blueberry Bakewell ****?"
smirked the Jabberwock
mockingly

Alice shook her head
furiously
trying to rid herself of the thought

"Or maybe...."
beamed the Jabberwock
"Some Callooh! Callay! Cake!”

"Eh...ah...no - YES...FRABJOUS!"
Alice had no sooner
made up her mind but

she changed it again
as her mind kept
jumping around

"I keep hearing voices
. . .reciting me!"
burbled the Jabberwock

"What! You hearing them too!"
wondered Alice uffishly
"...how....curious?"

"And in languages unknown
'Fushigi no kuni no Aris.'
I can't even speak Anime!"

"And I seemed to be
made more and more of words?"
she stood awhile in thought

"Ok! Mr. Jabberwock...Miss Alice
curtain up in five please
a child is about to read you!"

"Well here we go
it's brillig again!"
whiffled Alice frumiously

"Maybe this time
I'll win perhaps?"
galumphed the Jabberwock

"Ha!" said Alice
"You wish...Ha!"
she haa'd again

and then the child
turned the page
and the poem appeared

for the first time
in her eyes
as new as forever

*


(ふしぎの国のアリス, Fushigi no Kuni no Arisu) is an anime adaptation of the 1865 novel Alice's Adventures in Wonderland which ran on the TV Tokyo network and other local stations across Japan from October 10, 1983 to March 26, 1984. The series was a Japanese-German co-production between Nippon Animation, TV Tokyo affiliate station TV Osaka, and Apollo Films. The series consists of 52 episodes, however, only 26 made it to the US.
In the English language, this series is generally overshadowed by the success of Disney's 1951 feature film version of the story; however, the anime series was quite popular in various European countries, in Israel, in the Philippines, in Latin America, in Iran, and in the Arabic-speaking world. The series was also dubbed into Hindi by the national film development board of India and telecast on Doordarshan in the early 1990s.

The language with the most editions of the Alice in Wonderland novels in translation is Japanese, with 1,271 editions.
This was inspired by the photographs on the set of Frankenstein which show the Monster and his creator having a *** and a cuppa and one could imagine somebody calling "Ok guys....back into the scene!" And Boris stops being Karloff and lumbers back into being the Monster whilst still chewing a Custard Cream. "Ok...action...,lights!"

So I also thought that the Jabberwock and Alice get breaks from being themselves in a fictional way until someone somewhere picks up the wonderful book and begins to read the famous poem. The Jabberwocky, his mouth stuffed full of Chocolate Bourbons as he lumbers after Alice and hopes that this time he will come out on tops...not realising he is doomed to fail time after time.
Aug 2024 · 68
AS THIS MOMENT THOU ART
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
AS THIS MOMENT THOU ART

The wood shavings curl &
curl to my father's voice

as he sings to the wood
releasing its scent

wave upon wave
of pine

crashing upon
this shore of summer

its morning long ago
forgotten.

This wood will shape shift
into a chair leg

dovetailing into
the song he sings

as the wood listens
to every syllable

as if his singing
coaxed into being

chair leg...window frame
stool or saddle.

"Oh believe me if all those
endearing young charms..."

and the wood swoons
to his planing

'''...that I gaze at so
fondly today."

Moore's melodies and pine
reaches back in time

to grasp
the moment

lost to my mind
but now returning

to its rightful place
as wood becomes chair leg

to my father's
singing.
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
TIME YOU WATCHED YOUR WEIGHT

"Hi!" smiled Helen
of Troy
"You're my kind of guy!"

"But you're dead!"
I stammered
"Have been - for some time !"

"Nothing a little
time travelling
can't put right!"

"I mean are you
for real?"
"Try me!" she said

"Right! Do I
sleep on the side
nearest the wall or wot?"

"Now wait just a minute!
You're a woman
made of words!"

"Hey don't be such
a shy boy. . .I'll
show you for sure!"

there was a loud bleeping
red lights flashing on
the time machine on her hip

"****!" she swore
"I didn't put enough
drachmas in!"

and before I could
give her some
she was gone

she never made it
back to my time
maybe it was for the best

she had a thing
for chips which she
ate and ate and ate

I even wrote a ditty
about her
chip eating habit

"Is this the face
that munched
a thousand chips ?"

ahhh the dangers
of overeating when
one is time travelling
Aug 2024 · 70
TRAFFIC CONTROL SYSTEMS
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
TRAFFIC CONTROL SYSTEMS

going 'round the bend
when Cúchulainn his very self
steps out and tells me to

"YIELD!"
or he would
set his wolfhounds on me

now when an ancient
mythological hero
commands one to yield

then one yields
with a squeal of brakes  
since the council

started to employ
old Irish heroes
from time long gone  

to deal with
wilful drivers
refusing to yield

"Ok ok Cúchulainn
keep yer helmet on!"
our hero snarls at me

"No backchat chap!"
I got out and pushed
the car around the bend

"****** demi god!"
I mumble
under my breath

Bran and Sceolaun
bared their teeth
and growled

"*** on with ya!"
Cúchulainn gave me a kick
I got on with me

*

An impressive Corten steel sculpture of Cúchulainn and his hounds. It is located on a roundabout at Ballymany, Newbridge in County Kildare and close to the Curragh Racecourse.  I'd encounter  it when rushing back to Dublin on the leaving of The Land of Ire.

He waved his Gáe Bulg at me, meaning "spear of mortal pain/death", "gapped/notched spear", or "belly spear." Jaysus!

I wasn't going to wait if he was going to go into one of his spectacular ríastrad ( transformative battle frenzies).I had seen one before and didn't want to see another!

"The first warp-spasm seized Cúchulainn, and made him into a monstrous thing, hideous and shapeless, unheard of. His shanks and his joints, every knuckle and angle and ***** from head to foot, shook like a tree in the flood or a reed in the stream. His body made a furious twist inside his skin, so that his feet and shins switched to the rear and his heels and calves switched to the front... On his head the temple-sinews stretched to the nape of his neck, each mighty, immense, measureless **** as big as the head of a month-old child... he ****** one eye so deep into his head that a wild crane couldn't probe it onto his cheek out of the depths of his skull; the other eye fell out along his cheek. His mouth weirdly distorted: his cheek peeled back from his jaws until the gullet appeared, his lungs and his liver flapped in his mouth and throat, his lower jaw struck the upper a lion-killing blow, and fiery flakes large as a ram's fleece reached his mouth from his throat...the hair of his head twisted like the tangle of a red thorn bush stuck in a gap; if a royal apple tree with all its kingly fruit were shaken above him, scarce an apple would reach the ground but each would be spiked on a bristle of his hair as it stood up on his scalp with rage."

The use of mythical heroes for traffic control was soon dropped as more motorists were killed by him as were killed in crashes. It was hard to get him to go back in the book!

Completed in March 2010, the sculpture by Lynn Kirkham cost €45,000 (paid for out of profits from Newbridge Town’s car parking fees) and the figures are made of Corten steel which has turned ‘rust-like’ over the years adding time and weather to its making.
Aug 2024 · 61
AND I WAVE BACK
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
AND I WAVE BACK

Outside the hatch
he turns slowly

and talks

but I can't make out
the words he says

they fall from his lips
dangle and float in space

outside the backyard fence
a hill grabs the moon

and then slowly
lets it go again

the moon floating just
out of reach

laughs; 'Go on...do that again! '
the hill smiles: 'Just you wait... just you wait! '

the moon beams
as a little bird

gingerly(as if at first unsure)
steps out into space

and then
finds flight
take hold of it

as if
it had only discovered it that minute

and absconds with
the darkness

barks

and falls
into silence

and then another part
of the darkness

barks back

held
in a gentleness

a leaf tiptoes
down the breeze

as if descending
a spiral staircase

Time holds
its breath

outside
the hatch

flat on his back
the earth a little blue ball he has let go of

the astronaut

slowly turns
and waves

& I
wave back.
Aug 2024 · 60
TALKING TO THE DEAD
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
TALKING TO THE DEAD

she traces the ogham
with a tiny fingertip

dead stone
living lichen.

"And the man who made this is
. . .dead?"

"Ohhh long before the long long ago!"

"If I stretched my voice out into a shout...
. . .would he hear me?"

"No, love. . .
silence would

swallow your words."

"Even his ghost is
. . .dead?"

"Even his ghost is
. . .dead!"

I teach her her
name in Ogham.

She traces it with a stick
in the sand.

The long dead ghost
smiles at her efforts.

His voice stretches into a shout
that reaches my little girl's hand.

Her hand listens
to the invisible voice.

He teaches her.
She resurrects him.

Both of them living
in this one moment.

*

Ogham is an alphabet that appears on monumental inscriptions dating from the 4th to the 6th century AD, and in manuscripts dating from the 6th to the 9th century. It was used mainly to write Primitive and Old Irish, and also to write Old Welsh, Pictish and Latin. It was inscribed on stone monuments throughout Ireland, particuarly Kerry, Cork and Waterford, and in England, Scotland, the Isle of Man and Wales, particularly in Pembrokeshire in south Wales.

The name Ogham is pronounced [ˈoːm] or [ˈoːəm] in Modern Irish, and it was spelt ogam and pronounced [ˈɔɣam] in Old Irish. Its origins are uncertain: it might be named after the Irish god Ogma, or after the Irish phrase og-úaim (point-seam), which refers to the seam made by the point of a sharp weapon. Ogham is also known as or ogham craobh (tree ogham) beth luis fearn or beth luis nion, after the first few letters.

Ogham probably pre-dates the earliest inscriptions - some scholars believe it dates back to the 1st century AD - as the language used shows pre-4th century elements. It is thought to have been modelled on or inspired by the Roman, Greek or Runic scripts. It was designed to write Primitive Irish and was possibly intended as a secret form of communication.

While all surviving Ogham inscriptions are on stone, it was probably more commonly inscribed on sticks, stakes and trees. Inscriptions are mostly people's names and were probably used to mark ownership, territories and graves. Some inscriptions in primitive Irish and Pictish have not been deciphered, there are also a number of bilingual inscriptions in Ogham and Latin, and Ogham and Old Norse written with the Runic alphabet.

On a pilgrimage to Glendalough and we stopped off to have a pint at a pub in Hollywood, Wicklow where in that pub a burnished copper ogham was on the wall...this sparked the poem. With a poem ya just never know where y'are going and you just go along for the ride and memory does the rest along with a bit of wrestling with words...those pesky vairmants.
Aug 2024 · 41
CIRCA 1922
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
CIRCA 1922

touching
almost but not
quite

they lie together
exactly
6 centimetres apart

if one were to
measure
such a distance

but a universe apart
in terms of
the heart

they have just
made love
or rather - had ***

now he snores
she unable
to sleep

she stays awake to see
the dawn enter
the tiny room

gild ordinary objects
with a sunlight
so golden

even a comb,
a brush
a chair

become as wondrous
as objects
in a Pharaoh's tomb

and only then does sleep
finally takes her
prisoner

standing on
the threshold
of a dream

she sees some
future archaeologist
unearth the golden comb

brush...chair...
the thoughts in her
head

her feelings
behind glass
in some museum

of the mind
"Despair"
circa 1922
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
MORE SCARECROWS THAN YOU COULD SHAKE A STICK AT

a scatter of scarecrows
having a chat outside the door
in the cabbage patch

I'd never seen more
than one at a time
seven stunned the senses

gentlemen scarecrows
lady scarecrows
discussing "...whether the weather'll 'old!"

a crowd of scarecrows
catching up on
what's new...what's not

scarecrows sitting silently
in the back of the green lorry
lost in thought

we deposit all our scarecrows
each to their own fields
let them get on with their work


*


They were all scattered about the place...some lying on the ground senseless to the world....others propped up against a wail as if they had imbibed whatever it is that scarecrows imbibe. There was a distinct whiff of hops and barely off of them and they all had silly grins on their faces.
One gentleman scarecrow was actually lying on top of a lady scarecrow( I know I know not very gentlemanly )and both of them smiling their faces off.

Because of this scattering of their persons I decided that the collective noun for them( I know not what it is?)would be a scatter of scarecrows. But you may be more up on the ways and naming of scarecrows and so may be able to render a solution as to what we may call them when a group of them are gathered together...thus. It was a French field and the farmer was the maker of scarecrows for the other farmers. They all wore distinguished clothing and no two were alike and all had personalities of their own.

So maybe it should be a French word that binds them together?
...une dispersion des épouvantails...
...un embrayage d'épouvantails...
....un lambeau d'épouvantails...

Despite this when I demanded that they talk( and as their poet representative on this earth )I had them talk in a West Country accent.
Maybe they were English scarecrows on a busman's holiday so to speak!
Aug 2024 · 50
A CLOCK TICKS
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
A CLOCK TICKS

A clock
...ticks.

A vase
reflects upon itself

in an enormous ornate
gilt mirror

admires
her own flowers

& how they are
arranged.

A fire
spits sparks

sending shadows
scuttling up walls.

A coal scuttle
is either half empty/half full.

A clock
strikes nine
&... chimes

slightly ahead of
the real time.

.A picture
quaint & antique

hangs slightly askew
against the horrid

wall paper
& its unattractive roses.

A record
(an old shellac 78)    

has found a scratch
&  keeps returning to it

picking at the musical phrase
like a scab.

Caruso’s... got...  got... hiccups.

One mirror
gazes into the face
of another mirror.

Both enamoured
of the other

seeing only
themselves.

An un-drunk cup of tea
cools steadily

leaving a thin skin
on top.

A sugar lump
has come to rest

on a small
Turkish carpet

depicting
the delights of Paradise.

A moth falls madly in love
with an old flame

but it soon fizzles
out.

The only thing living
in this room

is an old tattered tortoiseshell
cat asleep

by her master’s
stockinged feet

so deep
she hasn’t even heard

Death
enter
&
leave.

A clock
...ticks.
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
MY FAVOURITE STAR TREK EPISODE

Here
in this constellation

of a kitchen
that exists

only in its own
long ago

I create
worlds

bravely going
where every boy

has gone before

the clothes horse
becoming my Starship Enterprise

clothes turn into
Klingons

the roar of the range
my engines

that "canna take it Capn'!"

the whistle of a kettle
enemy fire on my starboard bow

whilst in the other dimension
of an attic

my mother misses her step
as first one leg and

then another
crashes through

the ceiling
Warp Factor 9

plaster and debris
attacking my clothes horse Enterprise

as her yelp
of help

opens on
all channels

and me Da
quick as Mr. Spock

rescues her
just as

Star Trek
begins

on our little
black & white

T.V.
How...

...illogical?
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
O FORTUNA!
("You Will Become Yourself")

She's three.
A distinct reek of Old Spice!

"And who's been splashing on
my aftershave!"

I growl in my best
Daddy Bear voice.

"Me...me!"
she answers in her best George Washington.

"Mummy's perfume
smells yucky sweet!"

She a good judge of smell
this little girl.

What is...what isn't nice
sides with the Old Spice.

"So. Are we right then?"
I ask.

We go for a walk.
The cat on the leash.

Because.
We haven't got a dog.

And so we head off.
Dad, cat and little girl.

The cat none too pleased
at "What's that meow smell!"

Old Spice
not for cats.

Only for
Dads and daughters.

*

Old Spice is the smell of my Dad...it is forever him.... deeply ingrained in the olfactory memory of many generations...the essence of childhood thus becoming an archetypal perfume that stands for all things that he meant...safety, warmth, and security.
It was what I always gave him as a birthday and Christmas present....saving up all my pennies to be able to do so and foregoing chocolate and sweeties all during the year. My mum on the other hand
was always the equally iconic 4711. I still have both in my bathroom even now...how Proust like!
So it was odd to pass it on to...my daughter.
Her mum said it always reminded her of a Mexican drink called Horchata de arroz which is flavoured with the Aztec Marigold. and made her feel drunk even if she hadn't imbibed.
Darling daughter said it smelt of mummy's potpourri on the coffee table.
Oh and of... Daddy.
Old Spice was founded in New York by William Lightfoot Schultz in 1934. He was a soap and toiletries maker, and his first fragrance was, ironically, a woman’s scent: Early American Old Spice.
It is said that Shultz was inspired by his mother’s rose jar when creating this early version of Old Spice. A rose jar usually held a moist potpourri of rose petals, spices and herbs in a base of salt to preserve them. Those notes can still be detected in Old Spice’s products to this day. This perfume was released in 1938 to great acclaim, and he followed it with some men’s products in time for Christmas sales at the end of the year.
Although the original scent of classic Old Spice has most likely changed with time and reformulation (as a number of fragrances do), it still retains its primary scent profile, and it could be argued that it represents its own classification. Unlike many other men’s scents that fall easily into labels like fougère, leather or musk, Old Spice brought carnation, pimento, nutmeg and cinnamon to the forefront, omitting some of the classic men’s notes of pine, vetiver and lavender. This iconic mixture summoned up images of seafaring explorers and adventure, but the image and reality were often the same: Old Spice found its way wherever American G.I.’s were stationed during and after the war, and this helped to influence its proliferation around the globe.

As James the first of Aragon was supposed to have said in his best Valencian: "Açò és or, xata!" ("That's gold, pretty girl!")
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
DEATH IS A MIRROR LEAKING LIGHTNING

Death is
a mirror
leaking lightning

Time alters
to fit
around the fact

the sunlight
empties itself
of warmth

merely picks out
the world
as if the effort hurt

Time unpicks
stitch by stitch
Life’s rich embroidery

a constellation
comes
to comfort m

it hovers
awkwardly
above my pain

unable
to comprehend
its tiny immensity

I have become
the rabbit
staring at me from a trap

watching the world
erase itself
second by second

two crows
perch upon
your tombstone

gossiping
about how
the world comes and goes

I throw angry words
at them and they caw
off intoan empty sky

a marble
angel & I
standing sentinel

the marble angel
trying not to
cry

*

That last long long telephone conversation...three hours then my phone ran out and he called me back for another three hours. One of the topics was...what lightning is, and what it can do and the superstitions that grow up about it.

People covered all the mirrors in their house when a person died or because they can “catch and reflect” lightning.  "Mirrors leak lightning." it was believed.  It was thought that lightning can behave like light and be reflected. Lightning of course is not light, but a raw, electrical charge.

The phrase "leak lightning" really struck me and I hadn't heard it before.

As a electrician he was able to tell me in detail what lightning was and does!  All the technical stuff I can no longer remember but everything said in that last telephone conversation has now taken on life of its own..
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
OF ALL THE KISSES IN ALL THE WORLD, SHE HAS TO WALK INTO MINE!

I kissed you in
Islip & Liss
then once again in

Syathling
Shipton
& Pershore

where ever I kissed you
I only ever wanted to
kiss you more

I kissed you in
Amberly
& Arundel

once I kissed you in
Swale
& Sway

I kissed you all over
in many various places
that I cannot remember today

I only remember
the kisses
scattered

all over England
refusing
to fade away

*

These are all the beautiful names of little towns and villages in southern England. To my English Jan they were just names but to an Irishman unacquainted with them...they were magical sounds that opened the portals to worlds and love unknown. As we toured the area I did indeed kiss her in all these various places...indeed I cannot conceive of a time or a place in which we were not engaged in the art and craft of kissing. The magic of the kisses and the magic of the names cross pollinated and bloomed into the world of this poem. I still love saying this poem as it allows my lips to kiss once again those beautiful sounds and to kiss the lips that I loved to kiss. They refuse to...fade away. My heart held in Swale and Sway...as if it were today.
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
DONALL DEMPSEY HAS LEFT THE POEM!

this...this Blue Plaque
business is
distressing to say the least

and rather intrusive
don't you
think?

I mean
when
did it all start?

DONALL DEMPSEY...THIS!
DONALL DEMPSEY...THAT!
I mean...who cares?

HERE IS THIS HOUSE
DONALL DEMPSEY
WROTE...

DONALL DEMPSEY
LIVED HERE
WHILST WRITING...

maybe it's a Government
tracking
device

DONALL DEMPSEY
PAUSED HERE FOR THOUGHT!
(no! I ****** didn't!)

whatever I do it seems
a blue plaque is more
than willing to tell you

time was when
they waited until one
was sufficiently

dead and famous
to commemorate
one's efforts

at living
and Life
but now: holy cow!

when I got back home
I found "home"
had just been turned into

( yes you've guessed it)
THE DONALL DEMPSEY
MUSEUM

I even had to
pay( God help me)
to get in

"If your'e Donall Dempsey
( 'the' Donall Dempsey )
then I'm Schrödinger's ****** cat !"

the crowd all laughed at that
but I did get a concession
for being old and decrepit

there was a sign
telling me not to
sit in my favourite chair

and they had gotten
their...I mean my
facts wrong

I had written this...before...that
I looked at the manuscript
of this poem

the usual scribble scrawl
made more precious
by being preserved under glass

it was like being in an episode
of  THE TWILIGHT ZONE.
I glanced up at the Blue Plaque

positioned just
as it happens
above my curly confused head

HERE DONAL DEMPSEY
...refused any more to be
part of all this and

left
the poem
yes folks...

DONALL DEMPSEY
HAS LEFT
THE POEM

DONALL DEMPSEY
HAS LEFT
THE POEM
Aug 2024 · 47
THEM BLOODY DAFFS
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
THEM ****** DAFFS!

"Ah...howya!"
said the ink blot
throwing itself

all over my copy book.
"Jaysus...wait 'til

yer teacher sees this!"
it chortled
proud as punch with itself

I stare at it
in an almost
total disbelief

my bladder
clamours
to be relieved

I...squeeze
my knees
together

King Blot bloated with
its own self
importance

has totally obliterated
the last word I
have penned

"I wandered
lonely as a
. . .!"

teacher snaps it up
with great glee
holding it between

thumb & forefinger
with mock disgust
& real contempt

"So, Dempsey...ya
wandered lonely as...
. . .an ink blot!"

the class sniggers
( glad it's me - not them ).
teacher glowers them into silence

"Yes...yes...Sir!"
I whimper &
suddenly seeing a loop hole

( I dive )into it )
"It's...it's...show
not tell. . .Sir!"

his glasses flash
smile becomes
sneer

"COME...HERE...BOY!"
he enunciates clearly
each syllable

chiseled into
an awed
and awful silence

the cane cuts
through the air
the class winces

the tips
of my fingers
scream in agony

I dance a hornpipe
of pain palms tucked
under my oxters

"Them ****** daffodils!"
I groan moaning
through my growing tears

my fingers yelling
fluttering and dancing
in their private pain
Aug 2024 · 36
IT’S YOU? ISN’T IT?
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
IT’S YOU? ISN’T IT?

Facebook messages me
to phone home as soon

as possible.

Our home phone is down.
Other phones just ring and ring.

Or lead me up a cul-de-sac
of leaving a message

to a ghostly  mechanical
voice.

Messages answering messages.
No actual real live people involved.

Finally I do
what I should have done

all along
((((((( call you.))))))

So, I do.

“Hiya Bud, can you call me?
Something bad seems to have happened!
Get back to me as soon as you can!”

You do not call back.

You lie there not
listening to me.

You never get back
to me.

Never will.

It’s you?
Isn’t it?

The bad thing that has
happened?

Death listening at the end of the line.

Saying not a word.

*

The sheer horror of it all as the impossible happens and the last person I could imagine dying...does so....the one person of calm strength that one would turn to: and. . .
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