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291 · May 2016
AH TRUTH...THAT LIAR!
Donall Dempsey May 2016
AH TRUTH...THAT LIAR!

"Ah Truth...
...that liar!'

He felt released
from time

as if he had escaped
the moment he

had found finally
him self.

the heart attack
held the door open

politley ( so it seemed )
for him

& Death
slammed it shut.

"I am busy dying..."
he thought nonchalantly.

"Time was away &
somewhere else. . ."

as Louis had somewhere said
in his long ago childhood.

His face now
whiter than the page

his lips a purple
that frightened.

Lady Death's kiss
an exquisite bliss.

"No...not yet...not yet!"
she whispered in his ear

returning him
to himself.

This now
the grand pain.

Who was it
who said?

"I am...myself still
though the world were

turned the wrong
side out."

as if soliloquising
upon a stage

trapped in a cone
of light

out of which he
can not break out.

"Ah, Truth...
. . .that liar!"


The joy of having a heart attack
is  ...surviving it enough to be able to write about it. The revenge of the words! How dare the poet's body go against him!

Who was it said? Why that was Sir William Cornwallis the Younger England’s first essayist in the style of Montaigne. He was the first to write a substantial book of “familiar” essays with the critical consciousness of working within a new vernacular prose genre that showed a human making his identity from doubt doubt and being prepared to question the who of what he was.

The title of the poem is me attempting a mock Shakespearean line in which the truth of my dying is exposed by the fact that I live to tell the tale.

FINAL SCORE

POET 1 - HEART ATTACK O
Donall Dempsey Jun 2018
". . .THE WONDROUS ARCHITECTURE OF THE WORLDE. . "

I laugh
the road over the Hog's Back
closed because....it melted

was the sun ever so
back in your day
eh Kit?

and what do I read
Mr. Marlowe?
why words, Kit, words

that word magician
Dr. Burgess he presumes
to bring you back

to life again
and so it seems
I see your blood Kit

streaming in the firmament
nay only a Deptford sunset
dragged screaming from memory

your blood upon the page Kit...
mere cherry juice it
stains the words

and so to Deptford I
do go
thanks to Madame Remembrance

I a poor
purveyor of poetry
clutching at words

and here
a great reckoning
not  in a little room

but on a lost street
staining the scene
a sickly yellow

and so enough
of Prologue...
Act 1 begins

a smiling ruffian
see his knife smiles too
the blade eager for blood

alas I
in so much pain I
have no fear of death

indeed would welcome
the flicked knife
if it would release me

from my life
a man prepared
to die if it be so

"Come live with me and be
my love..." I doth quote
in my best Passionate Shepard

"Wot?" he wots
scared of my insouciance
the ghost of Marlowe by my side

ahhh he the very villian
a scar from eye to smile
he aims to do the same to me

"Where, rogue... did
they get thee?" I mock
"VILLIANS 'R' US?"

Marlowe's ghost laughs
"Aye lad...aye lad
to him!"

"Only one of us..."
I warn my hellhound
"....will come out of this alive!"

I pause for effect
"And I'm afraid
it won't be( hee hee ) thee!"

I take a determined step
towards my would-be
now trembling killer

who all this wordage
being too much for him
he flees

ahhh the glint of words
defeats the glint of steel
he my would-be-not-to-be-death

"What God or Feend, or spirit of the earth,
Or Monster turned to manly shape
Or of what mould or mettle he be made...?"

I declaim to an audience
of cats and cans and
other streetly filth

I...I. . .unable to
find the next line
and so I etc., etc., etc.

and once more
I am of Guildford yet again
30 years or more away

and there melts a road
upon the Hog's Back
and I laugh to be alive

"Doth teach vs all to have aspyring mindes:
Our soules, whose faculties can comprehend
The wondrous architecture of the worlde.."
290 · Nov 2016
KISSING FOR THE MOON
Donall Dempsey Nov 2016
KISSING FOR THE MOON

Full moon in Sorrento
witnessing our kiss

amazed(envious)        
of this...our human love

and the power
of it

Trying to shed some light
on the secrets

our hands
tell
each other's bodies.

The moon muses
to itself

loud enough
for us to overhear:

'****! I wish I
could do that! '

Shine on moon...shine on!

We'll kiss for you!
Donall Dempsey Jan 2016
THE ONLY WAY OF LOOKING AT A BIRD
( for Glyn Pope )

she looked at the bird
with all of her self

as if by some alchemy
of thought

she flew into
its shape

as it became the air
her mind opening

its wings
to the sky

the house now
a little blue egg

far far below her
her voice curving

into a beak
that flung its being

into the song
of self

scrawled across
a sky

becoming sunset
so that

becoming human
again

was a grief
that could only be

expressed
in birdsong.
289 · Dec 2024
HIS VOICE IN WORDS
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
HIS VOICE IN WORDS

It was a sunny day
in Wales

as it can only be
in picture postcards.

It was pinned
above her bed

but with the picture side
facing the wall

as if she had turned away
from that scene a long long time ago.

I had only ever
seen it once

(when she was asleep
I took a peek)

a scrawl of words
told her that it loved her

in a fadey violet ink

that could now barely be
discerned.

The postcard itself
as fragile as a leaf.

“Don’t turn it! ”
she pleaded in panic.

“I like to see his voice
in words! ”

running her fingertips
over his I LOVE YOU!

letting it speak
to her

from the fragile fading past

letting it speak
to her

even from beyond
his death.
289 · Feb 2016
BECOMING HIS DAUGHTER
Donall Dempsey Feb 2016
BECOMING HIS DAUGHTER

She grasps the air
with her new born

fist
as if

she were stuffing
it down

her own throat
before letting it

circulate within her
until it became her

and then using
her new found voice

let out a great shout.

This cry
is me.

And so, was born
a father at that very

moment
holding her

in his palms
as if she were water

her wail
altering the very

molecules
of the air & how

he could now
never be

the same again ever

since she had decided to be
his daughter.
289 · Sep 2017
NISI...become. . . ABSOLUTE
Donall Dempsey Sep 2017
NISI...become. . . ABSOLUTE

early summer falls across
the lawn...the trees
the bars of a cage

sunlight and shadow
our jailers
our own good selves

and we
the prisoners
of this summer's day

"Shall I compare thee to.."
I laugh to myself
no...I guess not

we forever imprisoned
in sunlight and shadow
an image made real

memory holds us here
trapped in this conceit
sentenced to be who we could never be

and so we sat until
sunlight relinquished
its hold over the world

and so we sat until
darkness swallowed us whole
only our voices visible

only our vices invisible
as always
each the murderer of the other

now no longer
man & wife
I glimpse my face in a fish knife

the decree nisi
still tucked behind
the ormolu clock

the divorce
still eats at my soul
this piece of paper mocking me

and now
the decree absolute
we sit down to our last supper

the cat devours
( I don't tell you that )
the fresh trout

the fresh trout
all dressed up in its dish
like a sacrifice

I shoo the cat away
it snarls at me
"Ticktock!" laughs the clock ormoluly

the cat looks at me
with disdain...scorn
licks lovingly its *****

I cut the cat-chewed bit away
serve up with a too rich sauce
the unseen incident not noticeable

and so after all
I still serve you
before me

you smile your smile
say we should have
"...maybe stayed together after all..?"

too late now I think
to recall
the people we used to be

we different people now
"Time doesn't heal..!" I think
"...Time's a heel!" I secretly smile

I pass the port
a crumb of Stilton still stuck
charmingly upon her chin

"The sunlight on the garden
hardens and grows cold."
I quote MacNeice to the parrot

"We can not catch its minutes..."
the parrot continues and I finish
"...within its nets of gold."

memory still holds me
prisoner in that garden
I watch her taxi pull away

the taxi turns the corner
blinks a right turn
and is gone

back in the kitchen
I let the cat finish
my untouched trout

I flambé the decrees
both nisi and absolute
watch us go up in smoke
Donall Dempsey Oct 2023
L'AMOUR DE TROIS ORANGES
(LOVE FOR THREE ORANGES )


frozen lake
the moon
going: "O"

the clock
preaching to me
in a voice like Time

I escape to memory
the clock now
nothing but a distant dot

moon
looking in the big window
smiling upon the humans

the shouts
of midnight skaters
the hiss of ice

an empty room
an empty night
ticking of a clock

whistles Prokofiev
the dog barks in time
he winds up the clock
289 · Jul 2015
THE TREE IS TEACHING ME
Donall Dempsey Jul 2015
The tree
is teaching me

the beauty
of its blossom

that it is not enough
to notice or like it

but that I must
love it.

The tree is preaching
to the converted

but I listen politely

as both branch and blossom
write their signature

upon this
Parisian evening.

I sit and sip
absinthe

watching myself
in the hall of mirrors

that this cafe
provides

as if all the people
that I've been

have come
to celebrate

this birthday.

I watch past selves
observe this self

I've come
to be

and hope
that they are happy

with
me.
289 · Jun 2016
PARALLEL LINES DO NOT MEET.
Donall Dempsey Jun 2016
PARALLEL LINES DO NOT MEET.

-

-

Happiness...is not...a mathematical formula
that one can apply to supply an answer.

Rather...it is the sum of who you are
multiplied by who you are willing to be.

Happiness...like Mathematics
is something I was never ever any good at

& always made me weep
with equal parts

Desperation
Exasperation

&
Frustration.

Or, D.E.F.
for short.

For example:

If it took a man a lifetime
to dig himself into a hole

how long would it take
for half the man he used to be

to dig himself out again?

Questions – such as this
only caused me grief...

In Mathematics(like Latin)            
which I could also never know

I would cheat & repeat
words full of sound & no sense.

E.g.

The cares of the hippopotamus
are equal to some of the cares
that the other two hippopotami confide.

Happiness...like Mathematics
was all Greek to me.

I don’t know...that’s all I know.

But I do know that...
Happiness happens

every now...& then...

the only trick
is to be aware that it’s there & that...

Parallel Lines do meet...

...at Infinity

Q.E.D.
Donall Dempsey Aug 2016
"DELIRIUM FLAPPING ITS THIGH-BONES!"
SHOUTS AUNTIE GRIZELDA

It was said
( though never to her face )

that Aunt had given
her maidenhead too eagerly easily

- away.

But being underwhelmed
by the whole process

gave it up as
a bad lot and

became instead a faux
maiden aunt.

Her world intact.

Unlike other ladies she
smoked a pipe.

Her beloved Maigret
so permeated with pipe smoke that

one could never read them
a minute or more before

succumbing to the smell.

Her books death to the non-smoker.

It also served to preserve her
for far more than her natural

span &
it came as a great surprise

that she could ever die but
...die she did.

The hyacinths in bowl after bowl
wondering where she had gone

and why the dusting had not been
done.

A great silence
filling up the room.
Aunt Grizelda would often recite Amy Lowell's poem and would use this phrase when she wanted to curse without cursing. If you heard this Lowell  then you knew she was mad!


This is the end of the first movement of her STRAVINSKY'S THREE PIECES

Aunt Grizelda would often recite Amy Lowell's poem and would use this phrase when she wanted to curse without cursing. If you heard this Lowell  then you knew she was mad! An old old man with the silverest of hair told me about his aunt 'cos he saw I was reading about the Imagists. I would have loved to have encountered her.

"Bang! Bump! Tong!
Petticoats,
Stockings,
Sabots,
Delirium flapping its thigh-bones;
Red, blue, yellow,
Drunkenness steaming in colours;
Red, yellow, blue,
Colours and flesh weaving together,
In and out, with the dance,
Coarse stuffs and hot flesh weaving together.
Pigs' cries white and tenuous,
White and painful,
White and --
Bump!
Tong!"
288 · Oct 2024
THE ONE ABOUT...
Donall Dempsey Oct 2024
THE ONE ABOUT...

"Did you hear the one about..."
Death's
already laughing

"...a fireman, a butcher & a janitor
walked into a War..."
Death loves to tell this joke

Sometimes Death changes the details
"...a guy from Omaha, Ohio & Nebraska
walked into a War..."

"...and the shell fell into
the hole they were cowering in..."
Death cracks up

"...an 18 year old & two guys of twenty
walked into a War. . ."
"Wot's yer poison?" Death snickers

"...some guys called Sam, Hank & Frank
walked into a bar in a War and
they don't ever ever walk out..."
287 · Sep 2018
OG
Donall Dempsey Sep 2018
OG
OG

'...og! '

You command
the language

&
it

obeys you.

Providing you
with a dog.

A sleepy dog
who when he hears you

wakes up
trundles over to you

slumps
at your feet

& then
goes back to sleep.

You
the Queen of Words.

'Ahhhh...og! '

you stroke
the word

& it obeys
your every whim.

'Dog! '
I say.

He opens an eye
&...looks away

as if to say:
'Who's him...then? '

Ahhhh....my little cave girl
I love

your little explorings
of the tongue

and how
the world comes

when it is bidden.

'Dada! '
you pronounce

& I
too

come at once
tied to

the invisible string
of your

voice.
287 · Nov 2017
MANY MOONS AGO
Donall Dempsey Nov 2017
MANY MOONS AGO

"Ahhhhhh...!"
she ahhhhhs.

"Another one!"

The moon doesn't let on
it's the same old moon.

"Moon gone....moon gone!"
she had cried in alarm

on becoming a watcher
of the skies.

Once her mind had latched on
to her idea of "moon"

she was relcutant
to let it go.

I watched my young ancient
see her hold a moon

in the palm
of her mind

for the very first time

observe her
come to the conclusion

that the new moon is
indeed a new moon.

She imagines all the other moons
hiding in the night.

Or maybe that stars are moons
that are dwindling out of sight.

Maybe this moon is the daughter
of the one that's gone before?

Or could this be a "son moon."

I smile as I see her
put one and one together

come up with 10 and a half.

I let her follow through
her thought.

She populates the sky
with many moons

before reluctantly letting them
all go

settles for a singular moon
that forever changes

its faces.

I too unwilling to let go
her night of many moons.

Rather sad that my mythical girl
has to settle for the knowledge of

the ages.

I enjoyed her
making the world

in her own image
the Goddess inside her

fading...fading.

When she has entered
the time of being

16 and three quarters

moon has long been
a single creation.

I smile at who
she was

creating a cosmos
with what

thought was
available to her.

She many moons
removed from her

first astronomical  self.

I laugh as she whistles
in stops and starts

"No Moon at all"
( the Julie London version )

dealing as she does
with differential calculus.

"See...?" she says
"...m equals change in y over change in x."

I unable to follow
where she goes.

The moon and I both
letting on

she is the same
little girl.
287 · Apr 2017
SPEED DATING
Donall Dempsey Apr 2017
SPEED DATING
One and...
she thinks with a strong
English accent but
acts decisively in Irish
Two and...
her clothing is a bit..eh...Zen
I could concur with what Saki says"
"Beauty is only...sin deep!"
Three and....
oh forget it...
go home...get into bed
with Proust
287 · Jan 2024
BEING IN THE WORLD
Donall Dempsey Jan 2024
BEING IN THE WORLD

"I'm scared...!" she sobs
"Of what love?" I cuddle her
"Of being in the world!"

**

This was when she was only a tiny little thing in the world of long ago but her words ring truer now in this rogue world of ours.

Her granny had just died and this all too too solid world of forever didn't seem as forever as it had before.  She no longer trusted it if a granny could vanish...would she vanish too?

She cried and "wanted to go where ever Granny had goed!"

She was looking at a globe and asked me if she were in the world. And is Granny not in the world any more?  And when Granny finishes being dead then will she come back? And what good is the world if Granny isn't in it. She sat on my lap and listened to auld Jemmy the Joist reading from Finnegans Wake with his own voice. I asked her what did she think the man was saying and she asked "Did he lose his granny too?"
287 · Jun 2015
NEW DOG...OLD TRICKS
Donall Dempsey Jun 2015
"The dog's in the loo!"
"We was teaching him to *** & -
. . .he just fell in!"


https://youtu.be/fq398OjxNyY
286 · Jun 2017
TO CARTHAGE THEN YOU CAME
Donall Dempsey Jun 2017
TO CARTHAGE THEN YOU CAME

To Carthage
then you came

and other fabled places

seen now only
through the lens of War.

Here you are
in simple black & white

playing football
with scrunched up rags

camouflage tanks
your only spectators

the horizon
a thin cruel line of infinity.

Desert rats
the thing of history books to come

now only
a bunch of laughing lads.

The desert
everywhere about you.

Young boys
pretending to be young men
pretending to be soldiers

and not
succeeding.

This a game
played for real.

War has made you
so.

I show you
you

again & again
wearing the many faces

that you were.

Death lurks
in every face

looks out of
your eyes

with the knowledge
that it could be

you now

you
this time.

Photos
taken then.

Time
stopped still.

I see so many
bright eyed young men.

Their youth
their most notable feature.

“Dead...dead...dead! ”
you intone

in place of names
as if it hurt to name them.

But I know
from other times

that this dead man
is John.

This one Fred
your best best friend.

Even now you talk of him
as if he could walk in the door

at any time.

The door
forever closed

The last photo shows
an insect crawling

in a dead
animal’s skull.
286 · Jan 2016
TIME IS FALLING
Donall Dempsey Jan 2016
TIME IS FALLING

I am like a tree
me

the rings of my mind
storing up the weather

whether it be 1963
nothing but snow

1960
nothing but rain.

Oh sure there was
rain and snow before

but these times
were the first time

I was aware of
in an all Wordsworthian way

"...the identity of
things..."

so that in my mind
in the dictionary of me

rain is always
a 1960 rain

snow is always
a 1963 snow

as if there were never such
rain or snow before

Outside even
as we speak

time is falling...falling.
286 · Apr 2016
EXTRA! EXTRA!
Donall Dempsey Apr 2016
EXTRA! EXTRA!

His voice hid
behind the morning's paper.

Questions met
with a shrug and a grunt.


Occasionally raised eyebrows
appeared behind the morning's headlines.

To lose a man
behind a newspaper

was just not cricket but
to be expected.

She sipped her tea
thinking of her lover's lips

and of kissing them
in an hour's tea

at her
leisure.
286 · Jun 2019
KISSING THE DOT
Donall Dempsey Jun 2019
KISSING THE DOT

Our new black & white
more full of snow than pictures

holding the rabbit's ears just so
(“No...no...no...YES! ! ! ! ! ! !”)

holding it aloft like 9 year old Statue of Liberty
watching with fascination as I DREAM OF JEANIE

emerges
to our chorused 'ooooOOOOO! '

Even turning it off was a thrill
the little white dot dwindling to an infinity

the electric static tingling our lips
as we kissed it goodbye

. . .a pleasurable pain.

Now, after the bus crash
lost in staticky snow

I turn the set
on off onoff

watch the little white dot
die again and again

place my lips
against the fading screen

the electric kiss
of death.
286 · Sep 2017
HAVING HIS SHOES SHINED
Donall Dempsey Sep 2017
HAVING HIS SHOES SHINED

Outside, it is
:1835.

A man is having
his shoes shined

at the last tree
before the corner of

Rue de Temple.

He's there at least
a good 15 minutes.

He can see his face
reflected in the toe tip

of his right foot
looking back up at him.

All the other humans
have vanished into smoke

become ghosts
of ghosts.

Anything that moves is lost
in the long exposure.

Daguerre holds
his breath.

Time has a habit of
disappearing.

Daguerre seizes the light
arrests it in its flight.

Nearly 200 years later
the man is still

having his shoes shined.
286 · Jan 2018
IT’S NOTHING!
Donall Dempsey Jan 2018
IT’S NOTHING!

I am drinking sorrow & bitterness.

It’s bitterly cold all over the world.

I see my ring finger
...white now.

I see in the window
...snow falling.

I see in the mirror
...myself.

Who is that...
...who is that?

I don’t
know...
...I don’t know.

NÍ DADA É
(It's Nothing)

Tá mé ag ól
dólas ’gus domlas.

Tá an donas air le fuacht
ar fud an domhain.

Feicim mo mhac an daba
...bán anois.

Feicim sa fhuinneog
Sneachta ag titim.

Feicim sa scáthan
...mise.

Ce he sin...
... Ce he sin?

Nil a fhios agam...

...nil a fhios agam.

* *
285 · Nov 2015
MEETING MY OWN GHOST
Donall Dempsey Nov 2015
MEETING MY OWN GHOST

My Uncle's old blue van
our delighted childhood

transported from train to farm
creator of our Summer

holiday

as magical as anything
could have been

to our open
innocent minds

lies forgotten
& forgetting

behind the barn
rusting in rain

stung by sun
in summers come & gone

an orange rust
delicate as lace

chewing like cancer
into its solid blue body.

A chicken drives it now
perched upon its steering wheel

going nowhere
fast

clucking'' Get outta de way! '

Rotted rubber
still clinging to the wheels

like flesh
leaving bone

protected by gangs
of highly strung nettles

ravished by weeds
& overgrown trees

me & some newly laid eggs
jostled together in the passenger seat

a cockerel crowing
he has all the back seat

the windshield
flecked with years

of flattened flies
a multitude of squashed bugs

as we speed
into the past

meeting my own ghost
with tears in my eyes.
285 · Feb 2018
FAILING GEOGRAPHY
Donall Dempsey Feb 2018
FAILING GEOGRAPHY

A drop of blood.

On the Indian Ocean.

Blue turning slow
l y red

as the Indian Ocean
is engulfed by this

singular drop of
blood

coast to coast
a crimson sea.

At first there is
no pain.

The thumb remains
unaware it has been

cut.

Paper cut.

First, the heart skips a beat
then the pain ~ rushes in.

The continent of India
invaded by my blood.

i close the school atlas
in fear teacher will see.

Scream silently
put my thumb in an inkwell.

Disaster co-
-auglates.

The ****** pages
stick to ****** together.

The Indian continent
ripped apart

allowing one to see
to the next sea

on the other page.

I fail
Geography.
Donall Dempsey Jun 2019
NOW THE WORLD HAS COME BETWEEN US

She lay still
(perfectly still)

eyes wide open
like a doll’s.

Her husband
lay beside her

“eyes wide shut”
(the phrase came to her) .

She smiled secretly
to her self

imagining he (Tom
her husband)

was “the” Tom
Cruise.

“Mmmmm! ”
she relished the thought.

“Mmmmmm! ”
she cried aloud.

“Australia! ”
she said as if answering

a question
in a quiz.

The stain growing
from his head

resembled
(for all the world)

“Australia! ”

There was no need
to phone a friend

or go for
50/50.

“Australia! ”
she said decisively
(so sure of her self) .

“Hey...it’s ok! ”
the stranger bending over her

told her.

She believed
in the voice

in what the voice
told her.

It was warm
and husky ‘round the edges

like her Daddy
when she was little.

Her knee
pained her.

“God...” how it
pained her.

“What’s your name...love? ”
the voice cajoled her.

She had to re-focus
to make the voice visible..

...lights...coloured...
...flashing lights...

dancing
like a chat up

in a disco
under a glittering ball.

“Oh you are handsome! ”
she told him.

“I am indeed! ”
the ambulance man agreed.

“Alan Handsome...how
did you guess? ”

She felt herself
blush to her roots.

She turned her head
looking at her husband’s head

the stain that was
Australia

had imperceptibly become
South America

then a badly blurred
early map of the world.

Then she closed her eyes
and the world went away.
284 · Aug 2019
LIGHTHOUSES OF THE MIND
Donall Dempsey Aug 2019
LIGHTHOUSES OF THE MIND

"Fiction is to the grown man what play is to the child."
R.L.S.

Come Louis and play
with my food

transforming my  porridge
with a sprinkle of imagination

so that dusted with sugar
it becomes a land

buried under snow
and now with milk

a land invaded by
a white sea

the mind flooded
with thought

wave upon wave
of seeing

the food itself
taking second place

to whatever Thought
can get its teeth into

when seasoned with
such dreams.

And on nights in Nice
or in La Solitude in Hyères

writing in the dark
with your left hand

to spite the sciatica
fight the haemorrhaging

the partial blindness of
Egyptian ophthalmia.

"New Songs of Innocence" or
"Whistles for Small Whistlers*

finally becomes
"A Child's Garden of Verses."

Robert Louis Stevenson
creating in the night

lighthouses
of the mind.
284 · May 2015
BLAMELESS
Donall Dempsey May 2015
I blame myself
(yes me...me entirely)

for falling
in love

with you
(what else could I do?)

It wasn't as if
I had a choice

I just went and fell
blatantly in love with you

without
a second thought

for myself.

Could have got
badly mauled

or given everything
(and got nothing at all)

but then
the blame

rests
entirely on you

for falling in love with
...me too!
283 · Jun 2018
CENTAUR
Donall Dempsey Jun 2018
CENTAUR

Hiding in the hay
me a terrified little boy
& my uncle like a terrified little boy

the voices in his head telling him to be afraid
of all strangers...changes.

He’s been like this
since the day his Dad

(my unknown grandfather)
died.

My Aunt’s voice
searching for us...searching us out.

Her shouts like bloodhounds
hunting us down

her words angry & cruel.

Her angry voice slurring us into:
“DonallSeanie! ”

as if we had fused into one being
a metamorphosis of us.

The hay cooks us
and we swelter in our hidey hole

A chicken sits on top
of my uncle’s cap

as if his mind had
materialised into this shape.

He rocks himself
and rocks me.

“Shhhh...boy...shhhh! ”
comforting both him & me.

“Don’t leave me! ”
he clucks

the words scattered around him
like newly laid eggs.

I settle into his silence.

My Aunt’s threats freezing us
in this terrible heat.

His chest hair
tickles my nose.

The cut on my left big toe
throbs through the open sandal.

My uncle cries in fear.

I wipe away the tear
with the ***** edge of my sleeve.

We escape to
the West field

me riding his shoulders

transformed into
a legendary creature

that only exists in myths
fleeing from the realness

...of reality.
282 · Feb 2019
ALL TAFFETA & TULLE
Donall Dempsey Feb 2019
ALL TAFFETA & TULLE

Frightened by the storm
he crawls under

his mother’s skirts
all taffeta & tulle

clinging to her
ankles

before falling
asleep

upon her feet.

She continues playing
her cards right

winning all before her

as the candles
gutter

and almost
go out.

She remembers her body
wrapped about him

her flesh
protecting his innocence

as now her dress
encloses his sleeping

unconsciously stroking
his hair

with her
left foot

his dreams now
pooled at her feet.
Donall Dempsey May 2023
SHHHH JULIAN IS WRITING A POEM !      

"The thud, thud of a horse's hoof
does not alarm fish."  

MIND UNDER WATER - 1883

Richard Jefferies

*

Fishes flee him.

They can feel his thoughts
touch them.

Here, Creux Harbour
on the Island of Sark.

Mummy fish tries not to laugh
as her little darlings dart...

It's only a poet!"
she tells her younglings

"thinking thoughts
they won't hurt you.

Julian's vibrations
pass through them.

"It's what poets do
before they turn the world  into words"

The little fish listen
with open mouths.

"As far as I can tell...it's a Julian
one of the cleverest kind one can find

a man composed of equal parts
wit and charm

an all shall be well and
all shall be well type of guy."

Julian is thinking
of nothing

but horses.
Horses.

The fish don't
even get a look in.

He sees the great Shires
being swum in the harbour.

Such a magnificence
of being

decanted from land
to sea

the great hooves
treading water

free to be themselves
enjoying their day at the sea's side.

Julian is alive
with this image

the sheer
awe of it all.

The fishes think
nothing of it.

They are used to horses
galloping among them.

It's the vibrations
of the poet's thoughts

that tickles them.

"But our Mam..?""
a small fry ventures

"...there are no horses
here....and now?"

"Ahhh that doesn't bother poets
ya see...they see

both what is there and not there
or what may be!"

She quotes the great 16th century fish
"Nothing is so but thinking make it so!"

Later, at the Candie Gardens
on another island altogether

Julian sits, sips...
a double espresso.

And again.
A double espresso..

We see the words flow
onto the page

charged with the grandeur
of the great Shires

as the little fishes look on
amused at the poet's

coffee coloured thoughts.
281 · Dec 2020
NOIR-KU! ONE AND TWO
Donall Dempsey Dec 2020
NOIR-KU! ONE

ashamed of what it was
going to do
my shadow merged into the dark

the sudden light
my shadow
jumping out of my shoes

my shadow leaving
me to my fate
a traitor to the self it served

'CLICK!" said the switch
'LIGHT!" said the light
"Aghhh!!!" I said

I was surprised to be
still me
the bullet journeying through my flesh

I could hear it
thump
into the wainscot behind me

my shadow lay
unconscious on the floor
"Come 'ere!" I swore at it

"We gotta get outa 'ere!"
my shadow pulled our self
up off the floor

my shadow
dragging
my feet

it takes a bullet
passing through ya
to make ya...feel..a...live

I had never felt
more alive in all my natural
I wanted it to stay that way

so...it was
corny as it may seem
the Butler done it

"drIPdrIPdrIP!" the blood screamed
"Ahhhh...shaddup!"
I snapped at it

well well well
Jane Butler was back in town
that would explain a lot of things

"Jane Butler!"
"Jane Butler...Jane Butler!"
"Jane...******...Butler!"

"Well!"
"What..."
"...do ya know!"

a pack of shadows
feeding on
the sole surviving scrap of light
**

NOIR-KU TWO

the headlights hurry ahead
as if making up the road
for the fleeing car

the body in the back
shifted from side to side
let out a groan at each turn

"Ah come on!" she smiled
"...only a flesh wound...lost a lot of blood"
"Ughhh...agggh" said the body

"Look brother...if I wanted you
dead
I would have killed you!"

the world rushed by
everything moving
quickly into the past

"I wanted you alive
so that you could really know
I was going to ****** you!"

her voice was calm
her crimson pout
barely holding back the bitterness

"Jail was no laugh!"
she laughed
her voice like broken glass

"So, you thought you'd leave
the little lady in the lurch
...did you!"

consciousness kept
dipping in and out of my reality
she dipped her lights

the car sped on
throwing the road
over its shoulder

a cop car
approached us
disappeared into the night

somewhere her voice
was talking
her words were like ghosts

"Oh I want you babeeee
to die nice and slow
. . .& know!"

"I call it due process
I want you to see your life
slipping slowly away from you!"

trees lurched after the car
trying to grasp...gasp
I was going to die

the car screeched
to a halt
she looks in mirror...applies makeup

somehow she managed
to get me into the driver's seat
"Boy..." she laughed ". . .your a dead weight!"

"Here babeee...have a last drink!"
she poured the whole bottle
all over me

"Hey...hey..."
I stupidly thought
"That's my favourite ***!"

she let off the handbrake
the car almost tip toed
to the edge of the precipice

the car tottered a bit
unsure of whether
it should take the plunge

finally the car
made up its mind
went for it

"Enjoy your drive
...to hell!" she smirked
lighting another cigarette

"Bye bye bâtard!"
she smiled
using the French

the car tumbling like a toy
then the explosion
lightning up the horizon

she redid her lipstick
"*******!" she cursed
"I got a ladder in my new tights!"
Yeah...the ghosts of his past have come back to haunt him...one ghost is Jane Butler and she's very real and very mad and wants to make a ghost of him....who is Jane Butler and what is she to him and him to her...guess we'll never find out unless the words hijack my mind once more and hold my sleep to ransom.

Too much Matheson before bedtime.
281 · Oct 2017
THE MAN WHO WALKS BOOKS
Donall Dempsey Oct 2017
THE MAN WHO WALKS BOOKS

He was a Donall
just like me

but preferred to be
known as D or Dee.

In Cuba he...
"The Man who walked Books!"

The sun shining on
his bald pate

as he strode along
head stuck in a book

his legs having to do
all the seeing.

He breathing in the words
they staining his mind.

An emotional osmosis.

On dusty white roads
halfway 'round a bend

he always "...the man
who walked books."

Your death both
shock and surprise

it seeming so absurd
a D could die.

You always so
alive.

Death filters back
just the basic facts

without too much
how or why.

Tears the only
words I have.

Keeping you forever
in my mind

you can only
always be

a dusty dot
now a dusty nearness

"The man who walks books!"
Donall Dempsey Aug 2016
THE FLIGHT OF DARKNESS INTO LIGHT

( for my little brother Brian )

Ahhhh....here you
are again.

You who
are here and yet not

here
a shadow tossed aside

a breeze stalking
the shrubberies

the ghost of leaves
foliage on the move

that then: stops

silence solidified
...or did it?

The flight of darkness
into light

suddenly a paw
tentatively becomes a snout

then the all of you
"Friend fox. . !"

I call to you
mind to mind

you looking
as if you've heard

stare at my silent
voice

both of us amazed
you ever so

red before becoming
a shadow tossed aside

a here not here
the flight of darkness into light

a  breeze
stalking the shrubberies

the ghost of leaves.


One of my last conversations with my brother( conversations could be 3 hours on the phone )and he told me of a fox he had seen. He asked me why I had never written a poem for him and would I write his experience for him. I did so and it lay there in my scribbly hieroglyph until I managed to decipher my own writing( this is easier said than done). I was going to read it to him at the next phone call but there never was another phone call. The fox and my brother now merging into one in the here/not here.
281 · May 2017
AND THE WRITING BE OF WORDS
Donall Dempsey May 2017
AND THE WRITING BE OF WORDS

"Who left the **** door open!"
knowing who ****** well

"And the door of the icebox too...
...where is that no-good-man!"

A white chicken stood
in the middle of her kitchen

like a miniature chef
clucking to itself

pecking at plums
knocked over on the floor

left overs from yesterday.

"William..!" she hollered "...William!"


"Just wait 'till he sees
what I'll say!"

William lay staring at a sky
he would never see again

a fallen can of white paint
splurged all over barrow and grass

a manic splash of redgreenandwhite
like some stupid art installation.

It was raining.
The title is from the William Carlos Williams poem A SORT OF SONG. And of course this poem walks us through his two must famous poems THIS IS JUST TO SAY and THE RED WHEELBARROW but taking us to a different place.

***


A SORT OF SONG

Let the snake wait under
his ****
and the writing
be of words, slow and quick, sharp
to strike, quiet to wait,
sleepless.
-- through metaphor to reconcile
the people and the stones.
Compose. (No ideas
but in things) Invent!
Saxifrage is my flower that splits
the rocks.

William Carlos Williams
281 · Jan 2017
WRITING MY BROTHER
Donall Dempsey Jan 2017
WRITING MY BROTHER

I create a world
of words

for you to be
alive in.

See, I give you
verbs

you walk...you talk

I surround you with
the necessary nouns

sustain you with
adverbs and adjectives

split the
infinitive.

I adjust the past
make it last

longer than
a future could be

change my mind
change time

tinker with the
what-could-be.

Here, I have us

a cloud of words
emanating from

our Christmas faces
making angels

the newest snow
on the tip of our tongues

on the tip of our tongues
or noses

awed by an Aurora
Borellis.

My breath
mingled with yours.

A star glows
trapped in a window pane

as if it only
shivers there.

A prisoner
of itself.

Now I change
the weather

see...it's summer
autumn whatever

I want it
to be

I reach for another
the next word

another page and
another page

until my pen
runs out of words

leaves you alone
upon a page

the blankness
terrifying.

"Brother mine
...Brian!"

"Shhh. . !" Death admonishes
". . .enough!"

as I try to keep you
alive for ever.
280 · Mar 2019
"YES DEAR YES!"
Donall Dempsey Mar 2019
"YES DEAR YES!"

She kissed her husband.
And - he kissed her back.

Which was
unusual

as he had never kissed her back
when he was alive.

Now that he was dead
they were getting on so much better.

He was more real to her
now he was no longer there.

She wished he had been more like this
when he was alive.

He usually spoke to her
from another room

so that she never saw him as such
only aware of his presence.

And the voice
all over the house.

She disliked the term ghost.
Shied away from the word "DEAD."

Couldn't stand the label
"figment of the imagination."

But tonight in the dark
she felt his lips on hers

and cried and cried
letting the loss leak away into this bliss.

She didn't know how to be
a widow.

Wore it like a role
or a set of chosen clothes.

Curious.
Him being dead

was a lot better than
him being not dead.

She could now fashion
him in her own image.

Soften him...make him do
whatever she wanted for once.

Sometimes his voice
came out of the telly

or on the radio or
an answering machine

or the microwave or
the toaster.

he seemed to have got entangled in
the house electrics.

And now here he was on the record player
all scratchy and gathering dust.

She always answered him
as she had done all her life.

"Yes dear...yes!" she said.
"Yes dear. Yes!"
All her children used to think Mary was losing it after her husband Simon died. His presence had being in her life for the past 6O years. His voice was a comfort to her and part of the healing process enabling her to heal. She was pleased to her his voice...now giving her advice...now soothing her or just dealing with all the ordinary everyday moments. She just used to believe that he had just left the room and was still talking to her as he went out. She "felt" his presence and she remembered all his nice sides and it was this Simon who manifested itself to her....never the grumpy old codger he could be. She also softened him in memory and recreated him as she would have wanted him to be...so he became more tactile and loving than he had actually been in real life! She talked about him all the time I was with her and would hold conversations with him while I was there...telling me what he had said!


"Many scientists think that normal perception starts with the brain creating a prediction of what is “out there”. This prediction is then revised using feedback from the world, and forms the basis of what we perceive.

Perception is edited hallucination.

So one way to understand hallucinations is as uncorrected predictions. If someone has been a consistent, valued presence in your life, the brain is so used to predicting them that it may continue to do so, overruling the world.

A new day has come, but the brain still bets on yesterday."


Simon McCarthy-Jones
Donall Dempsey Aug 2019
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...f**k 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.
280 · Mar 2015
THE LANGUAGE OF SNOW
Donall Dempsey Mar 2015
THE LANGUAGE OF SNOW

"Shhhhhhhhh..!" sushes Snow
&: World hushes.

Snow speaks quietly whitely.

Landscapes listens.

All that can be  
heard  

... Snow's voice.
280 · Mar 2018
FOOTSTEPS SET IN TIME
Donall Dempsey Mar 2018
FOOTSTEPS SET IN TIME

The lightness of
your footstep

as you hurried to me

caught in the slowly setting
concrete

( you didn’t see )

holds your fleeting love
permanently  

your footsteps
greedy for me

paying no attention
to the world whatever

only knowing that
in a few footsteps more

you would be precious
and adored for who you are

your footsteps
still exist

echoing inside my tears

as I put my next step
inside yours

and the snow fills
the other   footsteps        up.
Donall Dempsey Jun 2018
THOSE WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS MOMENTS

She awakenss to
a Day-glo yellow post-it-note

stuck to
her bottom lip.

'Forgive me...'
it reads

'...stealing
the kisses

sleepily left
on your lucious

lips

they

were

delicious.'

You call me
at the office

& cry.

*

Outside
the window

is

a
William Carlos Williams
poem

coming
into being.

There...is
the red wheelbarrow

glazed
with rain

minus
the chickens

who
have wandered
off

as if not knowing
they are needed

to fulfil
the poem

upon which
so much

depends

(gone to lay an egg
as chickens do)

& as I turn away
they march back into view

taking up
their poetical positions.

The living poem
even has its seasons

appearing
to me

covered in snow

dazzling

in bright bright
sunshine.

Sometimes
(for my own
surreal reasons)

I paint the wheel barrow
a yellow or blue

or
blue

with yellow spots
or...

My wife
laughs at me
& says: 'Oh...you! '

The wheelbarrow
long gone

to seed
now

sleeps quietly
upside down
beside the hen house.

Flowers
growing up
between its broken
wheel

covered
in fallen leaves

it dreams
of being a real
poem.

I smile.

'Now, where's
those chickens
...gone? '

* * * * * *

So much depends
upon

your bright red mouth
& white white teeth

as our lips meet

& our eyes glaze over

with love as bright
as rainwater.
280 · Jan 2018
DU TEMPS PERDU
Donall Dempsey Jan 2018
DU TEMPS PERDU

weather vane
rusted into a NNW
still facing into the long ago

paying little heed
to time or what
way the wind blows

the peal of a bell
nails our shadows
to the hard ground

the sharpness of sunshine
outlining everything
it touches

the smack of bat on ball
****** of tea things
broken china cup "...howzat!"

our shadows get up
walk silently away
they have business elsewhere

so here we are
trapped in this
one moment

staring blindly
into a future
we can not know

the white border
of the photograph
contains us

it is no longer
the 1930's
storm clouds gather

another generation holds us
between forefinger and thumb
war has come and gone

they must wonder what
we were
thinking when it was taken

we stare out at them
staring in at us
each unable to imagine the other

they remark that we
have their eyes...their faces
the resemblance there for all to see

they could just as easily
be us
"Ha ha...that's us...in fancy dress."

time doesn't seem
to have a moved
the weathervane still

doesn't know
which way
to turn
Donall Dempsey Apr 2015
https://soundcloud.com/ma56/la-belle-dame-au-manteau-rogue-by-donall-dempsey
280 · Nov 2016
USES OF GREAT LITERATURE
Donall Dempsey Nov 2016
USES OF GREAT LITERATURE

Bluebottle & I
share the same moment

. . .the same hour.

It keeps divebombing me
like some crazy kamikaze.

It is a beautiful flying jewel
but I can't appreciate that

just now and enraged I
throw Proust at it.

The full weight of A LA RECHERCHE
DE TEMPS PERDU

thrown halfway across the room
brings it down with a bang and

it is no more.

"Heavy!" I praise the Proust.

Ten minutes later its brother
or its ghost

has returned with a vengeance.

"Don't look at me!" says the Proust
"I done my bit!"

I raise the book and
the bluebottle bolts.

Just the threat of the Proust
works just fine...this time.
Donall Dempsey Aug 2017
L'AMOUR NE S'EXPLIQUE PAS! C'EST UNE CHOSE COMME
ÇA!

"L’amour ne s’explique pas!
C’est une chose comme ça!"

I love the ABC
of you

the onetwothree
of you

the latitude and longitude
of you

the shadow and light
of you

even the join-the-dots
of you

even the painting-by-numbers
of you

you the cryptic crossword
I can never do

unable to even understand
a clue

couldn't bear to have you
explainecd

to know the whys
and wherefores of you

loving just loving
the je ne sais quoi of you

glad that you
just exist

and that in that
existence you

love me.

"L’amour ne s’explique pas!
C’est une chose comme ça!"
278 · Jan 2018
LE JEU AVEC LE FEU
Donall Dempsey Jan 2018
LE JEU AVEC LE FEU

I caught
the mirror

watching me

it stuck out its tongue
I stuck out my tongue back

both the mirror and I
smiled

that "Gotcha!" moment.

It's tinkling laugh
like broken glass

as I fell to the ground
in peices

all my shattered selves
staring up at me

the mirror
for once

silent.
PLAYING WITH FIRE proclaims the title in French....that moment when you fall out of your self and can't find your way back in and you have somehow mislaid the world and you know you left your future around here somewhere but you'll be ****** if you can put your hand on it...and the present has evaporated and the past is no more...and....and. . .
Donall Dempsey Mar 2019
NEVER SO ALONE AS HERE
(in memory of my mother Ita)

A night
scattered with stars

each star
so clear

in its perfect
isolation

you feel as if you are
about to pluck it

from its position
examine it

put it
exactly back

watch as time & the world
come apart

(watch as neither match)  

each minute
like a bead of prayer

fumbled through fingers
in its litany of despair

a rosary of
hopelessness

the back of her hand
resting in the palm of mine

stupidly the thought
crossing my mind

“She made
this hand...”

And now she searches
for her dying

sees it reflected
in our faces

our grief
her mirror

each star
a tear

in the perfection
of its isolation

never so alone
as here

as now

the Milky Way
spilt across the sky.
Donall Dempsey Nov 2015
TIME FALLS SLOWLY
( for Helen )

Still. Unmoving.

I gaze into her
gazing.

Eyes full of snowflakes.

Time falls slowly.

Just like the snow
she erases her drawing

turning it too
back into white.

Quiet falls slowly.

She tells me
(in a whisper)    


not daring to
take her eyes away.

“World gone! ”

“World hiding
in the snow! ”

“Look! Look! ”

“Slowflakes! ”
277 · Feb 2019
AN UNFAIRY STORY
Donall Dempsey Feb 2019
AN UNFAIRY STORY

whilst fretfully she sleeps
Frog Prince kisses the Princess
turning her into a beautiful frog

yes, and well...they lived
happy ever after as water
in the bottom of a deep deep well

what kind of fairy story
were you after....ahhhh
the grim human kind

frog prince & frog princess
hop happily about a bit
eating delicious(ribbitribbit)flies

oh how our love has
spawned
tadpoles will be tadpoles I suppose

now it's time
for us to croak it
remembering our happy once upon a times
Donall Dempsey Nov 2016
STAND UP...RICHARD HAWTREE IS PASSING!


Richard Hawtree is
sculpting sound

out of the air
Spring appears

with each breath
he takes

making what isn't there
....there.

I fall in love
with the balance and poise

of each and every word
brought alive.

How sound glows
seduces the ear.

Here he offers me
a word not heard before

"...smoor"

the more I hear it
I want to hear it

more.

But now the poem
that had leapt into being

ends as it began
in sheer delight

the words like a fire
dampened down for the night.

Applause like waves
breaking upon a shore

the cry of seagulls
"More...more!"

Richard returns
to the dark from which

I had plucked him
****** him into the spotlight.

Richard Hawtree is passing.

I stand up.

Bow before him.
One of the best things about running a poetry night is watching something wonderful come into being.  Richard leapt onto the stage and leapt into his poem about Spring and it unfolded before us in all its glorious being. The performance itself was a thing of wonder and great beauty. I fell in love with it and was even graced with a new word....SMOOR...which is Scottish for dampening down a fire...to extinguish...to suffocate.

I was just so ****** impressed as indeed was everyone else.
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