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242 · Oct 2016
DA VINCI'S GHOST
Donall Dempsey Oct 2016
DA VINCI'S GHOST

I listen to
classical guitar in the dark

with only a single
candle for company.

These my teenage years.

Music and flame
travel through my mind

unveiling thought.

Da Vinci's
Vitruvian man

pinned to the wall
with most pins missing.

He comes alive
in the candle's flicker.

Gets into a flap
each time the door opens.

Little brother is spooked
by that Vitruvian stare

but is fascinated by the fact
that he exists

within a circle
within a square.

Like a priest I
dress my self in the garb

of Leonardo's words.

"Write what the soul is.

Illustrate whence comes....madness.
Whence...tears.
Whence...dreams!"

The whences make him wince.

As he sees it:  "...it is like a man
travelling through time

in his dream machine
and arriving at his own

dying
becoming his own

ghost."

Our mother's voice
calls him

and he is grateful to escape
his own thought.

*

Now, here I am
at your death

as you step inside
the circle
(inside the square).

You stare back at me
with that Vitruvian stare

and I " try to write
what the soul is."
242 · Oct 2015
DUSO*
Donall Dempsey Oct 2015
DUSO*

This star
was born with you

enclosed
within your breast

(it is your namesake)  
to follow you
through life

and die only with
your own death.

Burn brightly

with the love
you are

made of.

Burn brightly

make love
the only thing

worth
living for.
*Duso....meaning “Love”...but literally  “Soul” in Serbian.

In Serbian mythology we are all born with a star that goes with us through life and leaves us with our Death.
242 · Feb 2020
THE CICADAS GOING CRAZY
Donall Dempsey Feb 2020
THE CICADAS GOING CRAZY

The night all
darkness and lilac

as if scent and absence
of light  had solidified

congealing about
the waltzing couple

drifting accidentally
on purpose away

from the gaudy
ballroom.

Both now not
daring to

breath in case this
moment would dissolve

the magic
evaporate.

His clumsy hand upon her
naked back for the first

time ever
this foreveer

the flex of her
shoulder blades as if

she were a swan
about to take flight

and be gone...gone

that terrible thought
tolling inside his head.

They only able to see
each other by touch

alone
feeling his breath upon

her right eybrow
she nuzzling into

an Adam's apple that
kept bobbing up

ooops and that was
not all.

He lost in the bob
of her hair

she only had it done
that day.

Their hips brushing against
lilac and darkness

dancing on into
the witching hour

the fadey ballroom music
like an half forgotten

something or other
the cicadas sudden

silence
dissolving into

this mistimed kiss
that nevertheless

he kissed an eye
she kissed a nose

that still
took time's breath away

the cicadas
going crazy.
Donall Dempsey Jul 2022
WHEN DEATH COMES, IT WILL HAVE YOUR EYES
(Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi )

I once knew a man
who knew a man

who had seen
F. Scott Fitzgerald

drinking a milkshake
in a drug store

(vanilla or chocolate
he couldn't be sure)

flicking idly
through a magazine

( no he didn't know
which magazine )

in the company of
some blonde.

"I'll never forget
what he said!"

"Let's go to the supermarket
Shelia!" he said.

And that's it?
"That's it!"

His voice caressed
each syllable

as if
he were on stage.

But he was like a man
becoming a manakin

like in that episode of
The Twilight Zone

you know the one?"

In a future that had as yet
to happen.

"I don't know what I had
expected..."

The man who knew the man
who knew the man

who had seen and heard
F. Scott Fitzgerald.

"Maybe a Gatsby or
a Gatsby

who had survived the novel's
tragic ending

and wished
he hadn't!"



Here now
at home

Mr. Fitzgerald
sits in his armchair

eating a chocolate bar
checking out next year's

Princeton
football team.

suddenly like a puppet
yanked on a string

he stands up
hand on mantlepiece

like some bad acting
in a silent movie

before falling
to the floor.

He will never
get up.



Nick and Gatsby come
stand by his dying.

So do Monroe Stahr
and Kathleen Moore

even though
words fail them.

Yet they now
more real than he.

Monroe reads
some last scribbled lines.

"There was a flutter
from the wings of God

and you
lay dead.

Your  books
were in your desk I guess

and some unfinished chaos
in your head

was dumped to nothing
by the great janitress of

destinies."

Gatsby
closes his eyes.


*

WHEN DEATH COMES, IT WILL HAVE YOUR EYES(Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi )is of course the wonderful poem by Cesare Pavese.
Monroe and Kathleen are from Scott's last and unfinished novel THE LAST TYCOON.

I also knew a guy who knew a guy who peed beside Richard Brautigan. He was so in awe as to who was at the next ****** that he peed all over the top of his shoes.
Donall Dempsey Dec 2016
AND THE STONE WAS MADE FLESH

her hair flowed
between naked shoulder blades
like a red waterfall

she turned and her hair
splashed over her left shoulder
like a living creature

she wore a yellow mini
the top of a blue bikini
she went from the sublime to

the ridiculously sublime
broke into my mind
robbed me blind

she gazed upon
a statue with no clothes on
a miracle in marble

the stone
made flesh
but see how she now

the statue
come alive
even to her smile

each curve of her
greater by far
the statue envious of such beauty
241 · Jul 2017
GONDOLA AT GLENDALOUGH
Donall Dempsey Jul 2017
GONDOLA AT GLENDALOUGH

wounded
with bird song
the moment oozes time

the sunlight playing
cat-&-mouse
with the shadows

the bird nails its song
unto the sky
passing clouds pause to listen

("Oh!")says the water
where the stone has gone
(("Oh!"))  ((("Oh!"))) & ( ( (  ("Oh!") ) ) )

the dead standing
outside time
looking in on the living

the hedge grows
a crop of sparrows
afternoon lessens

Ireland is almost over
for another day at least
the planet turns in its sleep

a gondola
glides through memory
cutting through time
241 · Aug 2016
THE ARRIVAL
Donall Dempsey Aug 2016
THE ARRIVAL

There is an Irish Sea
between us.

I watch the boat
battle the waves

tossing them behind it
as slowly upon an horizon

Ireland emerges
a watercolour pinned to a thin line

just the jist of it
the slight suggestion of land.

Delay after delay
has brought us to this day

the moment
home is reached

the car door slam
the crunch of gravel

as finally we
arrive at your death.
241 · Sep 2017
THIS ISLAND ME
Donall Dempsey Sep 2017
THIS ISLAND ME

Seemed like I was
a lost tourist

in the country of me
( was that all there was to see?)

the rundown town
of who I am

monuments to my own
insignificance

statues of the mistakes
I'd made

the seedy suburbs of the people
I used to be

unable to speak
my mind no more

"Me no understand!"
I shouted to my self

But my self just stared
at the stranger I'd become.

The same ruined hopes
wishes foreclosed.

A map that proclaimed
YOU ARE HERE

but where the hell
was HERE.

My heart a broken down hotel
Elvis on a clapped-out jukebox

everything closed
around about midnight

missing my connection
missing the last flight

out of who
I am

**** and double ****
guess I'll just have to remain

being this me
for yet another year.

I am my self
get me outta here!
The kind of poem one writes when waiting for one's flight and too tired to even fight the fatigue and the boredom that comes upon one.
Donall Dempsey Nov 2017
THAT ‘TO THE LIGHTHOUSE’ MOMENT
( for Colleen and Rexanne )

I enter the room.
The door groans.

The ghosts
caught as they are

all stare.

Some sitting…one reclines.
They pay me no mind.

I throw open shutters
the silence shatters.

Held in sudden
shafts of sunlight.

Dust motes dancing
upon the air.

I un-nerved
just to be there.

Old room
heavy with time.

It all so very Poe.

I unveil the ghosts
one…by…one.

****** the dustsheet
so that Ghost No. 1

becomes the armchair
it used to be.

Ghost No. 2
resumes being a chaise lounge.

Ghost Nol.3
why…that’s me!

The mirror laughs.

The furniture
like unmasked memories

give up the ghost.

The living room once
again a living room.

The ghosts are tamed.

“Welcome…welcome!”
I call to the Past.

The Past enters
with a graceful bow.

Both itself and
all this now.

I can only smile.

Can only cry.
241 · Jan 2024
WRITING MY BROTHER
Donall Dempsey Jan 2024
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.

*


I wrote this on the eve of the New Year....4,000 miles from anywhere in the middle of the Atlantic...emotionally it was like that too.
240 · Feb 2020
BROKEN ABRACADABRA
Donall Dempsey Feb 2020
BROKEN ABRACADABRA

My uncle shimmers
as he walks

as if the sun has got him
and shakes him

until he walks
like waves.

His gait all
heat haze.

He's a walking
reflection

as if the air
were water.

He looks like
he's a dream

made of summer

but he is the real thing
a solid Uncle Michael.

I expect his voice
to waver with the heat

but his words
stay steady

whittled out of love
like wood.

I am up a tree.

He can't see me.

The branch below me has sn-
-apped

and I am wondering like a cat
how in hell I am

going to get down.

Up here in the air
the farm is the map

of itself.

I share a branch with a bird
and a small cloud.

Uncle goes on looking for me
his voice searching the everywhere

but I am a nowhere.

His voice trying to pull me
out of thin air

like a magician would
but it's not good.

I am half sky half tree half child
...do the maths.

I feel like a white rabbit
lost inside a top hat.

He died one sunny Sunday
******* a sweet in the blue van.

I still see him
walking out of the sun

his body shivering
with the heat

as if he is a dream
calling my name

like an abracadabra.

I sit in the silence
in the middle of my sky

lost in that forever
summer

wondering how to get back
down on solid ground

calling his name
like a broken magic spell

always trying to find him
even though I can't

...find my self.
240 · Jul 2015
INVISIBLE MUSIC
Donall Dempsey Jul 2015
she watches the Tai-chi
"Why....is the music...invisible?"
"Shhhhh....the music's inside him
Donall Dempsey Jul 2021
WHEN DEATH COMES, IT WILL HAVE YOUR EYES
(Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi )

I once knew a man
who knew a man

who had seen
F. Scott Fitzgerald

drinking a milkshake
in a drug store

(vanilla or chocolate
he couldn't be sure)

flicking idly
through a magazine

( no he didn't know
which magazine )

in the company of
some blonde.

"I'll never forget
what he said!"

"Let's go to the supermarket
Shelia!" he said.

And that's it?
"That's it!"

His voice caressed
each syllable

as if
he were on stage.

But he was like a man
becoming a manakin

like in that episode of
The Twilight Zone

you know the one?"

In a future that had as yet
to happen.

"I don't know what I had
expected..."

The man who knew the man
who knew the man

who had seen and heard
F. Scott Fitzgerald.

"Maybe a Gatsby or
a Gatsby

who had survived the novel's
tragic ending

and wished
he hadn't!"



Here now
at home

Mr. Fitzgerald
sits in his armchair

eating a chocolate bar
checking out next year's

Princeton
football team.

suddenly like a puppet
yanked on a string

he stands up
hand on mantlepiece

like some bad acting
in a silent movie

before falling
to the floor.

He will never
get up.



Nick and Gatsby come
stand by his dying.

So do Monroe Stahr
and Kathleen Moore

even though
words fail them.

Yet they now
more real than he.

Monroe reads
some last scribbled lines.

"There was a flutter
from the wings of God

and you
lay dead.

Your  books
were in your desk I guess

and some unfinished chaos
in your head

was dumped to nothing
by the great janitress of

destinies."

Gatsby
closes his eyes.

*

WHEN DEATH COMES, IT WILL HAVE YOUR EYES(Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi )is of course the wonderful poem by Cesare Pavese.
Monroe and Kathleen are from Scott's last and unfinished novel THE LAST TYCOON.
I also knew a guy who knew a guy who peed beside Richard Brautigan. He was so in awe as to who was at the next ****** that he peed all over the top of his shoes.
Shelia of course being Sheliah Graham who was a powerhouse gossip maven in Hollywood’s Golden Age. Her “Hollywood Today” column was carried in 178 papers, at its peak. By comparison, the columns of her better-remembered rivals, Louella Parsons and Hedda Hopper, were only carried in 100 papers and 68 papers, respectively.
She wrote two books about her life with Fitzgerald, Beloved Infidel (with Gerold Frank) in 1958, and The Garden of Allah in 1969. Beloved Infidel starring Gregory Peck as Scott and Deborah Kerr as Sheilah Graham, was filmed in 1959 at around the time the hotel where much of it was set was being demolished.

WHEN DEATH COMES, IT WILL HAVE YOUR EYES
(Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi )

Death will come with your eyes—
this death that accompanies us
from morning till night, sleepless,
deaf, like an old regret
or a stupid vice. Your eyes
will be a useless word,
a muted cry, a silence.
As you see them each morning
when alone you lean over
the mirror. O cherished hope,
that day we too shall know
that you are life and nothing.

For everyone death has a look.
Death will come with your eyes.
It will be like terminating a vice,
as seen in the mirror
a dead face re-emerging,
like listening to closed lips.
We’ll go down the abyss in silence.

Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi
questa morte che ci accompagna
dal mattino alla sera, insonne,
sorda, come un vecchio rimorso
o un vizio assurdo. I tuoi occhi
saranno una vana parola,
un grido taciuto, un silenzio.
Cosí li vedi ogni mattina
quando su te sola ti pieghi
nello specchio. O cara speranza,
quel giorno sapremo anche noi
che sei la vita e sei il nulla.

Per tutti la morte ha uno sguardo.
Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi.
Sarà come smettere un vizio,
come vedere nello specchio
riemergere un viso morto,
come ascoltare un labbro chiuso.
Scenderemo nel gorgo muti.
Donall Dempsey Aug 2016
UNUSUAL USES FOR SCOTCH TAPE

she cries for the fallen leaves
sellotapes them back on the trees

and here she is at five
fuchsia taped to her ears

"You like my earrings?"
she asks sincerely

"I do!" I say  "I sure do!"

Now I search the tape
to find where it begins or ends

scrape it back with a fingernail
bite it off with my teeth

tape her picture to the wall
remember her this. . .small.
239 · Jul 2018
THE LIVING GALLERY
Donall Dempsey Jul 2018
THE LIVING GALLERY

how white
the breast emerging from
a green silk blouse

breast & blouse
the sudden shock of
stripped bark

green silk flows
over
the breast's whiteness

how your body
makes its own
art

you
my living
gallery

your hand shyly
covers your naked breast
the movement's music

here in moonlight
your nakedness
a living statue
239 · Dec 2019
SUCH A SUNNY DAY
Donall Dempsey Dec 2019
SUCH A SUNNY DAY

the objects
in his pocket

have lost
their identity

their significance
to anyone but him

a hairy comb
photo of an unknown

woman
who can she be

a torn-in-two
train ticket

chewing gum
much masticated

yet put back
in his blazer's breast pocket

small change
a penny and a sixpence and

a button
from the cuff

no clue as to who
he had been

before the water claimed him
as its own

the disgust and fascination
of those

passersby who continue
to pass by

it such
a sunny day

for death to
intrude this way

the miscellany of objects
ownerless now

the waters of the Liffey
calm and unmoved
***

I was just coming up to O'Connell Bridge and the bus got snarled in traffic. It was a beautiful beautiful sunny day and as I gazed idly out of the window a body, sodden and shapeless but still all too human was being winched out of the river. So we were forced to witness this before the bus finally made it to the bridge. It was startling and cut like an emotional knife through the fabric of the perfect day.
My girlfriend at the time told of a friend of hers who had sometime last year thrown herself into the Liffey so that added an extra dimension to the horror. Everyone who had met her on that last day said she seemed so happy and were amazed that she had done so because "...it was such a sunny day." She only had a comb and a button and small change in her pocket...all she owned. A human life shrunk to so little.
Donall Dempsey May 2017
"UKUTHULA. . !" WHISPERS THE SHELL". . . UKUTHULA!"

Her mind could almost
taste

the silence

like a small girl *******
an orange ice lolly

when the only future
was now

and the summer was
a forever.

The computer was stunned.
The telephone didn't know - what to say.
The television had a blank look on its 28 inch face.
The doorbell had its batteries forcibly removed.
The hoover had been ripped form its wall socket.

The silence seeped into
everything

spreading over the
mechanical beings

that dominated
her day.

"But...but...but..!" they seemed to say.
"...we run this house...this life!"


"Shhhhhhh. . .shhhhhhh!"
she replied telepathically.

She held a shell
from a 1984 African holiday

to her left ear
and listened...listened

to an ocean
roaring within her.
UKUTHULA is of course the Zulu for silence.
238 · Dec 2019
TO THE FUTURE - AND BEYOND
Donall Dempsey Dec 2019
TO THE FUTURE  - AND BEYOND

The dead walk
among the living.

It's the latest thing
in tourism.

The dead just can't
get enough of it.

VISIT THE LAND
OF THE LIVING.

EXPERIENCE THE PRESENT
ALL OVER AGAIN.

But this time with the benefit
of hindsight.

Aware of what can
happen or what has.

The pastpresentfuture
all the one to you in this

- now.

The dead queue up.
It's the latest craze.

People leaving their graves
in droves

for the thrill of walking
in sunshine again.

Feeling air
on their skin.

A snowflake on the tip of
a tongue.

The caress of a summer
evening on nakedness.

The simple pleasures
of what once was.

The frisson of walking
through a living body

being human again
even by proxy.

The mingling of
the quick and the dead.

The living don't like it.
Pass laws against it.

Being overrun
by ghost tourism.

"Our town has become
a ghost town!" claims the mayor.

But the dead are
not ghosts...as such.

But the living decanted
as it were

to a place parallell
so to speak

exploring life in this
uniquely new "now."

You have to of course
prove that you are dead

for at least a century
or two.

So that this meeting of molecules
are not that of the recently deceased.

A "passing through"
as it is called.

Yes there have been instances of
one being caught half in/half out

of a living being
not only highly

embarrassing but
painful for both.

They said it couldn't be done
but when it was done

they said it would never
catch one.

But catch on it did.
All the rage beyond the grave.

Comes from reading too much
Ray Bradbury.

Just like one of his stories
but we put it into practice.

"Ok! You 'deaders'
(as we call ourselves)

the next vibrations will leave
in the next second or so."

Just look at them
gooooooooo...........
Donall Dempsey Dec 2020
ME MAM’S MIND
(in memory of my mother Ita)

“If you fall
off that wall

& break both
your legs

...don’t come
running to me! ”

Could never understand
my Mam’s mind

& how it
worked.

One moment
she 'had half a mind

to come up there
&' get me off that wall.

Then she 'was in two minds
about' whether to tell me to stop.

“Go ahead...go ahead
& **** yourself

...see if I care! ”

“I’m warning you child
if you fall off that wall

& ****
yourself

I’ll personally
come up there

& **** ya myself
so I will! ”

I used to watch the words
climbing out of her mouth

& fly around the room

looking for a place to land
in my mind.

Never cared
whether she gave out.

I just loved
everything she said

the music of her
& how

she made the words
behave.

I came down
and kissed her

kissed her worry away.

'I'm sorry Mam'
I told her.

And she cried.
238 · Aug 2019
KICKING THE BUCKET
Donall Dempsey Aug 2019
KICKING THE BUCKET

The moon has fallen
asleep in a bucket

can't get back out despite
trying to slide over the rim.

It trembles as a train
thunders past midnight.

A child tries to catch it
its tiny hand plunging

through another dimension
through to its nothingness.

The takes its chance and
escapes to the sky with a splash.

It's all gone now
( the barn of course )

but the house...the child...that moon
are no longer to be found.

Strange to think
a house can die.

A tree enters through
the kitchen window

lays
its head upon a table.

The bedroom
is without its roof.

A door still stands
without its walls.

It bangs in the breeze
a surreal morse code.

The living room is home
to a family of nettles.

A sofa moulders
a new line in zombie furniture.

A hare stands upon a chair
barely able to hold itself together.

One of the chair's legs
genuflects to a sunset.

The hare hops upon
the rotting table top

enters the tree's head
and leaves upon its branches.

Somehow the bucket
survives.

Still standing outside
the outhouse.

It is full of storm
right to the brim.

It holds within itself
the moon of now.

Trains no longer
thunder by.

I, that child
now - this man

let the moon
splash through my man

before throwing it
into the night's sky.

Always wanted to do that
before I kicked the bucket.
238 · Apr 2018
SO I DID SIT...& EAT!
Donall Dempsey Apr 2018
SO I DID SIT...& EAT!

You lay yourself
on the bed

as if you were a feast
tastefully arranged

here a breast
tipped with ******

here a curve
of buttock

tense and taut
with desire

here a leg
cast shamelessly outward

displaying
the deliciousness

of your ***
hungry to be looked upon

I too
hungry as any wolf
in any fairy story

cry out: 'Ohhh...
...what eager eyes you have! '

See my hunger
reflected in yours

as I nibble you down
to your wish    bone.
******

Always loved Herbert's LOVE and I guess somewhere in the back of my consciousness this was somewhere somehow there and its last line become the title of my slightly more up to date if not sedate version of the feast of love.

LOVE

Love bade me welcome yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey’d Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
If I lack’d anything.

A guest, I answer’d, worthy to be here:
Love said, You shall be he.
I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,
I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
Who made the eyes but I?

Truth Lord, but I have marr’d them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?
My dear, then I will serve.
You must sit down, says Love, and ******* meat:
So I did sit and eat.

George Herbert
Donall Dempsey Aug 2023
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

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
238 · Sep 2022
THE USELESSNESS OF MAPS
Donall Dempsey Sep 2022
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:
Donall Dempsey Jun 2018
ANY ONE VOWEL OF THE SINGER'S CHOOSING

The photo freezes
us into

this exact
instant.

Yet leaves out
the intense heat.

We locked into this
kiss forever

happening in colour
frozen in B&W.

Curiously there are no
insects in this

photographic world.

Yet so many
on that "then."

We are at once badly
smitten & bitten.

Our friend's song
also is not

captured
as the world stops

for just that
instant.

Her naked voice
stripped of words

her vocalise
tangled amongst

sunlight and leaves.

A fingerprint in purple
paint( added years later )

is not visible
on this

day of days
a thing tangible

as a soul
made visible

in deep purple.

The photo also fails
to convey

your lip's softness

the kiss's smell
of Chardonnay & menthol ciggies.

Sweet sweat
trickling into eyes wide open

our breaths
mingling.

I take in all
the photo elects

to leave
out.

The kiss
hidden now

by death...
...the death of days

and that infamous
famous purple fingerprint.
***

Vocalise, Op. 34, No. 14, is a song by Sergei Rachmaninoff, composed and published in 1915 as the last of his "Fourteen Songs", Op. 34. Written for high voice (soprano or tenor) with piano accompaniment, it contains no words, but is sung using any one vowel (of the singer's choosing). It was dedicated to soprano Antonina Nezhdanova.

Ha ha...I just like the phrase...it is the instruction to the singer and I had only heard it sung on an O so my friend was doing A...I...E...U...and Y versions for me! All this singing floating about as the camera goes click in the middle of a kiss and we are trapped in a b&w forever. It was going to be called WHAT THE PHOTO LEAVES OUT but I'm much more pleased with its present title! Singers tend to do "O" versions mostly! Although there is a theremin version!
238 · Jan 2017
ATLASES OF THE MIND
Donall Dempsey Jan 2017
ATLASES OF THE MIND

an Atlantic ocean of a sky
clouds creating creatures
from a crazy Book of Kells

all carved from the pages
of the living Now
238 · Dec 2016
FASTENED TO THE AIR
Donall Dempsey Dec 2016
FASTENED TO THE AIR

Here, your laughter
fastened to the air

with a little twist
of memory.

Time, spell stopped
as it were.

Your laughter
pinned to this

particular place
this

little scrap of sky
and field

that to an unobservant  eye
would mean nothing

...nothing at all.

But see, your laughter
unfurls its flag of self

snapping in the stiff wind
of what's lost is lost.

This simple second
alive for ever.

I pick it as
I would a flower

untouched by either

time or
death.
Donall Dempsey May 2019
"BEWARE THE DONALL DEMPSEY MY SON!"

The frog slid slowly down
my throat.

It's legs sticking out of
my mouth...still kicking.

The world was running away
into the final darkness.

My eyes were robbed
of trees and sun.

The day being stolen
from me.

"Death by frog!"
How unlikely a dying.

The bullies were all
short-trousered lads like me

sculpted from the sunlight
of 1963.

Then either the frog gave
a desperate last minute kick

or I silently yelled
and expelled

friend frog who
having escaped death by swallowing

hopped it
lost itself in the long grass.

Perhaps the horrible tale
of down-the-gullet

is told still to its descendents
far removed from that sunny day.

"Better watch out..." Mamma Frog
would make her voice shiver

making her tiddlers tremble
with trepidation

"...or the Donall Dempsey
will get you!"
237 · Nov 2016
THE STRING ON THE KITE
Donall Dempsey Nov 2016
THE STRING ON THE KITE

The wind flowed
into the room

like an immense invisible
river

pushing aside the curtains
of stone.

The world was
in flood & i

felt like a cow
stuck on a roof

my mind meandering
in a fever

me...mere human debris
caught on a bend.

I lost inside of me.

my sister's voice calling
my name as if

I were a distant planet
that had yet to be discovered

the shreds of self
clinging to the love

in her voice
the string on the kite.
236 · Mar 2017
JESUS WEEPS
Donall Dempsey Mar 2017
JESUS WEEPS

Jesus begins to doubt
himself.

Not the Son of God bit
or whether he need

go through
with this.

What Jesus really doubts is
no...not...the future of man but

future man and what
they will make of him

whether they will really
understand

this sacrifice of self
this...this...love?

"Father, forgive them for.."
he sweats blood

"...for they know exactly what
they do!"
236 · Oct 2019
WRITING BAREFOOT
Donall Dempsey Oct 2019
WRITING BAREFOOT

Being frisked
at Dublin airport.

"What's dat in yer
back pocket?"

"An unfinished poem!"
I admit ruefully.

"Is it metal?"
he asks.

"No, it's mental!"
I tell him.

"You know, a bunch of words
hanging about on a piece of paper."

"Go on with ya!"
he smirks.

"And next time...
remove yer shoes."

On the plane I
kick off my shoes and

finish off the unfinished
poem.

Now I
always write barefoot.
***

On my way to Jersey to perform at the Opera House I was asked at the airport after a thorough search refused to yield why I had bleeped...."Excuse me sir but could I look inside your hair?" I was only hiding curly thoughts inside my curly hair.
236 · Aug 2016
WEARING MY BROTHER
Donall Dempsey Aug 2016
WEARING MY BROTHER

I'm not a suit & tie guy.
More colourdy hats & tie-dye.

I approximate the teacher suit
smart jacket & maybe matching trousers.

Now, here I am
at your funeral.

Standing in your clothes.

Black suit & suitably black tie.

Thanks to you.

Borrowed Brian.

For weeks I wear you
like a second skin.

You impregnated into
the material

the smell of your skin

the warp and weft of you.

I go out to
meet the world.

Wearing my brother.
236 · Sep 2023
THE PATHWAY OF HER SONG
Donall Dempsey Sep 2023
THE PATHWAY OF HER SONG

Granny's garden
she's in there somewhere
only her song visible

camouflaged by
her ripening gooseberries
Granny sings to the summer

I follow
the path of her
song

pillowcases & tea towels
drying on bushes & branches
Granny and the birds sing

I step on each note
a pathway
through the air

Granny's garden overgrown
with Time
her song still rests upon the air

Granny's garden
she's in there somewhere
hidden by Death

I step upon each note
still following
the pathway of her song

*

She was always Granny to me and I loved her dearly. She was almost blind by this time and when we went down to Ballea she would feel your face  with her fingertips as if she she were sculpting you out of thin air...it was always lovely to be created by Granny...you felt brand new as if you had just popped into the world that second.

I went back to Ballea when it was half a ruin and Nellie's bedroom had no ceiling and was flooded and her brass bed was a ship for a chicken and photographs floated face down as if dead...this is one I rescued from the waters of time...hence its state but I kinda love it all the more for that...in that it should by rights be gone but...it isn't. I loved her immensely as any little boy who had a granny like her...would do. I used to curl into her little flower covered apron which I thought were tiny tinchy stars and she would croon songs to me or just sounds that soothed...she was incredibly beautiful to me and a constant source of wonder. Her garden with goosegogs and an abundance of flowers was my paradise...I would sit for hours covered by flowers and eating too many gooseberries and the world couldn't find me...there was just the universe of me until granny's voice called me into being and I ran towards her open arms.
After she died I came back to find her iconic apron torn up and used to polish shoes...I used to hug it and cry and cry.
It was as if she had been cut out of the universe and where she should have been was a granny shaped hole that looked into the nothingness.
236 · Apr 2017
A SILKEN CHAIN
Donall Dempsey Apr 2017
A SILKEN CHAIN

The wolf
they call Death

has taken you
to its lair

in the far far away
of long long ago.

Like those Norse craftsmen
from the Nowhere of Time

I am called upon
to fashion

a silken chain
to bind you...to me.

I unwilling
to let you go.

I search for the firstly
secondly and thirdly.

The fourthly and fifthly
and the sixthly and lastly.

Not knowing the what
and wherefore of it all.

I find the footsteps
of a cat.

The breath
of a chicken.

The spittle
of a bird.

The roots of a mountain.

Unable now to think
of the last two.

So, Death holds you
but - so do I.

You are tied
to us both.

The silken chain of
love and memory.


Loki setting off to the Land of the Frost Giants to have it off with the giantess Angroboda  with whom he begats three children. His wife Sigyn knows nothing of all this but Odin sees it all with his one eye. There is a girl called Hel who is fair of face on one side and the face of a rotting corpse on the other side. There is a serpent child Jormungundr and a wolf child Fenrir.
Ye Gods but the Gods fear Fenrir who grows more and more bigger...more and more stronger every day. They fool him into being chained but he breaks all bonds. So it is up to those talented dwarves up North to gather ingredients to fashion a chain that cannot be broken. This is the silken chain called Gleipnir. I very much liked the ingredients (the two I couldn't remember were the beard of a woman and the sinews of a bear ) and my Da asked me what I was laughing at so I read them out to him. So he laughed too.

So this is Fenrir's story crossed with my Da's story.

As he lay dying I tired to remember the magic ingredients but failed. I wanted a chain made of words and love that could not be broken.
236 · Mar 2017
WELL DRESSED WOMAN
Donall Dempsey Mar 2017
WELL DRESSED WOMAN

naked woman
wearing only a ladybird
just above her left ******
236 · Jun 2017
THE LATEST SCORE
Donall Dempsey Jun 2017
THE LATEST SCORE

I feel you
in my bones.

You walk when
I walk.

The shadow of you
in my voice.

You talk when
I talk.

"How you. .
.get in there?"

I laugh
with your laughter.

"Don't believe in graves!"
you answer

breathing with my breath
speaking the wordless words.

"Don't believe in death...
either!"

you add to your hypothesis
as if further proof were needed.

You jump around
in my blood

hijacking my pulse.

"Hiya bud!"
you say

thinking with my thoughts
in that same slow easy drawl.

"This is where
the dead go

. . .when they die."

I know the living
ghost of my brother

. . .would never lie.

"Hey...!" says
my never forgotten brother

"...go easy on the ghost stuff!"
he smiles.

"Don't believe in ghosts either!"

"The dead live
inside those they love..."

I complete the sentence
for him

thinking now
with his thoughts.

Now we both laugh
with the same laugh.

"So, what's the latest score?"

"Look likes...we're winning!"
235 · Mar 2021
ROVER SAVES MANKIND
Donall Dempsey Mar 2021
ROVER SAVES MANKIND


unaware of earth's customs
aliens invade on April 1st
earthlings refuse to take them seriously



"Yeah, like...right!" or
"Woah! Great costumes mannn!" or
"Take me to your reader, yuk yuk yuk!"



the small four legged earthling
called Rover ran rings around us
howling "...ow...oW. . OQ!"




passed fluid from its rear end
onto Org's left strider boot
hisssss...cackle....pooooof



Org blows a fuse
collapses in a heap
crawls out of his survival suit



"Why it's tinier than a shrimp!"
the "...ow...oW. . OQ!" creature
gobbles him up



the the four legged creature
invades our ship
passes fluid on our controls



"No...oh nooooo!" we yell
"...ow...oW. . OQ!" it yells
the motherboard goes up in smoke



so here we are
stuck on this strange planet
trying to avoid being eaten



hide in the hills
only come out again on April 1st
what are we doing wrong



once again demand
their immediate surrender
they only make their "ha...hA. . .HA!" sounds


"Yeah, like...right!" or
"Woah! Great costumes mannn!" or
"Take me to your reader, yuk yuk yuk!"
235 · Sep 2016
DE MA & DE DA & US
Donall Dempsey Sep 2016
DE MA & DE DA & US

Her voice
ran out

to meet us
before she did

her singing
gathering us up

held invisibly
in each note

as if already
we were a bunch

of flowers
in her hand

before she pulled us close
to her cuddly warmness

all *******
& softness

my mother’s love
enclosing us

as if she were
prepared to die for us.

She, the mother hen
and we her precious chicks.

My Dad’s bicycle bell
& laughter

conjuring him up
before he turned the corner

and presented himself
to us

as if he were
the most wonderful present

we could ever desire

His love all full of fun
and songs and laughter.

Us kids
stood enraptured

captivated by
these beings

and their out of this world

...love.
235 · Jan 2024
LIVING THE FAIRY TALE
Donall Dempsey Jan 2024
LIVING THE FAIRY TALE

make her
a doll's house
from McVities Gingerbread

Cake she
absolutely adores
"Yum...yum!"

having her
fairytale and
eating it

*

Her dolls line up on the kitchen table. Keeping their greedy eyes on the ingredients, The Golden Syrup gleams in a bowl like a jewel. For this session of cooking with Daddy( always good for a laugh)the lights have..**** them gone...out.

We prepare ourselves by candlelight.
I swear one of the dolls winks and licks her lips in the flickering. The big doll that can wet herself...wets herself.  
Little daughter is wearing a chief's traditional hat many sizes too big for her. She wears it like a crown. She looks like a mushroom come alive.

"Tonight..." I proclaim like the showman that I am to my assembled audience of girl and dolls. "Tonight I shall create before your very own eyes...my very own Jamaican Ginger Cake." I get dolls and girl to say the magic words "Yum Yum YUM!" and hey presto we're off.

Tilly tells the dolls in a loud whisper that "Daddy isn't as good at this as Mummy is!" My pride smarts. I'll show the little blighters I swear and swear to myself.

"Just get on with it!" the dolls scream silently.

Tilly already has a finger( not her own)in the Golden Syrup. She licks the guilty finger and fibs outlandishly "Dolly wanted to taste it!"
The black treacle remains untouched. The dolls don't like it. "Only in the cake!" Tilly confesses.

Soon spices and flour are sifted. Eggs beaten to within an inch of their lives...whisking about the bowl. "Let there be light!" I invoke the Gods and the lights come back. I am indeed favoured.

Tilly falls asleep in the kitchen's fug and warmth...curled about her sleeping cat. The cat is always asleep even when awoke.

The dolls never take their eyes off of me.

Now comes the time when the cake puffs up with pride and sits on its plate like a newly crowned monarch.  It's...it's...not bad for a Dad. But looks a bit the worse for wear..bits falling off here and there...a bit eaten...just a nibble and maybe another little nibble.

"But why Mr. Dempsey..." my Indian grocer demands with amazement "...do you want thirty..THIRTY McVities  Jamaican Ginger Cakes...for why...it's not the end of the world is it...or Brexit?"

"I'm building a house!" I whisper to him as if it is our little secret.

When she awakes..the cat as ever still asleep ...she yawns "Dolls gone..where dolls goned?"

The kitchen looks as immaculate as a conception...as if man has never touched it.

"Shhh...dolls is sleep!" I say sotto voce and adopting her lingo.
"In their own house!" I add for extra measure. Her eyes go wide.

And indeed dolls are lying down with eyes shut tight inside...their newly constructed Jamaica Gingerbread House. All except for the big doll who wet herself and who I have propped up on the loo. Although she is on the loo she finds now she can't go.

"Mmm!" Tilly  mmms. "Dolls have lovely house!" eating the door and half the roof off. Cake in her curls...cake up her nose and in an ear. She eats it with all of her head. "MMMM!" she mmmms again.

"We won't tell if you don't..." the winking doll whispers (like the co-conspirator that she is) waking up in a real life fairy tale "..if you don't tell!"

The next evening... the house eaten...I pop into Mr. Patel's. "Surely not more!" he almost flinches.

"No...just the one this time Mr. Patel...just the one!"
235 · Mar 2016
BELIEVE IN ME
Donall Dempsey Mar 2016
BELIEVE IN ME

You bang your head
on the moon

( stifle our giggles )

my scarf snags on a tree

(  suppress our  hee hee hees )

we tip toe through a sea
trying not to. . .

( laugh ha ha ha.....shhhhhhh! )

But hey....it was only
a paper moon

and you know...a muslin tree

and yeah yeah sure sure
a cardboard sea.

The moon tumbles and falls
rolls at our feet.

The tree has attached itself
to me.

I tread on a wave
and the sea snaps.

Here back stage

nothing is real
unless thinking makes it so.

But the kiss
the kiss is

a Barnum and Bailey kiss
the whole ******* circus.

This kiss( stage managed as it  is )is:
the only real reality we know.
235 · Sep 2020
IT WAS A FRABJOUS DAY
Donall Dempsey Sep 2020
IT WAS A FRABJOUS DAY

The Jabberwock was
having its usual

cup of coffee
its tenth of the day.

Black.
Always black.

One could see coffee grains
caught in its teeth

Always the same
big grin.

We joked
(behind its back of course)

that Jabberwock
meant coffee ******.

Not because we were fearful
but because he was such

a sensitive soul
and we didn't want to

cause offense
where no offense was meant.

It could get a bit
uffish.

An unlit cigarette clung
to its slobbery lips.

It didn't smoke but
wanted to appear to do so.

The mome raths were outgrabbing
they never seemed to stop.

The Cheshire Cat
(not all there)

smiled its smile
we called it Mona Lisa.

We were all just
hanging about

as you do when
your author ponders.

Nobody dared to
approach him.

He was a God
to us.

Me and the rest of the Toves
knew our place

and played cards
with the Borogoves.

The Borogoves
were cheaters.

The Jubjub birds were
bored out of their tiny skulls

perching in the branches of
the TumTum trees in Tulgey Wood.

The Bandersnatch was having
a frumious forty winks.

We were glad to be
just alive if only

in words -
words was our world.

No use getting all
mimsy about it.

We weren't as slithy
as we were made out to be.

We practiced our
gyre and gimble.

We were merely
the creatures of his brain.

We wouldn't dare disturb
the Author for fear

of being
scratched out.

Nobody 'cept the manxome
Jabberwock that is.  

"But what's my motivation  Mr. Carroll?"
He'd forever burble.

"Could I not take just a small bite perhaps
out of the little beamish chap ?" he'd whiffle.

Mr. Carroll( nobody dared
to call him Lewis)

just smiled and
Jack Jabberwock would galumphed back.

"Ok! Places everyone - 'tis brillig!
and the story limped on again.

It was a frabjous day
a really frabjous day.

All that could be heard was
the dripping of a tap

and the constant
scratching of the pen

creating forever
creating

the next sentence.
235 · Aug 2017
SALVATION IS WITHIN YOU
Donall Dempsey Aug 2017
SALVATION IS WITHIN YOU


"SALVATION IS
WITHIN YOU!"

said the crumbling
brick wall

with a brick or two
missing

in a spraycan-ish
graffiti voice.

A one-eyed cat
appeared

to be the owner
of this wall

patrolling it fiercely
back and forth backandforth.

"SALVINATION IS WITHIN YOU!"
the wall kept repeating.

The rain was
unrelenting

as if it bore a grudge
against the world

of this
particular moment.

The rain hopping off the ground
and disappearing back into

its falling self.

I wished I could do that.

Hunger gnawed
at me.

My stomach growled
at a passing dog

and the passing dog
growled at me.

The piece of darkness
in the shape of a one-eyed cat

saw it
on its way.

Tail between its legs
the scruffy dog whined off.

I rested my weariness
against the SALV

of the red and blue bricked
scrawl

ATION
emerging from my right temple.

Even the graffiti
seemed to resent

my presence.

I looked within me
and found

the usual
nothing.

The day was ten years long and
had barely begun.

"SALVATION IS
WITHIN YOU!"

I told the rain
falling in fast forward

as I was held
on pause.

But the rain
wasn't listening

to anyone but
itself.
235 · May 2018
THE NEW GODS
Donall Dempsey May 2018
THE NEW GODS

The rain
rained

as was
its wont.

It was just being
itself.

Paying no attention
to the humans

caught up in
its moment.

"Wow!" said the humans.
"Wow!" the wind mimicked them,

An old shed
offered them its protection.

Already they
soaked to the skin

set about
removing everything.

The rain now
galvanised itself.

Above their head the world was
being pulled apart

atom by atom
it seemed

that if they were to
emerge that moment

there would be nothing upon nothing
for ever and ever.

They huddled together
fearful of the thought

as if it could come
true.

They pooled their warmth
together

flesh cleaving to flesh
they knew each other

in a Biblical way.

They were taming the storm
remaking the world

with their love
even as it was

torn apart.

Each caress
putting back

molecule by molecule
the lost world.

When the great monster rain
had sulked off

they came again
into a day

made of sunshine
and the wonder

of what was
to be.

The world
created anew

in their own
image.

They now
the new gods.
Donall Dempsey Apr 2017
I WISH YOU WERE OLD AND WEATHERED

I wish that you were old and weathered
that wrinkles irrigated your face
that your hair was a halo of white
that your bones ached
and that you complained
with coughs and curses
about your great old age

rather than
Death held you
young & forever

locked in the centre
of his ageless eye.
Donall Dempsey Oct 2018
"YOU'LL BE SHARING WITH AN OLD RAF ACE
...TRY NOT TO WAKE HIM!"

The voice in the dark
telling me his life in a full

fathomed five voice
detail after detail after detail

stitched onto the darkness
so that I can relive it

unpick it
make it my own.

The voice in the dark
young and vigorous

so alive
so full of life.

"Jerry shot our guys...did so they did
as they came down in their parachutes."

A dandelion blown
by a child.

"Fishing is nice..fishing is calming!"
The man I can not see

moves from past to present
like a professional time traveller.

"We'd wait for a Jerry train
to go into a tunnel then..."

"Have you ever fished for trout..?
...then do a loop de loop and

bomb the tunnel at the other end...
...casting the fly far out on the water then

fly over and bomb the end of the tunnel
**** and bury the ******* at the one and the same time!"

Finally the voice in the dark
winds down as if it had been merely

a mechanical toy that
time forgot.

Sunlight invades the room
throws itself upon the floor

a parallelogram of morning
etched upon the floor.

The voice in the dark
is a gaunt old man

corpse like
mouth open  in a final plea

for forgiveness for
still being alive when

"...better chaps than I
died."

His story seeding itself
inside me

before turning
into words.
234 · Feb 2017
AND SO SAYS ALL OF ME
Donall Dempsey Feb 2017
AND SO SAYS ALL OF ME

There's more naked
yous...than...you

can shake a stick at
( so the mirror reflects ).

Here's you all at once
from the front, side and back

all at once and
simultaneously

your laughter shaking
your shoulders as you sing

Yello's
"Oh yeah...ooooo....YEAH!"

"Wow! I I wasn't me..."
you gasp

"I'd really fancy me!"
you nod in agreement

with your **** ****
mirror selves.

"You're a very very
lucky lucky fellow!"

you inform me
for my information.

And I agree
with all of you.

The mirror laughs.
And so do you.
234 · Jun 2019
A WOMAN IS CRYING
Donall Dempsey Jun 2019
A WOMAN IS CRYING

In the next room
a woman is crying

a moon
perches upon an hotel sign

unmoved

as a new millennium
dawns

as bright as neon

the woman
still crying

her unknown
despair

shifting silently
from one century to another

human grief
unchanged

from age
to age.

A woman is crying.
New York with one century becoming another and in this one moment on the threshold of a new age...a woman cries her own private grief...a sorrow that has no name but seems to be the grief of all ages now and to come. I never discovered the reason for such sorrow and the neon coloured it blue and yellow and then red.
Donall Dempsey May 2018
GRANNY SHOCKS THE GRANDCHILDREN

me I always
wore a yellow pinafore dress
displaying my what-should-not-be-seen

or a Sgt. Pepper's jacket
serving as a dress...showing off
buttocks & knickers to great effect

moved from squat to squat
lived on hash and Mateus Rosé
***?was just...eh...there

I had loads of lads
loads of lads had me
music and *** - the twin gods

forget "I wanna hold your hand"
we were Stones fans mannnnn
sang "Lets spend the night together"

I wanted to be Juliette Gréco
read/re-read THE STORY OF O
De Sade's 120 DAYS OF *****

?morals?
yeah!yeah!yeah!
whatever

we were all of us always
trying to find ourselves
or escape from ourselves

Granda was mad
bad and gorgeous to know
like straying off the path into

the forest of a fairy story
a **** scary beast
my very own big bad wolf

an Mmmmmmmm
kind of man
"Eat me...eat me!" I'd yell at him

*** was that...what
cheered up those forever
endless rainy British afternoon
234 · Sep 2024
SNOW FALLS
Donall Dempsey Sep 2024
SNOW FALLS

She wakes to a morning
with no reason for living

cries in the mirror
to be forgiven.

Puts on her make-up
takes off her clothes

sits there & bleeds
until she can’t feel

the blood in her veins
...runs cold.

The razorblade
bleeds...bleeds.

The cat cries
to be fed.

The batteries in her Walkman
go dead.

The Rachmaninov stops.

A letter she will never read
drops on the Welcome mat.

A mobile rings & rings &...stops.

A member of a minor political party
looking for her vote

rings the doorbell twice
slips on the ice    &   ruins his coat.

Curses.

A man laughs at another man’s joke.
It’s a big laugh...he’s a big bloke.

Laughter invades the square.

There’s a chill in the air.

A friend calls for her
(to go on a blind date)  

...she doesn’t hear.

Snow...
...snow...
...snow falls.
234 · Aug 2019
WHEN THE REALITY RUNS OUT
Donall Dempsey Aug 2019
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
233 · Sep 2020
AS GAEILGE (In Irish)
Donall Dempsey Sep 2020
AS GAEILGE
(In Irish)

Dún do súile
(Close your eyes)

Codail go lá...mo ghrá séimh.
(Sleep until day...my gentle love) .

Codail go sámh go sámh.
(Sleep peacefully...peacefully) .

Éirdeoidh an ghealach seo...
...is rachaidh an ghrian seo faoi

(This moon will rise...
...this sun will set)

aire 'gus grá
i gconaí
(care and love always)

gach oíche 's gach lá
gach lá 's gach oíche.
(every night every day
every day ever night) .

Mo phlúirín!
Mo stóirín!
Mo mhuirnín!
(My little flower!
My little treasure!
My little darling!)

Ach anois...
(But now...)

codail go sámh go séimh
(sleep peacefully...gently)

go fáinne an lae
(until the break of day)

le mise
ar do taobh.
(with me
by your side) .

Losing our baby
late into the night

holding this little thing
that only attempted to be human

unable to let go

I clasped the foetus
tightly in my hand

& buried it in the dawn
of our local park

under a recently planted
red rose bush.

In my grief
flower & baby
became one

and night after night I climbed
over high railings & even higher stars

to talk to her in the dark in Irish.

Or sing: My Love is like a Red Red Rose.

Or cry...or...cry.

Almost got arrested one night
by an Irish cop
drawn to the sound
of Irish emerging from darkness.

Guess he let me go because - it wouldn’t look good
on a charge sheet:

“The defendant was talking
& crying to...a flower.”

- in Irish.

Eist...eist
(listen...listen)

duinne eagin ag caoineadh
(someone is crying)

in a dorchasan
(in his darkness) .

Fill...fill...a run o!

Fill a run o is na imigh uaim.

Fill orm a chuisle a stor

agus chifeadh tu an gloire... ma fhillean tu!
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