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748 · Nov 2015
"...AS TREES WALKING . . ."
Donall Dempsey Nov 2015
"...AS TREES WALKING . . ."

the goldfish ponders
the world the other side of the glass
retires to its castle

it watches the coming
& goings of us
unable to explain our existence

"...I see men as trees walking. . ."
the vicar reads
his thought visible to the fishes

"...but what does it mean?"
one fish asks the other
"...and what are - trees?"

the vicar dies
in his sleep
words still floating about in his head

the fish unable to explain
his stillness....loudly
the clock talks in tick tocks

the God hand
that feeds them...does not
come

hungry for answers
they cease
to believe

Time
darkens
whitens

& again
darkens
whitens

it all goes belly up
the dead vicar & his dead fish
frightening the home help

only the plastic Christ
nailed to the wall
hears her scream
745 · Jun 2017
JOLLY GOOD SHOW
Donall Dempsey Jun 2017
JOLLY GOOD SHOW

All day
stuck up this ****** tree

in the middle of ****** nowhere.

All the landscape
shrunk to this crossroads

like the cross-hairs
on a gun sight

brings the distance
into focus.

“****** Nora! ”
He swears to himself and laughs.

His mother’s name was Nora.

Always thought it was hilarious
to swear by her.

Remembers one time as a boy
swearing at her:

“And eh by gum
she didn’t half hit me hard! ”

“Blood seeping through the gum
still taste the taste of it on my tongue
****** ‘orrible it was!

Hated her ever since.”

“Now, look whatcha made me done! ”
she hollered at him.

“Yes…sorry our Mum! ”

He didn’t dare cry
‘cos she’d hit for crying!

“She was a hard one…our Mum!
Had to be with us ****** lot!

She were fun though when she were happy! ”

He hoped to God
that his man would come

so he could **** him
and be done.

Didn’t know him
from Adam

(leader of the insurgents
capable of getting men around him) .

“Dangerously charismatic! ”

Better dead
to keep the British peace alive

as the Empire lay dying.

The sun setting
dying him a golden brown.

“If he don’t come soon
I won’t have the light to **** him.”

“Remembering shooting game with our Dad
rabbit…pheasant...up ‘eath in sunlight

. . .such as this.”

The dangly ****** rabbit
turning into next night’s stew

eating a celebration
of what you can do

- do well...****.

How he came to be
here

up a ****** gum tree
gun in hand…staring

waiting for a man to ****.

Same ****** thing.
Simple ****** plan!

Waiting 3 days now
and no man.

“Keep your position ...over.”
“Maintain radio silence.”

“Report in when job done.”
“Roger ok that...over & out.”

“Eager to get job done so I can go ****** ‘ome!”

“Didn’t believe it myself
until I seed it! ”

Dot in the distance
translating itself into a man.

Just enough light left
for killing.

“And now, put out the light
...put out the light! ”

He muttered to himself.

****** Othello!
The only Shakespeare he knew.

“A lass I once knew
A real brain & chatter box! ”

“I only ever wanted to get into her knickers
& the only way to do so was to listen…so I listened.”

“Trying to teach ****** me Proper English
and she ****** well Scottish!

****** cheek!
...och aye...but nooo! ”

The crossroads funnel him into
the killing spot

“Trot trot trot trot!
like Noyes’s THE HIGHWAYMAN!

Noyes! No...yes!

Why think of
Majorie Wallace and her ****** poetry now!

No poetry in killing
just plain ****** prose.

Dead is dead is dead.

A blown rose
fading on the periphery of his vision.

The cross-hairs
come to rest

like a deadly spider
on the rider’s face.

He’s ****** grinning.

The man doesn’t even know
he’s already dead!

Won’t even know what’***** him!

(Probably thinking of a sweetheart
and getting her into ****** bed)

Just like I am.

Just the gentlest of squeezes

like stroking a lassie’s ****
(Oh Marjorie ****** Wallace!)

Then - that’s it!
The rifle spits and speaks

in the language of the dead

and only one man understands
what’s said.

And where there was a head
there is now no head.

You see it only
for the briefest of seconds

and can’t really believe it!

How the head blossoms!

Like a sudden flower
and then fades

in that
instant.

Mindless now...

he plucks the faded rose
(or whatever it is it’s called around here)

reminds him of
England.

Pops it into
an amo pocket.

Good clean ****.

Head shot – one shot.

Tries to pretend...
but it always hits him hard

taking a closer look
at his handiwork.

Kicks the body:
“You poor stupid ****** ******! ”

“A man no less a man
than I am...”

Faceless.

Lying there
in the dirt
as he were only having a kip.

Becoming dirt.

Breaks radio silence:
“Come and ****** well pick me up! ”

“Jolly well done! ”

The radio cackles back.

“Jolly good show! ”
743 · Jul 2015
'OH, I SAY!"
Donall Dempsey Jul 2015
"I bagged this one
out in In-di-A!"

...the braggart's boast.

"It's a very rare
( these days)ALGERNON!"

And indeed, an Algernon
bares his teeth

above the roaring fire's
mantlepiece.

He looked startled as
he had been shot just that second.

"The head is splendidly mounted
complete with handlebar moustache

...& monocle.

One feels that one could
pop next door and there

would be ha ha...the rest of
Algernon

sticking out the other side.

The glint in the eye
the sneer just so

...right.

"And to the right of the Algernon
is a genuine Cuthbert.

Again from 1901 or there or
thereabouts."

"It is indeed a perfect specimen of
the good old chap..."

the white rhino brags yet again
of what he calls his baggings.

White Rhino's
collection of colonials

is the envy of
all the other animals.

"Some more hot *** old chum?"

But the White Tiger
puts a paw over his glass.

Declines.

The fire's flickering
leaping up the wall.

The shadow making
the humans almost

come alive

as if the Cuthbert
could turn to the Algernon

and say
"OH...I SAY!
741 · Feb 2018
THE CICADAS GOING CRAZY
Donall Dempsey Feb 2018
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 kiss a nose

that still
took time's breath away

the cicadas
going crazy.
Donall Dempsey Dec 2015
'AHHHHH, MAKE ME A CUP OF TEA!"

Here, in this living room
my mother lies

in her coffin.

Death, the uninvited guest
makes itself at home.

I sit beside her
as if in a play

not knowing
the next line

is mine...

In the cast list
I am her first

boy
I am

unable to cry
now

unable to believe
the realness

of this
reality.

Memory is unable
to hold her

she spills from my mind
like water

held in the hands.


My mind cuts
a cross section

through time

so that she is
here

in all her living
guises

little girl...young woman
mother.

I see her
as all she forever is

can ever be. . .

Tears drop
upon her

face
tears that can't

stop
as if now

she cries
for me.

I wipe my tears
from her face.

"Don't cry..."
I whisper into her hair

"I'll make you a cup of tea."

The clock
refuses to chime.

There is no time
left.
728 · Dec 2018
TEETHING TROUBLE
Donall Dempsey Dec 2018
TEETHING TROUBLE

Armed to the teeth
with

teeth
(all newly acquired)

you delight
in biting me

leaving little
indented marks

like moons
that glow on my arms.

“Don’t let her bite you like that! ”

Her mother scolds
both her & me.

I laugh.

“Let her practice! ”

My flesh willing to be
bitten

to ease her
teething troubles.

she looks up
at me

(all chortles and drool)

takes another
nip of me

“Naw...naw...naw! ”
gnawing at my flesh

smiling up at me
with all her little teeth.

I kiss her
on the top of her

adorable
head

adorned with
a classic kiss curl.

“Da...da...da! ”
she thanks me.
727 · Nov 2016
IN FLOOD
Donall Dempsey Nov 2016
IN FLOOD

You run down
the stairs

quickly quickly

your floating skirt
flowing step by step

after you

as if it were
your own private river

splashing at your heels

my heart flooded
with desire.
Donall Dempsey Mar 2016
SYNIAT NA HITAR PETAR *
( THE DREAM OF CLEVER PETER )

the pitter patter of Bulgarian
raindrops...waiting for a taxi
'"Hitar Petar... Hitar Petar...!"

Bulgarian rain that
clever trickster here then
gone again...here again

up on the roof
one last gaze at Sofia
we dance to gǎdulka and tambura
***

HITAR PETAR is a clever trickster character in Bulgarian folklore that I had just learnt about so his name mingled with the pitter patter of Sofian rain.
SYNIAT NA HITAR PETAR is a gorgeous piece of Bulgarian music that still dances inside my head with ever increasing delight. Gǎdulka and tambura are traditional Bulgarian stringed instruments.

Hristina Beleva & Petar Milanov are the wonderful instrumentalists who pluck this music of the air and place it firmly in my head so that the music never leaks out!
724 · Mar 2015
USELESS BEAUTY
Donall Dempsey Mar 2015
USELESS BEAUTY

I  gaze
into air

this empty space
inside where you

no longer are.

Stars twinkle simple
as a nursery rhyme

planets revolve

maintain their perfectly
elliptical courses.

I am eclipsed.
An ellipses...

without your words
your kiss.

The night sky
plucks a star

pins it
on my chest

a medal
for making it this far

beyond grief

beyond hope

for remembering not to
forget to...

remember.

The Heavens
in all their glory

bless me
curse me

with words

to spell out
your absence

your presence

the only thing
that would

make sense of
all this

useless beauty.
Donall Dempsey Jun 2020
!LEPRECHAUNS' *****!
(for the glorious M.F.F.)

Gorging on goosegogs
stolen from Granny's garden

all the sweeter for the stealing
despite their inherent tartness.

We never able to make up
our minds whether we

liked them or not
but loving 'em all the same.

Mary and her mind games
trying to prevent me eating

the last one
informs me that "...goosegogs is

the hairy green testicles
of leprechauns."

But despite being armed
with this knowledge I

pop it in my mouth
proclaiming it " De...

lic..ious!" all the same.
Mary looks at me with disgust.

Goosegogs the eternal
taste of summer when

summer hath no ending
and everything was only

a beginning
and there was such a thing as

leprechauns' *****.
***

"what I hate about gooseberries is their look, feel, smell and taste" - Edwin Morgan, "A View of Things"
721 · Apr 2018
GRANDDAD TENDS HIS DAHLIAS
Donall Dempsey Apr 2018
GRANDDAD TENDS HIS DAHLIAS

the fog
walks among the tombs
"I encounter my first ***

he was a man
he looked just like me
as if I were...killing myself!"

stretching back
through space & time
the instant of that moment

the German falls
beside a tomb
like a badly written play

Granddad bayonettes
the German...looks surprised
to be dying

Granddad plunges the bayonette in
twists it about
the German almost grins

then the dance
of the living & the dying
in strict time

the German goes down
on one knee
as if proposing to Death

Granddad stabs the German
through the lifeline
of his left hand

the dying German's
left outstretched hand
like a man about to sing a song

"As he fell
his hand touched my hand
'This...' I thought '...is hell!'"

all his life
the touch...that touch
impossible to shake off

Granddad tends his dahlias
the dying German
still clouding his eyes
Donall Dempsey Sep 2015
"Look, Kirk..!" I stab at the map
"Yes, the Barzan Wormhole is unstable but~
it's our only hope!"

Kirk's face blanches
Spock tries to show no emotion
"Highly illogical, yet. . ?"

Now, 70,000 light years away
"My God, Capn. Dempsey.."" Kirk smirks
"...it worked...it...worked. . !"

"Worked...of course it worked!"
I bluff and bluster
Spock's tight lipped smile

"Ahhh...Mr. Dempsey..."
Sir's voice gruffly Klingon
beaming me back up to Reality

"...seems to be in
another universe entirely..."
snickers as he reaches for the cane

"So..." Kirk smiles
"The square on the hypotenuse is equal to...
"Shut it Kirk..!" I snap  "...just shut it!"

I watch the parabola of the cane
"Warp Factor 9...now...quick!"
I order Mr. Sulu
Donall Dempsey Jul 2018
I FEEL PRETTY...OH SO...PRETTY!

I a...
...wake

covered in glorious glitter
smelling strongly of PVA glue

sticking to my cheek
very

hung
over

& covered in blueorange
yellowred feathers

a bubble
recently blown

perched upon
my nose

I...still....half coma...tose

tiny bubbles travel
amongst my curls

as through
a bigger bubble brightly

nestling neatly
over my right eye

I observe
my tiny daughter

purse her lips
& kiss

more bubbles
into being.

“Till...y! ”

I force my lips
(still frozen in sleep)

to some
how speak:

“What...you...do? ”

(even my syntax and sentence structuring is shot)

She smiles sweetly: “I’m
...pretty-ing you! ”
718 · Apr 2017
"...YES. . .YES. . .I AM!"
Donall Dempsey Apr 2017
"...YES. . .YES. . .I AM!"

He was like the dark.
When the light went out.

Himself, but:
not himself.

Erased.

More the map
of himself.

And a crude map at that.

Here his mind
marked with an X.

Contour lines
impossibly close together.

Then the continental shelf
of self.

Different shades of blue.
Deepening...deepening.

This somehow
much more detailed.

Half the map
torn in two

as if something( or other )
owned the other half.

He couldn't say what
or who.

Only...it wasn't him.

Now the fever
nibbling his consciousness.

The world gone.
AWOL

as if it intended
never to come back again.

Somewhere in this thing
that wasn't him

his sister's voice
trying to coax him

back into being.

Her voice
cool water.

His mind sipping
the sound of each syllable.

Speech.
Precious.
Delicious.

Ridiculous words.
But words...nonetheless.

His voice answering
just for the sake of answering.

Thought once again
dressed in words.

"Yes..!" his voice said "...yes I am
alright!"
Donall Dempsey Nov 2017
THE ASSASSINATION OF PRESIDENT
      RICHARD MILHOUS NIXON

( for John Smith )

It was...
Oct 5th - 1970.

A Monday.


The day had gone
from dry to drizzle to

wet.


It was the 278th day
of the year...only

87 days remaining
until the end of the year.

I knew I had to act now.
It was now...or never.

Time? I forget the time.
Time was standing still.

Huge clouds
menaced the horizon

impersonating an Armada
of Spanish Galleons.

Full sail ahead then.
I took a step into my future.

The smiling President drawing
nearer and nearer.

In Nass
the drenched crowed cheered.

In Newbridge now
flocks of children chase the car

like he was some
kinda Piper from Hamelin.

I kept a close eye on
the secret service

all dressed in the same suit
looking like clones

of one another
talking into their sleeves.

My gaze searches and settles
upon him

like the cross-hairs
of a ******'s rifle.

Sure he had called his setter
King Timahoe

after where his folks came from
another American looking for his roots

bolstering the Irish-American vote.

And now here he was
the man himself

in person
the 37th President.

Irish colleens dancing
upon a make-shift stage

in the square
of Kildare.

He's here oh so near
I can see the pores of his skin

a bead of sweat trickles into
that infamous Nixon grin.

Dare I do it now?
My hair falling into my eyes.

My mind flashes back to
1729

when his Quaker ancestors
fled the Emerald Isle.

Three centuries pass by in a second and
we're here

in the middle of
The Vietnam War

and he speaks of
"a passion for peace...preventing war...building peace."

Yeah yeah...sure sure!

Carpet bombing Cambodia
the famous Nixon duplicity

the "credibility gap" opening
between what he says and what he does.

Oh there are protests
he has 5 eggs hurlers.

"Splatsplatsplatsplat and splat!"
Only one near hit.

And one man protesting
the price of a pint

up'd( for the occasion )to
one shilling and jaysus seven pence.

What's the world
coming to?

School kids waving
their plastic( in slow mo )

American flags
on little plastic sticks.

I raise my flag.
I raise my...voice

shooting my mouth off
with a great shout:

'TRICKY DICKY! TRICKY DICKY!
WOULD YOU BUY A USED CAR FROM THIS MAN!"

Several secret service scowl.
My words hit him...Nixon frowns.

Character assassination.

Mr. McCann
aka "The Bicycle Man!"

curses me
in Irish.

After all he is
my Irish teacher.

D'anam leis an diabhal...Ó Diomasaigh!"
("Your soul to the devil...Dempsey!")

"THE TIME HAS COME TO CALL
A ***** A ****** SHOVEL..."

I yell as
I get a clip around the ear.

McCann holds his hand
over my mouth.

Then suddenly Nixon
is no longer

there.

The hurled words
disappear into the air.

Us school boys
***** damply back to double Maths.

The De La Salle
Academy looming up before us.

Mr. McCann
hoovers near.

I cover both
my ears.

But he only tousles
my hair.

"Ahhh mo amadán beag cróga!"
( "Ahhh my brave little fool!")

"Maith an bhuachaill...maith an bhuachaill!"
( "Good boy...good boy!")

He grins.
Slips me a sixpence.

I sing the new Led Zep
only released that day.

"So now you'd better stop and rebuild all your ruins,
for peace and trust can win the day despite of all your losing."

Being only 12
I had done what had to be done.

My political life
had only just begun.
The long forgotten "never-to-be-forgotten" visit made to Hodgestown near Timahoe in the county of Kildare back in the day as we leave the Sixties sadly behind us for the austerity of the '70's and the "Yes we can" of the Sixties begins to loose its lusture.
The Timahoeans are not exactly proud of giving the world Mr. Nixon and stay quite quiet about it. The Kennedy visit was the golden one and Clinton and Reagan had theirs but Tricky Dicky's one has faded into the fog of history.

"Jessamyn West, who has written so eloquently about the background of our family, has said, the Quakers have a passion for peace. My mother was a pacifist. My grandmother was a pacifist. Jessamyn's mother was, her grandmother, her grandfather, going back as far as we know."

President Nixon in the Timahoe graveyard.

Don't know what happened to him then!


"The time has come to call a ***** a ****** shovel. This country is in an undeclared and unexplained war in Vietnam. Our masters have a lot of long and fancy names for it, like escalation and retaliation, but it is a war just the same." - James Reston.


"So now you'd better stop and rebuild all your ruins,
for peace and trust can win the day despite of all your losing."

Led Zeppelin 111 - Immigrant Song.
709 · Jul 2018
THE MOON HIDES HER FACE
Donall Dempsey Jul 2018
THE MOON HIDES HER FACE

He...he's
wondering IF

he's coming on
too strong?

&...stops!

She's wondering IF
to kiss him now

would be so very very
wrong?

&...doesn't!

He's wondeingr IF
he should

...go easy?

She's wondering IF
he thinks she's too easy?

& both awkwardly
st?op!

And so
nothing happens.

"Good...night!" she stumbles
over the syllables.

"Good...good night!"
he echoes.

Once inside she
cries behind her bright red front door.

"****!" he curses himself ". . .& ****!"

Kicks an empty
crushed Coca Cola can.

The moon hides her face.
They actually ended up being married now for 40 years so I guess they got it right in the end. They are a lovely devoted couple who when they met were painfully shy of each other although madly in love. They both thought that the other didn't like them because they baulked at a chaste goodnight kiss. They met again by accident 6 months later never forgetting how they had felt and the missed opportunity. They fell about laughing telling me the story of how they "almost didn't get together." They were very glad they did. And so was I.
707 · Apr 2015
!HERE I BE!
Donall Dempsey Apr 2015
South of the buzzing
of a hairy bumble bee

North of the big dog’s bark

West of the breeze
tickling  cherry blossom trees

East of the sunlight
stealing over the fields

that’s where

you will
find me.

*

!ESSERE QUI!


Sud del ronzio
di un peloso Bumble Bee

A nord del grande cane abbaia

A ovest della brezza
il solletico alberi di ciliegio in fiore

Est della luce del sole
rubare i campi

ecco dove

troverete me.
Donall Dempsey Apr 2015
A leaf fell
on a leaf

that had fallen
on a leaf

-they stand there-

like a circus act
of acrobats

balanced one
upon the other

& blocking my
way with their: “Hey...
look at us! ”

And: “Look at us! ”
is just
what I did!

(instead of going to school)  

ignoring the bell’s
incessant clamouring.

Telling it in my mind:
“Go to hell! ”

and striking up a conversation
in the foreign language of leaf.
Donall Dempsey Feb 2019
ICH RUF ZU DIR. . .
( for Mimi )

1.

brushes her hair in the mirror
she stares Death full in the face
the heart attack catching her off guard

11.

Dusk walks off
into the distance
Night speaks slowly….quietly

111.

Green shadows
lilac shadows
never just
black

1V.

gooseberries…geraniums…sherbet
those things of childhood
she both liked & didn’t

V.

I only half listen to them, smug in their snug, poets scoring points off each other over the odd pint or two or more. . .

“Ahhh now Jaysus...your oyster always gives me the collywobbles. Every time I encounter an oyster I think of Chekov’s corpse and sure the appetite goes off of me!”

“Is that right?”

“That’ right so it is!”

“Sure when poor Chekov became a corpse...he was kept on ice with the oysters and shipped to Moscow. So it’s always Chekov’s auld face I see( ya see )when I come face to face with an oyster. I think of him being extracted from his shell and slipping slowly down Death’s throat.

“Ahhh Jaysus...Jaysus sure isn’t Death a terrible man altogether for the poets and such like. But come here to me when I’m talking to ya...have ya ever heard tell of a fella called.. if memory serves me well. . .Qui ****-Haung-ti?”

“Qui ****-Haung-ti? Eh, let’s see now...ahh...no...now…I don’t believe I have had that pleasure? Who he? For God’s sake!

“ Sure wasn’t yer man only the first supreme ruler of China!”

“He wasn’t..!”

“He was...I declare to God!”

“And sure for 9 months, 9 months now I tell ya, after his death he continued to reign seated upon his throne...surrounded by fish!”

“Well, that’s as posthumous as ya can get! But, why...the fish?”

“To disguise the smell...ya ejit!”

“And that’s why I can’t stand either sight or sound of our scaly friends.  It gives me the creep I tell ya!”

“Fair enough!”

“Will ya have another?”

“Ahhh sure, I will so!”

V1.

bitter gooseberries

V11.

I pray to my granny’s apron full of stars and flowers…only a rag now for shining shoes; to my uncle’s auld hat that that sat for years and years on the brown dresser like a dried up soul.
To my other uncle’s battered boots still caked with mud from summer’s long long ago which now houses a kitten that can’t get out mewing pitifully its plight:

V111.

the gooseberry’s bitterness

Solaris...was it
floating in space
back to Bach...ich ruf zu dir...

1X.

she holds the gooseberry
between finger and thumb
her eyes devouring it

X.

the sun shone through it
a prism of living light

snow is falling
in the room

from which she first
saw snow
falling

she stands outside
falling through time

X1.

she listens to the wheat
the wheat listens to her listening
the wind moves them both

X11.

in the story of her
childhood there are
always gooseberries

X111.

the words dress themselves up
walk around in stories
showing off

X1V.

she prays to the green light
of the gooseberry that is
the God of living things

XV.
the mirror holds her reflection
even when she’s gone
Death hums its little tune

XV1.

“They’re better fed than read...”
as my grandmother said
about anyone other than our selves

XV11.

he thought the good idea...was his
she thought the good idea...was hers

XV111.

he said he will( but he won’t )
she said she won’t( but she will )

X1X.

the mirror can’t find her
anywhere
she’s fallen off the edge of a flat world

*

The title emerges from Bach's BWV 177 - "Ich ruf zu dir, Herr Jesu Christ"

Cantata for the Fourth Sunday after Trinity

Ich ruf zu dir, Herr Jesu Christ,
Ich bitt, erhör mein Klagen,
Verleih mir Gnad zu dieser Frist,
Laß mich doch nicht verzagen;

I call to You, Lord Jesus Christ,
I beg You, hear my cries,
grant me mercy at this time,
do not let me despair;

The soundtrack of SOLARIS features Johann Sebastian Bach's chorale prelude for *****, Ich ruf' zu dir, Herr Jesu Christ, BWV 639, played by Leonid Roizman, and an electronic score by Eduard Artemyev. The prelude is the film's central musical theme.

Tarkovsky initially wanted the film to be devoid of music and asked composer Artemyev to orchestrate ambient sounds as a musical score. The latter proposed subtly introducing orchestral music. In counterpoint to classical music as Earth's theme is fluid electronic music as the theme for the planet Solaris.

The character of Hari has her own subtheme, a cantus firmus based upon J. S. Bach's music featuring Artemyev's composition atop it; it is heard at Hari's death and at story's end.

The memory of the movie...of the two drunks in the pub....of the music...her childhood memories of gooseberries all hail the prelude to her...death.... memories lie shattered and scattered like the hand mirror fallen from her hand...reflecting all and nothing.

A sequence poem that attempts to mimic the strands of the choral movements sustained by a single voice a la Mr. Bach.

Whatever is in the head when Mr. Death comes calling.
Donall Dempsey Jan 2019
NO. 31 O'HIGGINS ROAD, CURRAGH CAMP, CO. KILDARE.

I climb a stair
that isn't there

stand on a landing
in mid-air

each step I take
creates the next part

of the vanished house
lost to time

as see through
as a cartoon ghost.

This was
(still is) for me

No. 31
O'Higgins Road

my world
the universe of me.

What was once
my bedroom...is now a cloud

a window
become a moon

night and its storm
sit in our living room

a bird tiptoes
down the stair

flying through
nine year old me

reaching for the light switch
to turn on

what isn't there.
It's just an empty muddy space now...no one could guess all the life that was lived there...but in my mind the house is still alive and goes on living despite its death.
Donall Dempsey May 2017
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
704 · Apr 2018
FELINE FRIENDS
Donall Dempsey Apr 2018
FELINE FRIENDS

Curled up on the couch
with a curled up kitten

cradled in your lap.

Both of you
(totally)
out of this world.

I smile at such
a lovely double take.

Tiptoe 'round
the flat
(afraid that you should wake) .

I kiss both
your noses

& you both
sniff & shift

adopt new
synchronised poses.

I can only
love 'n' sit 'n' watch

as one of you makes a move

that

the other will match.

I take a Polaroid
as I am leaving

place it between
your toes

where
(on awakening)

it will be seen

to show you

how

very beautiful

you've been.
703 · Mar 2019
SWIMMING THROUGH EARTH
Donall Dempsey Mar 2019
SWIMMING THROUGH EARTH

There was a loud
silence.

Fred was dead.

Busy swimming through
earth.

He was doing the front crawl.

Which was surprising as he
couldn't swim.

Our Jim could swim.
But me and Fred - never.

But here he was
swimming through earth.

With only half a face.
The other half was just blood.

His one eye
wide open.

As if eternity
had appeared in front of him.

When the bomb blew
the world to smithereens

I believed I was dead
too.

But I wasn't.
More's the pity.

What was death like
you ask.

it was like...
It was like. . .

nothing.
Being nothing.

Then it was like
my mother's perfume.

And there she was
recreated by lilacs..

A perfume version of her
carved out of the air.

I swear.
Everything went white.

It was as if the world
had been erased.

Then the earthandtreesandfields
rushed back into my eyes.

As if there were in a hurry
and could only exist in

my seeing
them.

That's when I seen our Fred
already half buried

swimming through the earth
as if he thought he could have

made it
the poor wee ******.

A nicer lad there
wasn't.

I would have cried
if there were tears.

But there were
no tears.

No tears.

I was furious I had
survived.

Then I thought
just casual like.

"This should get me back
to Blighty like!"

When they found me
("Hey this one's still alive!")

I was trying to swim
through the earth.

"Hang on Fred!" I said.
"I'm coming.
Donall Dempsey Sep 2017
Shhhhh...ECOUTER LE SILENCE
( Shhhhh...LISTEN TO THE SILENCE )

the silence so loud
one could hear
the cat blink

( le silence si fort
on pouvait entendre
le clignotement de chat )

the music of the silence
when the music
stops

( la musique du silence
quand la musique
arrêts )



the cicadas weaving
a sudden silence
out of all their noise

( le tissage de cigales
un silence soudain
hors de leur bruit )



the only thing heard
in the immense silence
the cicada's beating heart

( la seule chose entendre
dans l'immense silence
les cigales battant coeur )



I could hear my blood
circulating within me
the hurtling of large corpuscles

( je pouvais entendre mon sang
circulant à l'intérieur de moi
le dévaler corpuscules de grosses )



in the darkness
our hands our eyes
we touch with kisses

( dans l'obscurité
nos mains nos yeux
nous touchons de baisers )
700 · Apr 2016
OUTSIDE THE OUTSIDE
Donall Dempsey Apr 2016
OUTSIDE THE OUTSIDE

There was no outside.

There was only
this room.

Only this moment
as if

the world had tiptoed away
into the dusk

leaving this room
floating in space

in the nothing
Time too it seemed

had gone.

She reached for
the razor blade.
700 · Oct 2019
LOST BALLOON
Donall Dempsey Oct 2019
LOST BALLOON

crawling from the crash
I couldn't have died
if I tried

I had a son to save
laughed
spat in death's face

pulled him from the flames
I forbade him to die
he disobeyed

the car exploded
burning the edges
of the night

I survive
without him
a death in itself

my reflection
does all the talking
I just stare in the mirror

Christmas now
I feel like a lost balloon
sticking to the ceiling
698 · Jan 2016
REMEMBERING COLERIDGE
Donall Dempsey Jan 2016
REMEMBERING COLERIDGE

"Ok! Can we have..."
my mind shouts

from its directorial chair
megaphone in hand.

"A MIRACLE OF RARE DEVICE
over here!"

BUT OH! THAT DEEP ROMANTIC CHASM
is still in her caravan.

"Ok...cue camera No. 2 &
where...

where are the SUNNY PLEASURE DOMES WITH CAVES OF ICE
can someone please. . .

. . .get the ****** SUNNY PLEASURE DOMES WITH CAVES OF ICE
please!

"We've got a Coleridge
moment

coming up on his next
footstep!"

"Are all you brain cells
following me!"

Memory goes through wardrobe
dressing each thought

in perfect Kubla Khan
costumes.

"Ok...cue footstep 2000 &
waitforitwaitforit....2!"

"Ok people..!" shouts my mind
"...he's going to remember the

Coleridge any second
. .    .nOW!"

"Cut to...OH STILL UNRAVISHED BRIDE OF QUIETNESS!
wot...wot....cut CUT!"

"Ok...who pressed the Keats button!"

And so it is that a Keatsian personified urn
of Greek extraction

finds itself in Xanadu

as I cross the road
and almost get knocked down

by a ****** big No. 69

and a cursing cyclist
in spangled blue latex.
What it is like inside my brain as I try to remember the bits and bobs of Coleridge that bob up and down in the stream of my thought as I try to cross a busy road. The mind is more interested in salvaging the lines of the poem rather than coordinating the feet in order to cross the road still in possession of my life. I survived to tell the tale but...only just.

I guess I was remembering the old comic strip THE NUMBSKULLS that tinkled my pink when I was a young fella me lad and both comics and poems jumbled around in that little mind like so much bric-a-brac or emotional flotsam and jetsam. And so the lines like shipwreck sailors get washed up on the shores of my consciousness.

Our "myriad-minded Shakespeare" as Sammy said of Will and could have been said of me in this poem but not as successfully as either Shakespeare or Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

The Numskulls is a comic strip in The Beano, and previously in The Beezer and The Dandy – UK comics owned by D.C Thomson. The strip is about a team of tiny human-like technicians who live inside the heads of various people, running and maintaining their bodies and minds.

The comic strip first appeared in The Beezer in 1962 and was drawn by Malcolm Judge. In this version they lived inside a man's head rather than a boy's head. The man was never named, but the Numskulls referred to him as "our Man". There were six Numskulls during this time. The 'Mouth Department' was home to two Numskulls, named Alf and Fred. Luggy (Radar) looked a lot like Cruncher, Snitch looked like Cruncher as well except Snitch wore orange, Brainy had no glasses and had no hair apart from around his ears and wore black, Blinky looked the same except he was bald and Alf and Fred had two hairs on their head and wore black and yellow.
695 · Feb 2016
FAILING GEOGRAPHY
Donall Dempsey Feb 2016
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 Nov 2015
FOR YOUR DELECTATION AND DELIGHT...

Like trapeze artists
we fall towards each other

our love
so far above

the disbelieving faces
a sea of masks

All saying: “Oh! ”
with awe.

Your fingertips
reaching out

at the last possible second
grasping my wrists

and we fly through the air
with the... (like a fish
in water)... greatest of ease.

So real...surreal.

Alone
in the big top of our longing

high above all others

unaware of all the gasps
(the melodramatic drum roll)  

only our love
reaching for the next second

knowing that the other is always
there

only a heartbeat

...away.
695 · Jan 2022
WORLDS AT ONCE
Donall Dempsey Jan 2022
WORLDS AT ONCE





in the mirror
I watch you sleeping
& touch your image







unable to touch
the dream
behind your eyes






only your laughter
inhabiting both
worlds at once






on the other side of nowhere
...a dream away
the mirror laughs in its sleep
Donall Dempsey Nov 2018
THAT WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS MOMENT

An apoplectic God
furiously reads note

attached to branch
in place of apple.

“This is just to say
we have eaten of the fruit

that was in
the middle of the garden

and which you told us
not to.

Forgive us
it was so sweet

and deliciously
Knowledgeable.”

So much depended upon
that rain glazed red apple.

They stand wailing
and gnashing their teeth

beside the bitten
red apple

with the white teeth marks.
Donall Dempsey Jun 2015
"Ohhhhhh....!" he noticed
she was

wearing
the shortest skirt he had

ever seen

( a belt masquerading as
a skirt )

&

that she was reading the poetry
of Victor Hugo.

"...the forest has rusted
in the light and the rain..."

he quoted to the air

jealous of the sunlight
touching her hair.

"...le soleil et la pluie ont rouillé la forêt..."
her voice mirrored his

"Ahhhhhh...you know Hugo
and his poetry?"

"Oh if you knew Hugo
like I knew Hugo!"

he sang shamelessly.

She laughed
in French.

He laughed
in Irish.

"There's nothing
like the original!"

she crossed & re-
crossed

her legs
cutting through his thoughts

<<<<<scissors through paper.

"Only in translation!"
he shamefully admitted.

"Ohhhh...he has to be
experienced in the French!"

He tried not to stare at her
elegant-pale-pink-ivory-with-cream-applique-lace-trimmed

Janet Reger.

"...ta bouche sur ma bouche et
tes yeux sur mes yeux..."

she stared
into him.

"....your mouth on my mouth and
your eyes upon my eyes..."

the kiss only an instant away from
happening.
691 · Jul 2019
MY LITTLE NUMERO UNO
Donall Dempsey Jul 2019
MY LITTLE NUMERO UNO

She attacks the page
with all the fervour & ferocity

of learning to write:
! nUmBeRs!

Her pen
digs its way

through to
(the other page)        

as if it were trying to
escape its task

make a break
for it.

Finally, she draws
a 2

a gentle swan
gliding by on a single wave.

Then, an 8
(which she informs me)        

is an O
“...wearing a belt that’s too tight.”

“Right? ”
“Right! ”

6 & 9
she cuddles together.

“Shhh...they’re sleeping! ”

Then: a 3
“...which is an 8 with half the 8
...missing.”

Then: a 1
which is a man
“.. with a little nose.”

Then: a 7
Which is a man
“...with a big nose.”

10
is
“The man with the little nose
going out with an eight without its belt.”

5
is
“Like a S
frozen stiff.”

4
is
“My hand doesn’t like writing 4’s
so...it doesn’t.!

'Well, that's
enough of that! '

She glares at me
as if to say

'Don't dare
contradict me! '

'I'm going out
to play!

She proudly
announces

(a woman with her work
well done) .

And out...
...out she goes!
*******

Being with Tilly as she gathered the world to her and her attempts to make the meaning of it mean something was one of the great delights of my life.  It was like eavesdropping on God whilst he made the universe. I used to love to travel across the wild and wonderful emotional landscape of who she was and who she was becoming.
690 · Jul 2015
SUPER...MAN!
Donall Dempsey Jul 2015
I wanted to be
your Superhero

but all the be best ones
were already taken.

Superman...Batman...Spiderman
(oh how they roll off the tongue)  

Dr. Strange or Daredevil or
Green Lantern even!

So I had to become
my own one.

Now I hear you cry
kiss-less & cuddle-less

but have no fear
for I am here

created by your own
longing

a Superhero to suit you!

'It's...it's
Mr. Kiss Kiss & Cuddles Man! '

'To the rescue! '

'Oh...my hero! '
689 · Apr 2022
THE SMELL OF PURPLE
Donall Dempsey Apr 2022
THE SMELL OF PURPLE


she says
she can
smell yellow


she says
she can
smell blue


despite
not being able to
spell either colour


“Yellow smells the same as blue.”
“...like a wet kitty
drying by the fire


red smells like
Mummy
when she kisses


her kisses
smell different
when she kisses you


then she smells
like flames
with little orange tips


purple is my favourite smell
it smells just like
a magic spell!”


I kiss her
goodnight
like lilac(only lighter)


with little flecks
of purple
scattered here & there
689 · Jul 2015
DEATH OF A KRAKEN
Donall Dempsey Jul 2015
The ship moans
in the fog

like a Kraken
that has lost its way

leaving its myth
in the mist

stumbling into
fact

only to find
it doesn't exist

Time calls it
by its childhood names:

"Hafgufa...Lyngbakr!"
"Sea Mist...Heather-Back!"

The Kraken moans
in the fog

like words
that have lost

their way.
***

Having lost the belief that humans once had in it...the Kraken dies from modern human understanding that kills the myth with knowing.

The Kraken is a legendary sea monster of large proportions that is said to dwell off the coasts of Norway and Greenland. The legend may have originated from sightings of giant squid that are estimated to grow to 40–50 ft in length, including the tentacles. The sheer size and fearsome appearance attributed to the kraken have made it a common ocean-dwelling monster in various fictional works.

In the late-13th-century version of the Old Icelandic saga Örvar-Oddr is an inserted episode of a journey bound for Helluland (Baffin Island) which takes the protagonists through the Greenland Sea, and here they spot two massive sea-monsters called Hafgufa ("sea mist") and Lyngbakr ("heather-back"). The hafgufa is believed to be a reference to the kraken:

The English word kraken is taken from Norwegian. In Norwegian and Swedish, Kraken is the definite form of krake, a word designating an unhealthy animal or something twisted (cognate with the English crook and crank). In modern German, Krake (plural and declined singular: Kraken) means octopus, but can also refer to the legendary Kraken. In Dutch, the verb Kraken means breaking or the sound of cracking.
688 · Oct 2018
VISITATION
Donall Dempsey Oct 2018
VISITATION

Brian walked
through the wall.

Paused, smiled:
halfways in - halfways out.

"Jaysus..!" he said.
"That always feckin' happens!"

He pulled the rest of him
through to this room

leaving a glowing
trail of ectoplasm.

"It makes me feel
like a ****** snail!"

"Sorry about the ghostly slime
it's hard to get used to

being dead
if ya see what I mean!"

I couldn't have of course
so  I just nodded.

"And this ghost stuff
is really the pits.

Here I am and yet
here I am not."

He gave me a playful
punch on the shoulder

and went right through me
misjudging his new existence.

"Now, listen bud...all this crying
is getting on me nerves.

It's gotta stop.

You've got a life
to live...now...live it!"

And then like e clichéd
cockerel crowing at the dawn

he faded into the curtains.
"Jaysus...these curtains

are truly terrible
they'll have to go!"

"Well. . ?"
said the sunlight

"...will we get on
with it?"

The day waited impatiently
hopping from one minute to the next.

"Yes. . ." I said
"Yes."
686 · Dec 2017
LOVELY MORNING...ISN'T IT
Donall Dempsey Dec 2017
LOVELY MORNING...ISN'T IT

It was the first day
of the end of

his life.

Although he was not
to know that.

The door opened
into the morning

a portal made of sunlight.

He stepped into it
as if he were about to be
transported into another planet.

He stepped into it
with a lipstick kiss
on his left cheek and

the next step
was his last
it all happened so fast.

One minute
a ***** laugh
then a last goodbye.

An hello to her
next door
"Lovely morning....isn't it!"
Donall Dempsey Sep 2018
"THE EARTH IS LIKE A CHILD THAT KNOWS POEMS BY HEART"

The night
had stuffed the dark

into every crevice
of the house

and his life
awoke to a big blue sky

holding a crocus
in the palm of its morning.

The world was springing
into being

all around him
as if existence had

changed its mind and
decided to stay.

A solitary oak
reached a gnarled hand

and snatched a cloud
( that happened to be passing by )

out of the air
just like that.

The cloud struggled
to break free.

The oak gave a hearty laugh
and let it go.

The cloud scurried away
fretfully looking over its shoulder.

"So, what kept ya?"
he asked spring.

Spring...just smiled.
Riffing on Rilke's lovely line!


Spring has come back again. The Earth is
like a child that’s got poems by heart;
so many poems, so many verses,
patient toil winning her prizes at last.
Strict, the old teacher. We loved the whiteness
in the old gentleman’s beard, its bright snow.
Now when we ask what the green, what the blue is,
Earth knows the answer, has learned it. She knows.

Earth, you’re on holiday, lucky one: play now!
Play with us children! We’ll try to catch you.
Glad, joyous Earth! The gladdest must win.

Every lesson the old teacher taught her,
all that is printed in roots and laborious
stems: now she sings it! Listen, Earth sings!

Rainer Maria Rilke; translated by Stephen Cohn
Donall Dempsey Mar 2015
COME VIENE...VIENE!
(WHAT COMES...COMES!)

The sun is
preaching her sermon

to the town
of Praiano

that clings to the cliffs
in wonder.

Here in her hand
of light & water

she tells the parables
of pebbles.

One wave waves to another
as she walks upon the water.

Bells undress Time
disrobe her of her hours.

Lemons grow
big-bellied on branches

pregnant
with yellow.

The juice
of the Future

praying in a church
of trees.

Here, a congregation
of butterflies & bees.

Grapes dream of being
turned into wine.

Figs ripen
with pleasure.

The gods of pagan times
survive

disguised as statues.

I only believing
in the religion of

a woman's
laughter.

And even now
as darkness

grows
upon the rose

it's as if
the sunlight never leaves

only changes
colour

and the sunlight darkens
only to blossom

into the next morning
in love with Time.

**

CHE COSA SI FA

Il sole
sta predicando

alla citta
di Praiano

che miracolosamente
si aggrappa alle scogliere.

Qui nella sua mano
di luce ed acqua

racconta le parabole
di ciottoli.

Un' onda fluttua verso un'altra
come cammina sull'acqua.

Le campane spogliano il Tempo
la svestono delle sue ore.

I limoni crescono
rigonfi sui rami

gravidi di giallo.

Il succo
del Futuro

che prega in una chiesa
di alberi.

Qui una congrgazione
di farfalle ed api.

L'uva sogna di essere
trasformata in vino.

I fiche maturano
con piacere.

Le divinita dell'epoca pagana
sopravivono

transvestite in statue.

Io credo solo
nell religione

di una risata di una donna.

E anche ora
come il buio

aumenta
sopra la rosa

e come se
la luce del sole non andasse mai via

ma cambia
solo colore

e la luce del sole si oscura

per fiorire
la mattina dopo

innamorata del Tempo.
680 · Nov 2018
A NAME BY ANY OTHER. . .
Donall Dempsey Nov 2018
A NAME BY ANY OTHER. . .

She smiles in Russian.
"What's your name?" I ask her.
"Is Tina!" she laughs.
"Ah...Tina!" "No not..Tina!"
"Istina!" "It means...the Truth."


she winks
slinks as if she's
in inverted commas

hidden inside
her smile
(the kiss )

she disappears 'round the
corner leaving in the air
a perfect perfume replica of her

the grand piano
sits in its silence
dreaming of music
Donall Dempsey Jun 2015
She dances naked
dressed only in the sound of
wind chimes & bracelets.
679 · Oct 2015
PRESERVE
Donall Dempsey Oct 2015
PRESERVE

Tongues stained
with blackberries

we collect                kisses

falling into               ditches

being stung by         nettles.

Your dress snags on a briar
and you cry in mock horror.

I cut through the tangle of thorns
as if I were your Prince.

Charming me
you undo
your buttons
& you
(step out of your dress)    

as if you were being
stepping out of your self.

Your dress hangs
like a chrysalis.

You let down your golden hair
& we make love then &

there...a tractor & some cows go by
we laugh & try to hide.

The sun beats down on my ***
we giggle & come

return
to the big old *****

town
&
turn

our blackberry picking days
into luscious winter jam.
676 · Feb 2019
WHO MADE THE WORLD?
Donall Dempsey Feb 2019
WHO MADE THE WORLD?

"It was a dark and stormy night..!"
as stories often start.

But - it wasn't.

It was no story.

And there was no such thing
as night.


And there was a complete absence
of weather.


Night( or day )hadn't yet
been invented.

Neither had the world
for that matter.

Creation was still
about two hours away.

Dear God hadn't even given it
a second thought as yet.

And yes He had thought about it
and Him thinking...usually made it so.

He had still to get His Mighty
Finger out.

He the Great
Procrastinator.

He had  become as one
with those University students

who would crawl about the earth
messing about doing nothing until

the final moment
the final dash to get

the assignment in.

Alas He had made them
in His Image.

There were things he would have
liked to fix if...

WW1 for one
oh and 11.

The atom bomb.
Climate change.

He saw all things
as time was

all the one
to Him.

And now these unknowns
how could He

have even
thought of them.

How to fix that ****
bungling bothersome Brexit.

And what was it
exactly?

Or that annoying orange blip
that ******* liar Trump?

And Gove(ugggh!)
and Boris( aggghh)
come what May they

would all
have their say.

What had He
been thinking.

Maybe it will
untangle itself or

He would have to cut
through the Gordian lot

with His
mighty sword.

Bit Biblical that.
Or a flood perhaps?

He could blame it
on that climate change.

He knew that Brexit bit
wouldn't do but

it would have to
do.

Worlds will be worlds.
Then He yawned.

"Whatever...whatever!"
Donall Dempsey Dec 2023
". . .CHITTO JETHA BHAYASHUNYO. . ."
( WHERE THE MIND IS WITHOUT FEAR )

breath & sax
unite to form
a creature made of flesh & horn

his sax calls forth
his own ghost
it dances before him like smoke

he closes his eyes
loses sight of everything
but the song

he plays
not knowing what he plays
until he plays it

the song seems to know
where it's going
it's the man he improvises

"...where the world has not
been broken up
into fragments..."

he longs to be taken
out of himself
so he can become himself

the last note
he comes back from the nowhere
that he's found

stuck now in this
somewhere he is
made ordinary again

now he's just
a man with a limp
just another drunk

his sax
the genie of sound
sound asleep in its case

he hums inside his head
the music heard
he the instrument now

tapping on the table
his cigarette dancing
to the invisible music

the notes
half man half ghost
tapped inside his skull

even the silence
now
full of sound

"...sometimes I wish
the music would leave
me alone..."

"...the music is like
a very very big dog
taking its owner for a walk.."

"...note by note I am
transformed
until I am the music..."

"...caught in a riptide
what can I
do. . ?"

I always think a sax can take you the beyond the beyond when words fail. Riptide was his pièce de résistance. And he would always quote the Tagore poem before playing it and so that became this poem's title. He used to call it his "habbijabbi" or "thingamjig" in Bengali.

The orginal Bengali script...

চিত্ত যেথা ভয়শূন্য, উচ্চ যেথা শির
জ্ঞান যেথা মুক্ত, যেথা গৃহের প্রাচীর,
আপন প্রাঙ্গণতলে দিবসশর্বরী
বসুধারে রাখে নাই খণ্ড ক্ষুদ্র করি,
যেথা বাক্য হৃদয়ের উৎসমুখ হতে
উচ্ছ্বসিয়া উঠে, যেথা নির্বারিত স্রোতে
দেশে দেশে দিশে দিশে কর্মধারা ধায়
অজস্র সহস্রবিধ চরিতার্থতায়,
যেথা তুচ্ছ আচারের মরুবালুরাশি
বিচারের স্রোতঃপথ ফেলে নাই গ্রাসি,
পৌরুষেরে করে নি শতধা, নিত্য যেথা
তুমি সর্ব কর্ম চিন্তা আনন্দের নেতা,
নিজ হস্তে নির্দয় আঘাত করি, পিতঃ;
ভারতেরে সেই স্বর্গে করো জাগরিত৷

And in Tagore's own translation, from the 1912 English edition of Gitanjali.

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action—
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father let my country awake.
Donall Dempsey Jun 2017
HITHERING AND TITHERING WATERS OF..

Aaw sure she's my own
little Finnegans Wake.

For my little skeowsha
language is lava

the mind is molten
flowing.

She catches tones and hones
in on the last word.

"pleaseyawannanicecupof...TEA?"

She knows how to
stick question marks on

things like
"...sweets?"

The thunder scares her
on Thursday

& becomes
Thundersday.

The flies bother her on Friday...
becomes Flieday.

Not realising  she is
quoting Mr, Joyce

following in his WAKE.

Or she makes up her own

"ONESDAY...TWOSDAY
WEDDINGDAY...FATTERDAY
SOMEDAY!"

She my little trinketotes
my dear ***** Dumpling.

I read her to sleep.
Not a peep

when Anna Livia Plurabelle...
tells her tale.

Beside the tickling waters of.
Beside the chuckling waters of.
Beside the laughing waters of.

She loves
the music of it all.

"Again!"
she agains it!

" Can't hear with the waters of.
The chittering waters of.

Night now.
Tell me, tell me, tell  me elm.

Night night!
Tellmetale of stem or stone.

Beside the rivering waters of..
Hithering tithering waters of.

Night."
674 · Aug 2015
AND I WAVE BACK
Donall Dempsey Aug 2015
Outside the hatch
he turns      slowly

and talks

but I can't make out
the words he says

they fall from his lips
dangle and float in space

outside the backyard fence
a hill grabs the moon

and then slowly
lets it go again

the moon floating just
out of reach

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

the moon beams
as a little bird

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

and then
finds flight

take hold of it
as if

it had only discovered it that minute
and absconds with it

the darkness
barks

and falls
into silence

and then another part
of the darkness

barks back

held
in  a gentleness

a leaf tiptoes
down the breeze

as if descending
a spiral staircase

Time holds
its breath

outside
the hatch

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

the astronaut
slowly turns

and waves

& I
wave back.
Donall Dempsey Aug 2016
RUNNING THROUGH HISTORY
( for Grandfather Sheedy )

I, a creature of flesh
& mud.

Mostly mud I
train...run...running

across Curragh
Plains...pain. . .pain.

School cross country
running is - not:

my forte.

I, being constantly told I
am not my grandfather.

Obviously.

I plod after grandfather's
famous footsteps

inheriting only his calf muscles
but not...his stamina.

I am all skin & bone
merely my mind keeping me going.

Grandfather Sheedy is
running on into history.

I, the clod forever
running after his fame

into many a Curragh
sunset.

I run back through
time.

"In the year of the world
4608. . "

The Annals of the Four Masters
a running commentary in my mind.

I run through
my mythological past

the ghosts of kings famous
before time began.

Cobhthack Gael is still
killing Laoghaire Lore.

He highfives me as I
stagger past.

St. Brigid casts her cloak
it covers the entire plain.

I greet and thank her
with a wordless nod.

The Curragh Camp of today
coalescing into being

thanks to the Crimean
Campaign.

I recite Tennyson to
startled furze bushes.

"Furze bushes to the left of me
furze bushes to the right of me. . ."

into my mind rides
the 17th Irish Lancers

leading the Balaclava Charge

their mascot terrier Jemmy
following close behind

barking at the Russian guns

surviving it all
to roam around where I am

raoming now.

My Uncle  Tossie's
familiar greeting

"How ya...howya...how ya
are ya winning...are ya winning!"

Grandfather and Uncle
Balaclava dog & mythological

kings and saints

all urging me on
claiming I can do it.

I can & I will
...come. . .last.

Me the non-runner runner

driven by
history
"Ar son Dé...faion spéir cá raibh tú?"

The Academy didn't do art so the only way I could do so was to go to the Convent on a Saturday. I did this for about 6 months before throwing in the paintbrush! I was always told there:  "You are not your sister June...are you Donall!"

Alas the mere me I was was good. . . for nothing! So I knew who I was not as good as but  - not what I was actually good at. Alas the story of my life!

Brother Laurence our Science teacher for some God forsaken reason introduced  cross country running all of a sudden!  He was lovely man with an energy that that almost burst out of his body as if he were a human dynamo. He always had a little smile just Mona Lisa'ing on him as if he were constantly amused at something or as if he had just told himself a very good joke in his head.
It was just as if it were an English school and we were good old chaps! It was like being in a boy's own story but it was really  "Hard cheese!"

When Brother Laurence got totally exasperated with my lack of prowess he( to not risk swearing )would step into the Irish.

"Ar son Dé...faion spéir cá raibh tú?"
( "For God's sake..in God's name where were you!" )

I not being good at the auld Irish would always answer: "Amuigh  faoin spéir!" which was the title of a well known nature programme at the time. It mean out under the sky!

Some time later I answered with: Ag Dia amháin atá a fhios!" which translates at "God only knows!" He laughed at this and said: "Ahhhh Dempsey...at least the running has taught you a bit more Irish than repeating television programme names to me!"


I was more interested in reading LP Hartley's THE GO BETWEEN. It was my mind that was running and covered not in mud but in glorious words. I ran shouting Gerard Manly Hopkins to the skies to comfort the agony of chest and legs and to soothe my poor troubled mind. Or the Wreck of the Deutschland: "Thou mastering me..."

All it did was make me more aware of my own history that was right on my doorstep. And it was the history I was more interested in than being a mud splattered waif. Oh I knew the loneliness of the long distance runner!

I was surrounded by Sheedys....Sheedys to the right of me....Sheedys to the left of me and I had before me that most lovely of men **** Sheedy whose kindness knows no bounds so Grandfather **** Sheedy lived on in our minds. I thought he deserved a poem so this is that...poem!

I adore the Four Masters' phrase: "...in the year of the world..."
673 · Aug 2015
THE ONLY TRUE RELIGION
Donall Dempsey Aug 2015
By the grace
of your kiss

I enter the door
of this bliss

finding myself

newly created
by you

in the image of
your love

the kindness of your hands
offering me

the gift of this

your smile

the only true
religion

I can believe in

your eyes
the only prayer

that I know

your laughter
the only heaven

known to me

your lips
the forever where

my soul
enters

to kneel
before your heart.
Donall Dempsey Feb 2019
THE KIND OF THINGS POETS THINK/DO

all its little life
the triangle longed to be
a circle

"I want to get around!"
it piped up
in its little Isosceles voice

"It's...it's preposterous!"
screamed his mother Scalenely
"...whoever heard of such a thing!"

"You should be proud of your lines!"
scolded its grandpa
Equilaterally

"A triangle can not be..."
said his Papa in a right angled kind of way
"...anything other than a triangle!"

"I always felt I was a circle
trapped inside
a triangle's body!"

one day a passing poet
eavesdropped in an idle moment
on what the lines were saying

"Why ever not...why
ever not" said the poet
poet chaps tend to think like that

so he erased the brave
little Isosceles
drew him again as a circle

"Wheee!"
laughed the former Isosceles triangle
delighting in its circle-ness

this is the kind of things
poets think of...

. . .poets do.
***


‘Art is nothing but this slow trek to discover, through the detours of art, those two or three great and simple images in whose presence [your] heart first opened.’

So said Camus...I never forgot my first circle and triangle and dodecahedron . I was sad I couldn't get the dodecahedron into the poem but then a poet is a person of many faces and facets so I guess it gets represented in this symbolic way.

A poet I guess, to be more precise, would more likely be a pyritohedron because it has an irregular pentagonal dodecahedron, having the same topology as the regular one but pyritohedral symmetry while the tetartoid has tetrahedral symmetry.

When one thinks that there are 6,384,634 topologically distinct convex dodecahedra, excluding mirror images—the number of vertices ranges from 8 to 20. (Two polyhedra are "topologically distinct" if they have intrinsically different arrangements of faces and vertices, such that it is impossible to distort one into the other simply by changing the lengths of edges or the angles between edges or faces)one can see the vistas that loom large in the eye of the poet and the choices constructed as stellations of the convex form. It's a kind of...I don't know... geometric degree of freedom with limiting cases ...ahhh you have to do it to understand it really. Now to get back to that Camus feeling about writing and the utter simplicity of the circle and how a triangle forms in the mind...it's a long slow trek.

But then as Nietzsche always was telling me, "Donal..."  he'd be forever saying:

"We have art so as not to die of reality!" or was it "We have art lest we perish from the truth." It was hard to make out his mumblings from under that grand moustache.

"Are you a moustache or a man?" I'd joke back at him.


***

How lots of things get written...trying to make it interesting for my little girl by "story-ing" so she could take it on board in an imaginative way. Just the simple task of teaching her how to draw circles and triangles by hand and without thought...just the pleasure of Klee's "taking a line for a walk." Not an explanation of mathematical thought...she was only five but a fun way to get her to know how these things form when a pencil wants to draw them...bonky or with a ruler. The story helped push her into knowledge slowly and with ease.
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