Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
670 · Nov 2023
AFTER THE ROW
Donall Dempsey Nov 2023
AFTER THE ROW



built an over large
snowman
on your front doorstep


&
(
)hid behind it



rang your doorbell until
you were
annoyed  by it



“Yes...yes! ”
you flung open the door
to be confronted


with a snowman
telling you
he loved you



until slowly your heart
began
to melt. . .
Donall Dempsey Dec 2018
Dónall O'Diomsiagh is anim dom!
( Dónall Dempsey is my name! )

I was born
the weight of a bag of sugar.

2 lbs to be
precise.

That was all there was
to me!

( My belly alas weighs more than that now )!

De Da could
hold me in his fist and

I'd disappear
'cept for the little dangly dancing leggy bits.

I had Elvis sideburns
( I was all shock up )

and entered this
world of ours

feet first
putting my best foot forward

ready to rock
'n" roll...mannn!

Doris Day was singing
CE SERA SERA!

And what, what...do ya think
they called the tiniest baby

. . .ever ever seen?

Why, Dónall!
Dónall...of course!

Dónall meaning WORLD
MIGHTY SPEAR POWER.

And Dempsey itself meaning
THE PROUD ONE!

Ahhh the majesty of the Celtic tongue!

A wrestler's name if ever...
"And in the green corner..."

Or an Ozymandias name. . .
"Look on my works, ye mighty ,and despair!"

De Ma would always spoil it for me:

"WORLDMIGHTYSPEARPOWERTHEPROUDONE! You
get yer *** in here this minute and finish yer homework!"

An awful big name
( to be sure to be sure )

for a little fella to
live up to. . .

Ahhh, but sure I do my best
putting words to the test

wrestling with a rhyme
stealing through your mind.

For I am
( am I not?)

the poet with
the hyperbolic name!

WORLD MIGHTY
SPEAR POWER
THE PROUD ONE!
***

The Dempsey family motto is (elatum a deo non deprimat ) UPHELD BY GOD, I AM NOT DEPRESSED!
669 · Aug 2015
ADAGIO
Donall Dempsey Aug 2015
The music
tiptoes

through
the room

careful not to
wake the sleeping

photographs
of the dead

their lives
trapped behind glass

amongst vast fields
of wallpaper violets

stopping to
caress

the singular
beauty

of the rose
dreaming

in its chipped
vase

of the garden
where it was born

curtains led
by a breeze

into their dance
gazing upon the green

that unfurls
about the house

the music
wounded now

by a tear
that grown upon

her cheek
note by note

a woman staring into space

the cat asleep
upon her toes

the music retreating
back into the mahogany cabinet

curling itself
into its circle

a whirlpool of black
shellac

the music
lost in the silence

only its breathing
audible now

in the runoff
groove

the needle returning
to its proper place

with a click
the last light

stealing across
the lawn
668 · Jul 2015
PINK HIGH HEEL SHOES
Donall Dempsey Jul 2015
I remember drinking
pink champagne

from your pink
high heel shoes

I remember making love
with you wearing only your pink
high heel shoes

I remember
how your pink high heel shoes

became candleholders
ashtrays
(where you stashed your hash)        

deadly weapons
in a row

& you ask me
do I remember

your pink high heel shoes?

Do I?
I do!
665 · Sep 2018
SANCTUARY
Donall Dempsey Sep 2018
SANCTUARY

this one perfect moment
time rearing up like a wave
that never ever breaks

the train's scream
the dog's bark
chiseled into the silence

dancing to
the bandstand's music
a flock of flags

birds
writing themselves...unwriting themselves
across a page of sky

this moment
flees from time
claims sanctuary in my mind
Donall Dempsey Oct 2017
A SEAHORSE QUESTIONING

( for Onelia)

The cellist's hand
waits outside the music

pauses
beside his instrument

like an exotic fish

steadying itself
in the flow of the music

before dashing out
from behind a glowing coral

eagerly snapping up
the little notes that swim by.

At Nazzareno's head
his cello bobs

like a seahorse
questioning

all that is
happening

as he tries to enter
the same stream

(despite Heraclitus's advice)

~ ~ ~ t/w/i/c/e/.
659 · Sep 2015
MY MOTHER'S HANDS
Donall Dempsey Sep 2015
My mother’s hands

washing potatoes
washing kids
washing pans.

My mother’s hands
on bitterly cold days

******* yet more washing
on a pregnant line

the line growing nothing but
nappies

her hands blind
with the cold.

My mother’s hands
ironing clothes
ironing clothes
ironing countless knickers
for my seven sisters.

My mother’s hands
taking my hands
in hers

such love...such laughter!

My mother’s hands
patting talcum powder

on another baby’s ***.

Mum being Mum.

Me, kissing

my mother’s hands
for all...they’ve done.
Donall Dempsey Dec 2016
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! ”
Donall Dempsey Aug 2016
BALLEA PLAY

( for my fellow playmate of those days
my cousin Mary Francis Forde )

The cut corn
bound by twine or súgán.

into sheaves into stooks into stacks
stacks and stacks reeks and reeks of it

hay into haggard

and that was it
"cored" as they said.

And yes that was uncle's and dad's work
but a harvest indeed for us kids.

We took it from there
fodder yes but for us play.

Jumping from the far away top
falling through air

lots and lots of air
into more hay

hours and hours of horseplay
bungee jumping without the rope.

A mountain of hay to leap from
a mountain of hay to land in.

Shouting: "Stooks...shocks & ricks!"
New sounds we were only after learning.

Or places names that one could taste on the tongue:

"Killingly...Killingly...KILLINGLY!"

I still forever falling through the air
of that day....that free fall through the years

landing in today
the 30th day of my 60th year.
Donall Dempsey May 2019
MEETING W.B. YEATS FOR THE FIRST TIME

Curled up in a cuddle

fused into
the one telling the one listening

my big sister
recites Yeats

She whispers:

“Come away o human child...”

as the thunderstorm breaks outside
“...to the waters and the wild...”

as the night breaks open
over the poem

“...to a world more full of weeping...”

the lightning illuminates each line
“...than you will ever understand...”

I cry into her body great heaving sobs
And she says: “Shhh...shhh.. it’s alright! ”

and I only half believe her
her death etched into my mind

in the coming soon-to-be
future.
Donall Dempsey Apr 2016
WHILST SLOWLY TURNING INTO WORDS

He felt Death
had somehow

hollowed him out

building the statue of him
from the inside out.

Out...out...the echo of
who he had been.

He had become his own
legend

which he had to admit
he had helped to create

to hide his real self
a mask he could wear.

Now, it was stuck
and the real man had been

replaced with
a man made from words.

A man made from rumours
idle talk...lies.

He felt he could cry
that he was losing himself

the man he was
the man he could have been.

But: "Shush..."
snapped Death.

He watched himself
sitting in an armchair

the King of
Nothing.

Slowly turning
into words.

An obituary
written ten years ago

taken out of file and
brought up to date.

He would never never
be himself

no more.
Donall Dempsey Jul 2018
ScáthánDrychZrkadloIsibukoLustroTükör
(MirrorMirrorMirrorMirrorMi­rrorMirror)

Just for a second
the mirror forgets itself

and reflects on
nothing.

I am not
all there.

Then recovering
its memory

the mirror starts to show
all the faces that it has known

and now I am
a young girl from

the turn of a century
a boy of three in 1923

an old woman staring
at the girl she used to know

the young girl staring
at the old woman she will become

a teenager from God knows when
putting up her hair and then

letting it down again
shaking it from side to side

now politely calm
now wild wild

before the mirror
comes to its senses

and shows me
me

and only
me alone

this the present
now

as all the faces
the mirror's ever been

fade into the background
becoming mere shadows

as I blow the candle out
and the mirror holds only

the darkness
and its night.
That's mirror in IrishWelshSlovakZuluPolishHungarian....
Donall Dempsey Apr 2016
"SPRING IS HERE, I HEAR. . ."

I carry the sky
across the street

stumble under
its weight.

Now I carry the buildings
and finally some trees and a dog.

The dog barks
at itself.

I look like a mirror
with legs.

A mirror walking
down the street.

We, dance partners
it & I.

I all huff & puff
the mirror calm as anything.

The edges of the mirror
bite deep into my palms.

I am tired of carrying the sky
place it against a red-bricked wall.

Finally the mirror
half cracked at the top

has time to
reflect upon its new home.

I have saved it from a fate worse than
a skip.

It gives my little room
an extra dimension.

A room that isn't
there that I am

always walking in( ouch! )to.

Sometimes I talk to
the me in the other room.

I paint my room bright
bright yellow

fill it with jonquils
and daffodils.

A red skirting board
runs around the room.

The flowers rejoice.
Spring, it appears, is:

here.

There is no you nor
ever will be

again.

I sit with my reflection.

Both of us say nothing.

We have
nothing

to say.
651 · May 2016
SOOTHING THE MUSIC
Donall Dempsey May 2016
SOOTHING THE MUSIC

the piano was angry
he tried to sooth the music
that kept biting at his fingers

each note...each note
the world fading away 'til there was only
the music alive in him

just him & the music now
sharing the same body
the music snatching at his soul

when the music left
it took time
to become human again

he sat with a cigarette
having a conversation
with the smoke

the music loved him
he tried
to love it back


My friend had a breakdown and the music seemed to swallow him up...devour his personality. This is his description of what it was like to be him whilst playing.
651 · May 2015
CLEAN OUT OF HIS MIND
Donall Dempsey May 2015
CLEAN... OUT OF HIS MIND!

ChIRp! ChEEp! TwEEt!
Lone bird playing Jazz
with a real kick...in the *****!



GLAN AS A MHEABHAIR!

BiOG! GiOG! MiOG!
Leathean ag seinm snagcheol
le fíor lasc...magairli!



HORS DE SON ESPRIT!

Le ChIRp! La ChEEp! Le TwEEt!
Oiseau solitaire jeu Jazz
avec un véritable coup de pied dans les couilles

*

LIMPIO ... FUERA DE SU MENTE!

El cantO! El gOrjeO! El  PíO!
Pájaro solitario juego Jazz
con una verdadera patada en los cojones ...!
647 · Jul 2015
LAPSI(CHILD)
Donall Dempsey Jul 2015
And, so
he marries the Finn and

Väinämöinen
walks in

dragging the whole Kalevala
behind him on a sled

opening the word box
for the sounds to escape

and leave
to dwell inside him

the myths and lore
of Love.

A cloudberry
falling into her

pregnant
belly button

the child
fashioned from her

living in the quick quick
midnight tales

the frozen hoard of words
thawing

as my hearing
takes them in

the unborn
listening to its future

in its past.

Words upon lips
dissolving into laughter

like a falling snowflake
on the tip of a pink tongue

stuck out in
the Aurora Borealis.
***

My Finnish wife brought a dowry of an unknown mythology and on long Finnish nights told me the stories mingling them with love and laughter which was the best way to hear the tales! I also remember us looking at HIROSHIMA MON AMOUR with Finnish subtitles so that she had to translate it back into English for me creating a telling that still lives in my mind. The telling is all!


The Kalevala or The Kalewala is a 19th-century work of epic poetry compiled by Elias Lönnrot from Karelian and Finnish oral folklore and mythology.

It is regarded as the national epic of Karelia and Finland and is one of the most significant works of Finnish literature. The Kalevala played an instrumental role in the development of the Finnish national identity, the intensification of Finland's language strife and the growing sense of nationality that ultimately led to Finland's independence from Russia in 1917.

The first version of The Kalevala (called The new Kalevala) was published in 1835. The version most commonly known today was first published in 1849 and consists of 22,795 verses, divided into fifty songs (Finnish: runot). The title can be interpreted as "The land of Kaleva" or "Kalevia".

The poem begins with an introduction by the singers. The Earth is created from the shards of a duck egg and the first man (Väinämöinen) is born to the goddess Ilmatar.

Väinämöinen brings trees and life to the barren world.

Akseli Gallen-Kallela (26 April 1865 – 7 March 1931) was a Swedish-speaking Finnish painter whose Kalevala paintings
and illustrations are almost integral to its story.

My favourite translation was published in 1989 by Keith Bosley (Oxford University Press) who has now brought out an audio book read by himself with a running time of 13 hours and 23 minutes!
647 · Jan 2016
LOSING MY MARBLES
Donall Dempsey Jan 2016
LOSING MY MARBLES

The bear rears up
against the cuckoo clock

arms outstretched as if
to catch that dammed bird

when it 9
o'clocks!

A tiger snoozes
in front of the fire

unaware of the spark
that throws itself upon

its tattered tail.

Firelight & candlelight
gleams in the beast's deadly eye.

A golden eagle
spreads its wings

above the mantlepiece
as if it would

****** the gilded frame
that holds a honeymoon.

I am a player
of marbles

upon the floor
nose to the ground

eyeball to eyeball
with my host's tiny son.

We watch in awe
as the blue(slowly)yellow

marble(slowly) rolls into
the tiger's gaping jaws.

"That doesn't count!"
host's son shouts

as the host snorts
awake to see

me with my hand in
the fore mentioned jaws

the tiger's tails
just beginning to catch

"Fire...fire! host roars
throws his G&T;

over the smouldering tiger.

The tiger gives up
the blue & yellow marble.

We return to
our little game.

Our host pours
himself into

an armchair
fat as he

and another
G&T.;

I lose.

The stuffed animals
snigger.
.
647 · Jan 2016
GREEN SILENCE
Donall Dempsey Jan 2016
GREEN SILENCE

Dust settles
on the ladybird.

She sits on the window sill
dead to the world

pretty
as paste jewelry

courted by a terra cotta
Priapus

chatting her up
unaware that she is

dead.

She remains deeply
unimpressed

by his ability
to keep it up.

A fly lands on the very
tip top of his tumescence.

It's enough to make
a dead ladybird laugh.

The dance of net curtains
animates the moment.

Outside the silence
is stained green

by chestnut leaves
flirting with the sun.
645 · Apr 2015
RUNNING TOWARDS THE LIGHT
Donall Dempsey Apr 2015
The fear of War
walks upon the air

strides across
a countryside

like a gigantic
demonic **** in Boots

a Grimm tale
let loose

upon a world
that can only offer

in its defence
the beauty of this spiderweb

thrown across
the space between

hedgerow and fence

this the last sunset
that will ever know "Peace...

. . .in our time."

I fear Mr. Chamberlain
has got it - wrong.

Herr ****** has caught the bus.

A hawk hovers
in its beauty.

I sit making
its jesses and leashes .

Already I can see
I stand in the ruins of my life

an ordinary man
turning into history.

War invisible
yet totally tangible

its hand touching
my landscape.

An ancient chalk man
holding the gates open

the what will
be...will...be.

A sunset caught
in a spiderweb.

The last time
I ever was

me.
645 · Jun 2016
THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS
Donall Dempsey Jun 2016
THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS

We declare
- this our bedroom -

an independent
dominion

secede from
the United Kingdom

& the Commonwealth
of Nations

(although still enjoying
our European unions) .

Us a Republic
of Love

out on our own

our New Found Land
as Donne had done

a currency
of caresses

our national tongue
...kisses

needing nothing
but the other

to complete
our independence

flying the flag
of happiness

in this our brave
new world

of
Love.
Donall Dempsey Sep 2017
CLOUDWATCHER
( for David Olaf Carney )

A cloud
gets the ****.

Becomes a camel.

Another **** sees it
transform into a dromedary.

Now a kidney!

Then as on a whim
becomes a Picasso

or some such
thing.

Sometime there's
shape and sense.

Sometimes none.

We make up names
for the one's with none.

Here for instance
stolen

from an old religious tract
THE CLOUD OF UNKNOWING.

And here, from the same
"...the cloud of forgetting."

This one
we dub in Ancient Egyptian

"HPRR!"

"rising from....coming into being
itself.:

And this one" "HPR!"
"...to become...to change."

And while our minds run on
the Egyptian thing

why here is Nepthys
Goddess of the Death

that is not
Eternal.

Here Horus
Lord of things to come.

This here cloud
we give the moniker

THE AGENBITE OF INWIT

before it becomes
an Inuit.

Now an anvil and a hammer
in a Black Country summer

"Gie-in’ sum ‘ommer!"

we command it
commanding the skies.

Now here again
a nothing.

Clouds bring forth
not the gentle rain

that falleth from Heaven
but...thought

whatever the mind
imagine.

And here
why here

is a cloud
that is just

a cloud.
642 · Feb 2019
IN THE HERON'S EYE
Donall Dempsey Feb 2019
IN THE HERON'S EYE



you swim
into yourself
the lake doubles you


your swimming reflection
trying to claw its way
into you


from the lake emerges
a head like a bust then a bust then
the whole delicious nakedness of you


your reflection
hides inside you
when you leave the lake


naked
being chased
by your shadow


the heron's shadow
stares through the water's skin
at the fish within


in the heron's eye
the fish already
- caught


a leaf
floats on the tree's reflection
fish swims amongst its branches


we swim amongst clouds & trees
rain taps on the top of the lake
we laugh underwater


piercing the water's skin
thin blades of sunlight
we swim we swim
Donall Dempsey Sep 2016
". . .a way a lone a last a loved. . ."

My mind had
scabbed over.

I picked at the pain
again &. . .

so that the thoughts
bled &. . .

the only way I have
of keeping you

alive.
***
When Brian was bringing me back from the airport and we got to Merchant's Quay we would always shout out as we approached Adam and Eve's Church the opening of Joyce's Finnegan's Wake. . .

" riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend
of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to
Howth Castle and Environs. "

And as we crawled past it we would shout out the last sentence....

"a way a lone a last a loved a long the / riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs."

The traffic snarled at us but if we used Joyce's words upon it...it would unfurl and move it move move it! We used to recite it both slow and fast...sometimes at the same time or in Jimmy Joyce's wee little Irish voice that he had on him. The traffic seemed terrified of the words and it always worked.  We always called the traffic HCE....HERE COMES EVERYONE! Ahhh...the power of literature!

After his funeral I just hadn't the heart to greet the church with the usual Joycean playfulness and remained lost in silence as we left it bewildered behind us like an old friend snubbed.

The Franciscans secretly said Mass in the Adam and Eve Tavern, where the popular name of the present church comes from.
640 · Dec 2023
IN THE DEEP MIDWINTER
Donall Dempsey Dec 2023
IN THE DEEP MIDWINTER

the fox pauses
a paw
left in mid air

resting upon
a clump
of darkness

the fox listens intently
the countryside listens
to the fox's listening

a stillness falls
upon all
a snail stops mid-wall

nothing moves
the fox's eye glistens
the world holds its breath

the fox trots
as if in a dream
across countryside that's never been

my face reflected
in the diorama
the museum closing for the night
640 · Jan 2017
HOW MANY MILES. .?
Donall Dempsey Jan 2017
HOW MANY MILES. .?

I try to
get back to

the you
before you

died.

You flicker
in the candlelight.

I am trying to
not let the forgetting

happen
to you

but you begin to
fade and falter.

You tell me to let you
...go...

That it will be easier
for me.

But I would rather own
the pain of this love.

Hold you all the tighter.

Smuggle you in a dream
across death's border.

You are beyond Babylon
...the many miles to...

The childhood rhyme
I told you.

"Can I get there by candle light..?"
I ask the dark.

"...there and back again..."
the emptiness echoes.

Each night I fetch
your ghost

feeding it my pain
to keep you here again

only to have to
return you

when morning brings a new day
you can never know.
640 · Feb 2019
BABYCHAMS
Donall Dempsey Feb 2019
BABYCHAMS

Here under a large pub table
hidden by its tasselled cloth

in my own private theatre
of self

making my Dinky car
come alive

and run on high grade
imagination.

The chattering of aunts
like a foreign language.

I could never understand
the clatter of the lingo.

When suddenly a pair of female legs
****** themselves under my table.

Then another and another
each ******* into my space

like an iron maiden
of fleshly legs.

All  shapes and sizes
stocking...un-stockinged
skirts hitched up beyond
as far as possible
knickered...un-knickered
places scratched
never thought possible.

And I in the one breathing space left
unable to breath.

I was that French cartoon cat
chased by Pepé Le Pew.

"Le pant!"
I gasped
"Le phew!"

Aunts abandoning all their power
returning to being the girls they were.

The Babycham gone
to their heads.

And I forever
putting aside

childish things
and toys

wise as a Solomon
though thoroughly terrified

with this
the newest of knowledge.
A twenty-minute-write-a-poem that emerged from Ian McLachlan's poetry workshop at The Corner in Wembley Library the other evening.
I knew Ian of course as the perfect poet/performer that he is and now can add poetry facilitator to his accomplishments. Much thanks for his ability to drag these words outta me.

That insufferable romantic skunk who stunk of his own "me me me-ness" and inflated ego and libido.

The long suffering female cat that he would mistakenly take for a female skunk("la belle femme skunk fatale") due to some circumstantial mishap( squeezing under a fence with wet white paint)was of course -Penelope Pussycat. The fractured French would half us in stitches...."Le mew? Le purrrrrrr!"

Pepé: (sings) Affaire d'amour ? Affaire de cœur ? Je ne sais quoi… je vive en espoir. (Sniffs) Mmmm m mm… un smella vous finez… (Hums)

Even titles laid it on thick - FOR SCENT-IMENTAL REASONS...SCENT-IMENTAL OVER YOU...ODOR OF THE DAY..ODOR-ABLE KITTY...LOUVRE COME BACK TO ME!
Donall Dempsey Jun 2017
STICKING ONE'S HEAD OUT OF THE UNIVERSE

See, here's me
just being this

bundle of
I am's

maybe 6...maybe 7
stuck halfways

between this Now and
a Past I used to be

as if I could cut
myself out of

time and space
( **** the continuum )

like the woodcut I cut out
where some astrologer fellow

crawls forward and
sticks his head out into

the universe
his hand reaching for the stars.

I used to carry it
in my left hand back pocket

later on when I would be nine
but not now.

That nine year old boy will
take it out and just look and look at it.

Until it would fade into nothingness
a ma of lines and creases.

Right now I am back when
my age is at 6's and 7's

the sudden rain of
that particular day

rain falling on
sun warm stones.

I could see myself
in one so

I decided to steal it
from the world.

Put it in my pocket
'cos I wanted to possess it

as it had possessed me.

The summers it had known.
The winters it had passed.
The history of its weathers.


I pocketed also
that yesterday rain

( it is forever falling )

drag it into this
Here and Now.

"Words...!" I beg
"...help me please!"

And the words haul it all
from that There to this Here.

Stealing a stone.
Stealing a past.

Sunrainstone
of that moment

stealing my senses
fooling time

allowing this 60 year old child
to somehow survive

so that he can
be it

all over again
a forever first time.

Take my word
for it.
The Flammarion image is a wood engraving rather than a wood cut...but there ya go.The "ubi cœlum terræ se conjungit"( the point where the sky and earth touch ) was for me that little black stone that let me dismiss both time and space and is my pathway back to that little boy who was busy finding himself.
Donall Dempsey Nov 2015
MAKER OF DAYS
( for Uncle Michael )


You will always be
oats

that smell spilling out of
a split sack

in an empty barn

a dance of dust motes
like a spell

trapping summer
within its crumbling walls.

You being you
whatever the weather

water sprung from ground
its gurgle of coldness

the chitter chatter of hens
gossiping among

obsolete
machinery

blue eaten with rust.

Dock leaves
next to nettles

calming the pain
far from the maddening stings

always your laughter
amongst the ordinary everyday

shipwreck of things
becoming &

un-becoming
themselves.

You the maker
of days

in the lost land
of summer.
638 · Apr 2018
"...PASSING STRANGE..."
Donall Dempsey Apr 2018
"...PASSING STRANGE..."

Rose, arose & having risen:
...was angry.

'You never call me
by my name

only love & darling.'

'A rose by any other name
would smell as sweet! '
I quoted.

'That's neat! '
she sweetly smiled.

'That's Shakespeare! '
I whispered in her ear

and kissed her
sweet sweet smile.

(Each reflected in the other's eye) .

'Oh, quote me that kiss again! '
she sighed.

'How I do love thee...! '
I cried.

'...let me count the kisses! '
she replied.

My lovely darling

Rose.
The "...passing strange..." are the stories that Othello tells Desdemona to win her heart....they were not only strange but surpassed all the strange things that could be!
Donall Dempsey Mar 2015
She said: “Hi...
I‘m from a different
planet! ”

I said: “******...
...so am I! ”

It’s so hard to
meet genuine
Earthlings

...these days! ”
Title comes from jocular chat up line at an Irish disco in the '70's. The rest of the poem exists in the playful banter and retort that endeared us to each other. We both obviously came from the good planet Humour!
636 · Jul 2015
THE BEAUTY OF THE WORLD
Donall Dempsey Jul 2015
The city inches towards
the dawn.

Most of it is still
( not awake )

but sleep
has disowned me.

I stand and stare
as this world

comes into being
as it dresses itself

in sunlight
the new moment

as it glistens
translating the now

into the song
of a passing bird

so beautiful
I call out

your lost name
amazed

that this world
moving through space and time

does not contain
you.

You who have gone
beyond even

the great silence

and my tears fail
to bring you back again.

"The beauty of the world
hath made me sad. . ."

I tell my reflection
gazing through glass

a startled bird
flying through my face.
635 · Jul 2019
FIRST LOVE
Donall Dempsey Jul 2019
FIRST LOVE

I am new to
this

"love thing"
read about it in manuals

of course
but this is

the real thing.

Ok..ok so
she is just a dust bin.

I love her
rusty dents

she so very very tin!

Oh the metal of her.

The way she wears
her lid.

Her name is Tin(Sn) &

she has 10...10
stable isotopes!

I know the humans will
never understand.

A robot never forgets his
first love.
635 · Nov 2015
GREANN MO CHROÍ
Donall Dempsey Nov 2015
GREANN MO CHROÍ

Ullastráth...do ghrá
gan fhios dom ach ‘nois do ghrá
gach aon rud...gach áit!

*

MY HEART’S LOVE

The day before the day before yesterday...your love
unknown to me...but now
your love...everything...everywhere!
634 · Nov 2016
EVERYONE WAS SOMEONE ELSE
Donall Dempsey Nov 2016
EVERYONE WAS SOMEONE ELSE

Neville Chamberlain
gets on at Barking.

Umbrella, stripped trousers
the whole kit and kaboodle

just like the cartoonists
drew him.

Almost expected him to wave
that piece of paper and declare

"Peace in our time!"

But he only snapped open
The Times

with Trump trumpeting
some more inane lies

like a Dumbo
on acid.

At the next stop
the Chamberlain look-alike

got off and
an entity like something

Beardsley would have drawn
got on...yawn...fell asleep.

A girl at the end of the carriage
looked like she had just stepped out

of an Edward Hopper .

People kept assuming
the likenesses of others

no one was
themselves.

Here was a real dead ringer for
Meatloaf.

There the Mona Lisa
in a micro-mini and

still wearing the same
elusive smile.

Me too
even I

had awoken this morning
a badly drawn boy

feeling like nothing but
a bunch of scribbles..

I stayed on to the end of the line...

not wanting to get off
just going nowhere.

The next stop
the American elections!
Donall Dempsey May 2015
asleep she
looks like a photograph
of her self

her expression
the weather of her face
evaporates

lipstick smudges her pillow
a false eyelash
flutters to the floor

she sleeps like a statue
as if centuries
mean nothing to her

an awed moon
gazes in upon
her dreaming

a silk lilac *******
like a little animal
caught crawling across the carpet

a rather fetching
matching bra
dangles from a candlestick

impossibly high stilettos
stand still
pretending to be an art installation

a silk stocking
hangs
from a doorknob

a new millennium
enters the room
a clock ticks loudly
Rien ne pese tant que un secret.

[Nothing weighs more than a secret.] ~ La Fontaine

Rien ne pese tant que un secret. [Nothing weighs more than a secret.] ~ La Fontaine

The secret being that she has conceived...only her body knows this secret and keeps it so for a while! When she counts backwards she realises that this was the night of nights. The poem doesn't let on either except for its title! The poem only observes and doesn't comment...just sees her and the state of the room for what it is...the new millennium cometh and makes her a lady in waiting.

The poem insists on keeping its mystery....it is not necessary for it to give it up! The explanation lives amongst the backstory with the little afterglow of knowing if one wants a little more insight into what was going on....although one does not have to know that!
629 · Oct 2018
DA VINCI'S GHOST
Donall Dempsey Oct 2018
DA VINCI'S GHOST

( for my little brother Brian )

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."
Donall Dempsey Jul 2016
THE SWEET CARESS OF ANY HUMAN HEART

Amory Clay and Logan Mountstuart
getting drunk in Boyd's Bar
"To Life!" they say "To Life!"

*

Amory and Logan are of course the main characters in William Boyd's books ANY HUMAN HEART and most recently THE SWEET CARESS. Just goes to show that fictional characters are real people too! We follow their journeys through a life that encompasses the whole sweep of a century and its turbulent histories. They are very much alive in our mind and realer than real thanks to the power and energy of Mr. B's master storytelling.
Donall Dempsey Feb 2018
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 Mar 2019
"AHHHH SWEET MYSTERY OF LIFE
       AT LAST I'VE FOUND YOU!"

What?

You think I don't know?
I do so know!

All that cabbages and stork sutt
...strictly for the little kids.

Where babies come from
was now a mystery

no more!

Who told me?
Who told me!

A movie told me
that's who!

Allow me to
set the scene for you.

It is a dark and stormy night
you know the movie cliche kind.

A horse gallops across
a black and white countryside

under a celluloid moon
racing past

stage set trees
to the lonely homestead.

Doc and horse
arrive dead beat.

Flecks of foam
around the horse's bit.

Doc chewing the end
of his moustache.

The camera closes in on
golden embossed lettering

on the ******* bag
clutched in his right hand.

Doc. Something something
or other.

"Hot water...towels!"
he barks curt commands.

His wire framed glasses
flash in the lamplight.

Mounts the stairs
Rolls up sleeves.

Howls and moans
behind the bedroom door.

Father helpless
paces the floor.

Then a mere
movie moment later

Doc announces
"It's a boy!"

What joy!
"And - a girl!"

Both newborns
wail!

The babies have appeared
as if by magic.

They weren't in the room
before!

Then it hits me!
Been staring me in the face

all this time
doh!

Don't know why I didn't
cotton on earlier.

Doc. has obviously
smuggled the babies

in his ******* bag
the golden embossed lettering

shining in the candlelight
the neigh of a horse.

Now there's nothing
I don't know!
When you are 7 and you put two and two together and come up with five and a half. It all seemed so logical at the time and I thought it a good stab at an answer. The movies are all illusion and flicker with celluloid maybes and frame by frame mightbes!

When one is seven it is hard to tell!
Donall Dempsey Jan 2016
INTRODUCING FRANKENSTEIN TO CHILDREN

I'm a very put-to-get-her-at-the-
-last-moment 'me.'

My eyes stuck on
mere coloured paper & glue

like something Year 2
would do

a  pair of lungs
fashioned from

a deflated blue ballon
a pierced Fairy Liquid Washing Up bottle.

My mouth...aghhhh...my thoughts
all full of bile...vile!

This trying to put one foot in front of
the other...oh what a bother!

Oh I remember now
it's called walk-ing.

The mouth moves
but the talk doesn't come out.

My brain bits of string *
tin cans & things.

Yes yes & YES
SILENCE PLEASE.

SILENCE THE BEST
CURE OF ALL.

Oh no Year 2
are lining up in the hall.
The joys of teaching whilst being flu ridden....I looked and felt very much like the Frankenstein we were building. This was also the day I discovered I was getting fat! One of the littlest childs patted me on the belly and said in all earnestness "AWWWWW...SIR'S HAVING A BABY!" Out of the mouth of babes!
621 · Feb 2018
THE PICTURE OF DONALL GREY
Donall Dempsey Feb 2018
THE PICTURE OF DONALL GREY

My face distorted
in a tea spoon

( much more the real one
that I feel )

than the me
I am.

I hide this real me
under my palm.

I can feel it

biting into my flesh
refusing to be

hidden.

Reality takes a step
...back.

I pour a cup of tea.
Earl Grey in a China blue cup.

No sugar.
Slice of lemon.

And taking the spoon
from under my palm

drown the real me
in the lemon'd tea.

I smile falsely & hope
no one else noticed.
Donall Dempsey Jul 2015
She sweeps him
up.

Puts the bits of
broken urn in the bin.

Empties the back end of
the ***** bottle.

And with the aid of
a little yellow funnel

decants his ashes from
dustpan to bottle.

A little cloud of him
hangs in the air

like a genie
appearing from...

She keeps him in
the ***** bottle

for ohhh...years

despite him being
a whiskey man.

When he was a real
life man

he would beat her
when the spirit moved him.

Sad to say she was glad
he was dead.

His death gave her
her life back.

She hated the way he
coloured her

skin in
with big blooming bruises.

One year she just got fed up
looking at him in the bottle

in his ashes to ashes
transformation.

So she just flushed
him down the loo.

His photo kept on
smiling as

he watched
behind the ***** glass

this her
final revenge.
The title comes from that nice Mr. Hitchcock man!
617 · Nov 2018
LOVE CHARM
Donall Dempsey Nov 2018
LOVE CHARM

I kiss your philtrum
and you moan.  

I lick a tiny trickle
of sweat  

from it.  

I know
it has no  

apparent function
& survives  

between your delightful nose
& your delicious upper lip.  

But what
of it?  

A kiss
fits  

so
neatly  

into
it.  

And leads to lips
& lips upon lips  

ending in an ******
ellipsis . . .

I love to look
upon it  

as the indent left
by the finger of God  

or where an angel
shushes the yet-to-be-born  

teaching it to forget
all it has learned  

in the world
of the womb.  

I kiss again
your philtrum  

a kiss  
fits  

so  
neatly

into  
it.
616 · Feb 2016
GOING TO THE MOVIES
Donall Dempsey Feb 2016
GOING TO THE MOVIES

Now in these nights
without you

I go to the movies

alone
this time

all the time
remembering

the times of you.

Escaping
the absence

of you

(losing the plot)  

sleeping the film through

smuggling my loneliness
past my sleeping mind

catching the pain
off guard

until it’s time

to walk the long walk
home

to what used to be
our home.
Donall Dempsey Jul 2019
'. . . SWALLOW SWALLOW LITTLE SWALLOW. .."

Winter melts into Spring
the swallows ignore the War
return...as they always do
Donall Dempsey Oct 2015
the dark deepens
the tiny candle holds its breath
dives under the night's waters

halfway across
the little universe of a room
the candle drowns

& I am left
bereft at the bottom
of nothingness

I feel my self to see
if:I am...still here
if:I...still exist

I think I do
therefore I am
...I. . .think

"ooooOOOO!" cries the wind
pretending its a ghost
the trees snicker

"OOOOoooo!" cries the ghost
pretending to be the wind
the trees snicker

"...& if I die before I. . ."
I hurl the prayer
at the blackness

a-not-put-away shoe
catches me by the foot
I fall. . .

"Come to my arms!"
the bed mumbles
I tumble into its embrace

suddenly sleep seizes me
"Come with me..." sleep whispers
I make my escape

safe inside
a snore
the dark don't worry me no more

in the morning the sun
throws lances of light
at the retreating dark

the shadows flee
in desperate disarray
make a last stand behind the mirror

on the floor
a dead candle
with a right big toe(imprint)

the sun advances
the shadows' slaughter
emperor of light...conqueror of morning
611 · Sep 2016
My Mother's Tears
Donall Dempsey Sep 2016
magpies and nappies
growing on the Winter line
my Mam...tired...crying
611 · May 2019
DUTCH SPRING
Donall Dempsey May 2019
DUTCH SPRING

I walk through
the 16th century

imperceptibly
passing on into

the 17th without
even knowing I had

done so and here
are Dutch people

staring at me
wondering where I've come from.

I look into their eyes
long dead by now

their painted faces
gazing out of golden frames

windows into
all that's passed.

Trying to remember
Rembrandt saying

'"...the light from other's
minds..."

And here is Saskia
still asleep in a few brushstrokes.

I tiptoe away
an intruder into

their long ago lives
different yet the same

as mine
The Jewish Bride sad

to see me go
back into the bustle

of Spring
in the Amsterdam of now.
611 · Jul 2016
ALL THOSE THOUGHTS
Donall Dempsey Jul 2016
ALL THOSE THOUGHTS

that vacant stare

the here-not-here

thought gathering
these few seconds

of a world
of little or no

significance
consequence

a glance capturing
a bird in mid-flight

the dance of sunlight
through lime green leaves

a memory of her self
being all of four

the yellow pencil sharpener
held steadily in her hand

paring all the  coloured pencils
down to the last shavings

a swirl of frocks
dancing with each other

all these thoughts
scattered upon the air

all these thoughts lost
as

the bomb goes off.
Donall Dempsey May 2015
He can only see
her voice

cry out

hear her body
move under him.

The moon
averts her eyes

leaves the lovers
lost in darkness

country dark
blind

to almost everything but
themselves

the wind flowing
through tree to tree

the world available
only through touch

the lap lap lap
of lake

waters

an owl's call.
Next page