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!
Donall Dempsey Mar 2015
!
elle porte l'avenir
dans son ventre
il débutera contre le bout de ses doigts
*
she carries the future
in her belly
it kicks against her fingertips
!!
Donall Dempsey Mar 2015
!!
son visage dispersés
à travers les carreaux
les cris de miroir
*
her face scattered
all over the tiles
the mirror screaming
!!!
Donall Dempsey Mar 2015
!!!
une feuille déambule dans la porte
assis dans mon siège préféré
Je suis assis sur le plancher

*

a leaf saunters in the door
sits in my favourite seat
I sit on the floor
Donall Dempsey Mar 2015
mis à sécher
votre soutien-gorge mouchetée
utilisé comme un hamac par un rouge-gorge
*
hung out to dry
your speckled bra
used as a hammock by a robin
Donall Dempsey May 2015
your heart
the only altar
I can kneel to
votre cœur
le seul autel
Je peux à s'agenouiller
Donall Dempsey Apr 2015
son faux sourire
nage dans un verre d'eau
dort à côté d'elle

*
her false smile
swims in a glass of water
sleeps beside her
Donall Dempsey Apr 2015
Just shy of
almost 21 inches high

she perches on my arm
sobs into my shirt cuff.

Her 4th birthday looms large
for her

& us
...the big 04!

She cries she doesn't
want to grow old & die!

Fears her birthday as
the Grim Reaper himself

calling
in person.

"Birthdays..." I console her
are just like breathing

in&out;
stop 'em & - you're gone!

You don't have birthdays then
no more you!

Birthdays are how you
keep making you

happen!

My little eyass
all tears & snot

brightens up at this
sniffs & sniffles.

I tell her
you are the sky

all endless & blue

time the wings
that lets you fly.

Death, snickers
standing by my shoulder

"Ahhh...ya old haggard ya
that's a nice pretty lie

to dry
a nestling's tears."

I watch her fly
into the endless blue

of her
self.

Smile as she
embraces her now.

I hop on one
leg hoppty hop.

"HOPPY BIRD DAY!"
I shout

against the glare
of time and sun.

She squeals
excited now

as to the who
she is

going to
be

Both of us
hopping down

the path together.
Donall Dempsey Jul 2015
Just shy of
almost 21 inches high

she perches on my arm
sobs into my shirt cuff.

Her 4th birthday looms large
for her

& us
...the big 04!

She cries she doesn't
want to grow old & die!

Fears her birthday as
the Grim Reaper himself

calling
in person.

"Birthdays..." I console her
are just like breathing

in&out;
stop 'em & - you're gone!

You don't have birthdays then
no more you!

Birthdays are how you
keep making you

happen!

My little eyass
all tears & snot

brightens up at this
sniffs & sniffles.

I tell her
you are the sky

all endless & blue

time the wings
that lets you fly.

Death, snickers
standing by my shoulder

"Ahhh...ya old haggard ya
that's a nice pretty lie

to dry
a nestling's tears."

I watch her fly
into the endless blue

of her
self.

Smile as she
embraces her now.

I hop on one
leg hoppty hop.

"HOPPY BIRD DAY!"
I shout

against the glare
of time and sun.

She squeals
excited now

as to the who
she is

going to
be

Both of us
hopping down

the path together.


Her granny had just died on her birthday so she sort of put two and two together and got 5 and a half and thought that she too was doomed to die on her own day of days.
Donall Dempsey Apr 2017
!!!!!!!HOPPY BIRD DAY!!!!!!!

Just shy of
almost 21 inches high

she perches on my arm
sobs into my shirt cuff.

Her 4th birthday looms large
for her

& us
...the big 04!

She cries she doesn't
want to grow old & die!

Fears her birthday as
the Grim Reaper himself

calling
in person.

"Birthdays..." I console her
are just like breathing

in&out
stop 'em & - you're gone!

You don't have birthdays then
no more you!

Birthdays are how you
keep making you

happen!

My little eyass
all tears & snot

brightens up at this
sniffs & sniffles.

I tell her
you are the sky

all endless & blue

time the wings
that lets you fly.

Death, snickers
standing by my shoulder

"Ahhh...ya old haggard ya
that's a nice pretty lie

to dry
a nestling's tears."

I watch her fly
into the endless blue

of her
self.

Smile as she
embraces her now.

I hop on one
leg hoppty hop.

"HOPPY BIRD DAY!"
I shout

against the glare
of time and sun.

She squeals
excited now

as to the who
she is

going to
be

Both of us
hopping down

the path together.
Donall Dempsey Nov 2015
!BEWARE BIGAMIST BEWARE!

In China
cheating Chang Yin

a Beijing businessman
(& bigamist)

suffered a severe
Facebook shock

when 'wife' Tsing
added'wife' Tseung

to her friend's
list

& found
they uncommonly

had quite a lot
in common.

Cheating Chang
now faces fininacial ruin.

'They each want
half of what

I got! '
he sobs.

Poor slob
didn't realise

it's oh so hard to be
a Beijing bigamist

in these oh so
technical times.
Donall Dempsey Dec 2018
!HEART GALLERY!

You step forth
from your bath

as if you were
a Bonard

come alive

spread yourself
across crisp cool sheets

as sensationally
sensuous

as a Modigliani
****

or a Noguchi
sculpture.

Here, you
Matisse

if only
for a brief

moment now so
Ernst!

Now so
playfully Picasso...ish!

I smile
as you Vermeer!

"Come here
& kiss me!"

You my Magritte!

You my Dali!

You my laughing walking talking
'art gallery!
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 Dec 2016
!IT'S IN HER KISS!

"Arra..!" she smirks

"Sure, give us a póg
ya auld rogue ya!"

I chuckle at her
Orish-ness.

"S'ea...n'ea?"
her eyes question in Irish.

"Tabhair dom do phóg!"
I challenge her gladly.

And in the kiss
the exchange of bliss

a tiny rolled up note
passes from her mouth to mine.

Her tongue firmly
in my cheek.

Speechless I...
. . .can not speak.

She turns and with a flounce
sashays off

an angel
in dirndl dress.

"Slán leat...mo buachaill!"
thrown over a naked freckled shoulder.

I unroll the tiny tiny scroll
smile at what is written

her telephone number
with several x's beneath

in red indelible ink.

Two tiny tiny eyes
drawn in blue

with one eye closed
in a wink.

*

"...póg..." - a kiss

"S'ea...n'ea?" - "Yes...no?"

"Tabhair dom do phóg!" - "Give me your kiss!"

"Slán leat...mo buachaill!"..."Goodbye...boy!"
"...póg..." - a kiss

"S'ea...n'ea?" - "Yes...no?"

"Tabhair dom do phóg!" - "Give me your kiss!"

"Slán leat...mo buachaill!"..."Goodbye...boy!"

***

I afterwards asked he:r "What was that all about?"t and she said: "Sure have ya never seen Dion Boucicault's Arrah na Pogue?"  and I said: " No..." "Or hear mention of it in Finnegans Wake" and I said: "No..." and she said: " And ya call yer self a gentleman and a scholar?" and I said: " Well I am a gentle man. .."

So she explained that the famous kiss in Arrah-na-Pogue when Arrah( Nora ), saves her foster brother from execution for his role in the political uprising, by a kiss, during which she effects an exchange from her mouth to his of a small scroll containing
the plans for his escape... by a kiss....you must remember this ... the famous noted kiss... so this little red-headed miss thought of this as her sister fancied me too and she wanted to be one step ahead of her. She had been dared to go up and kiss me and kissed me she did conveying all her feelings and a saliva drenched telephone number.  The best way to deliver the post as Joyce says. "The passing of the key of Two-tongue Common." Oh the wicked wiles of wild women with a penchant for literature.!

And that was how I came to hear about an Arrahna-Pogue kiss and the Finnegans Wake   reference to it!
Donall Dempsey Dec 2018
!IT'S IN HER KISS!

"Arrah..!" she smirks

"Sure, give us a póg
ya auld rogue ya!"

I chuckle at her
Orish-ness.

"S'ea...n'ea?"
her eyes question in Irish.

"Tabhair dom do phóg!"
I challenge her gladly.

And in the kiss
the exchange of bliss

a tiny rolled up note
passes from her mouth to mine.

Her tongue firmly
in my cheek.

Speechless I...
. . .can not speak.

She turns and with a flounce
sashays off

an angel
in dirndl dress.

"Slán leat...mo buachaill!"
thrown over a naked freckled shoulder.

I unroll the tiny tiny scroll
smile at what is written

her telephone number
with several x's beneath

in red indelible ink.

Two tiny tiny eyes
drawn in blue

with one eye closed
in a wink.

*

"...póg..." - a kiss

"S'ea...n'ea?" - "Yes...no?"

"Tabhair dom do phóg!" - "Give me your kiss!"

"Slán leat...mo buachaill!"..."Goodbye...boy!"
***
I afterwards asked her: "What was that all about?"t and she said: "Sure have ya never seen Dion Boucicault's Arrah na Pogue?"  and I said: " No..." "Or hear mention of it in Finnegans Wake" and I said: "No..." and she said: " And ya call yer self a gentleman and a scholar?" and I said: " Well I am a gentle man. .."

So she explained that the famous kiss in Arrah-na-Pogue when Arrah( Nora ), saves her foster brother from execution for his role in the political uprising, by a kiss, during which she effects an exchange from her mouth to his of a small scroll containing the plans for his escape... by a kiss....you must remember
this ... the famous noted kiss... so this little red-headed miss thought of this as her sister fancied me too and she wanted to be one step ahead of her. She had been dared to go up and kiss me and kissed me she did conveying all her feelings and a saliva drenched telephone number.  The best way to deliver the post as Joyce says. "The passing of the key of Two-tongue Common." Oh the wicked wiles of wild women with a penchant for literature.!

And that was how I came to hear about an Arrahna-Pogue kiss and the Finnegans Wake reference to it!
Donall Dempsey Dec 2017
!IT'S IN HER KISS!

"Arrah..!" she smirks

"Sure, give us a póg
ya auld rogue ya!"

I chuckle at her
Orish-ness.

"S'ea...n'ea?"
her eyes question in Irish.

"Tabhair dom do phóg!"
I challenge her gladly.

And in the kiss
the exchange of bliss

a tiny rolled up note
passes from her mouth to mine.

Her tongue firmly
in my cheek.

Speechless I...
. . .can not speak.

She turns and with a flounce
sashays off

an angel
in dirndl dress.
*

"Slán leat...mo buachaill!"
thrown over a naked freckled shoulder.

I unroll the tiny tiny scroll
smile at what is written

her telephone number
with several x's beneath

in red indelible ink.

Two tiny tiny eyes
drawn in blue

with one eye closed
in a wink.


"...póg..." - a kiss

"S'ea...n'ea?" - "Yes...no?"

"Tabhair dom do phóg!" - "Give me your kiss!"

"Slán leat...mo buachaill!"..."Goodbye...boy!"
fterwards asked he:r "What was that all about?"t and she said: "Sure have ya never seen Dion Boucicault's Arrah na Pogue?"  and I said: " No..." "Or hear mention of it in Finnegans Wake" and I said: "No..." and she said: " And ya call yer self a gentleman and a scholar?" and I said: " Well I am a gentle man. .."

So she explained that the famous kiss in Arrah-na-Pogue when Arrah( Nora ), saves her foster brother from execution for his role in the political uprising, by a kiss, during which she effects an exchange from her mouth to his of a small scroll containing the plans for his escape... by a kiss....you must remember
this ... the famous noted kiss... so this little red-headed miss thought of this as her sister fancied me too and she wanted to be one step ahead of her. She had been dared to go up and kiss me and kissed me she did conveying all her feelings and a saliva drenched telephone number.  The best way to deliver the post as Joyce says. "The passing of the key of Two-tongue Common." Oh the wicked wiles of wild women with a penchant for literature.!

And that was how I came to hear about an Arrahna-Pogue kiss and the Finnegans Wake reference to it!
Donall Dempsey Nov 2015
she blew in on
a gust of pheromones
"Ya wanna see my erogenous zones?"
Donall Dempsey Jun 2018
!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' *****.
!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' *****.
Donall Dempsey Jan 2017
!LHUDE SING CUCCU!

the treetops on tiptoe
looking out for spring
birds singing in their heads
!NEW DOG....OLD TRICKS!

the dog's in the loo!"
"We was...teaching him to *** and...
he just -fell in!
Donall Dempsey Jan 2018
!WAKEY WAKEY!
( for Maureen )

Every morning I
delighted in her

jumping into her skin
eager to begin

being her
all over again.

New to her self
as if she had only been

minted that very minute
her own self invented.

Touching the world
with her sense of self

chasing after dust motes
trying to clutch sunlight

creeping up on a honeysuckle's
scent

snatching at music
in the air

begging the world
to come out to play.
!WAKEY WAKEY!
( for Maureen )

Every morning I
delighted in her

jumping into her skin
eager to begin

being her
all over again.

New to her self
as if she had only been

minted that very minute
her own self invented.

Touching the world
with here sense of self

chasing after dust motes
trying to clutch sunlight

creeping up on a honeysuckle's
scent

snatching at music
in the air

begging the world
to come out to play.
!YOU AGAIN!

Your summer dress
comes to rest

upon the balcony

hung up on a thin
wire hanger

(an exotic bird)        

it cries for your body
weeps at being

parted from you
& your curves

a pool of tears
collects at its hem

as longingly it dreams of
the touch of your skin

asleep now
in the sun.

Later that evening
frightened by the approaching storm

it tries to escape
the clamour of its hanger

almost flies off
beyond the reach of my hands

run away to sea
seeking for further horizons.

I calm it
tame its panic

fold it tenderly

carry it like a dreaming
child

lay it to rest
at the foot of the bed

where all night long it sleeps
at your feet

awaiting your footstep

the sunshine
of being

you
again.
Donall Dempsey Dec 2015
!YOU AGAIN!

Your summer dress
comes to rest

upon the balcony

hung up on a thin
wire hanger

(an exotic bird)        

it cries for your body
weeps at being

parted from you
& your curves

a pool of tears
collects at its hem

as longingly it dreams of
the touch of your skin

asleep now
in the sun.

Later that evening
frightened by the approaching storm

it tries to escape
the clamour of its hanger

almost flies off
beyond the reach of my hands

run away to sea
seeking for further horizons.

I calm it
tame its panic

fold it tenderly

carry it like a dreaming
child

lay it to rest
at the foot of the bed

where all night long it sleeps
at your feet

awaiting your footstep

the sunshine
of being

you
again.
Donall Dempsey Dec 2018
!YOU AGAIN!

Your summer dress
comes to rest

upon the balcony

hung up on a thin
wire hanger

(an exotic bird)        

it cries for your body
weeps at being

parted from you
& your curves

a pool of tears
collects at its hem

as longingly it dreams of
the touch of your skin

asleep now
in the sun.

Later that evening
frightened by the approaching storm

it tries to escape
the clamour of its hanger

almost flies off
beyond the reach of my hands

run away to sea
seeking for further horizons.

I calm it
tame its panic

fold it tenderly

carry it like a dreaming
child

lay it to rest
at the foot of the bed

where all night long it sleeps
at your feet

awaiting your footstep

the sunshine
of being

you
again.
Donall Dempsey Jun 2016
!YOU AGAIN!

Your summer dress
comes to rest

upon the balcony

hung up on a thin
wire hanger

(an exotic bird)        

it cries for your body
weeps at being

parted from you
& your curves

a pool of tears
collects at its hem

as longingly it dreams of
the touch of your skin

asleep now
in the sun.

Later that evening
frightened by the approaching storm

it tries to escape
the clamour of its hanger

almost flies off
beyond the reach of my hands

run away to sea
seeking for further horizons.

I calm it
tame its panic

fold it tenderly

carry it like a dreaming
child

lay it to rest
at the foot of the bed

where all night long it sleeps
at your feet

awaiting your footstep

the sunshine
of being

you
again.
Donall Dempsey Apr 2016
!да да да!

darling daughter chews dad's toupee
when she has her fill
Fido takes over

toupee or not toupee
the hairpiece is having
a bad hair day

Fido and next door's doggie
engage in snarling tug o' war
oops that's torn it

dad now looking like a monk
his bald spot badly
sunburnt

darling daughter kisses
where the hairpiece ought to be
claps and slaps: Da...Da...Da. . .DA!"

it is the only word she knows
in Russian
the world is just one big Yes!
Donall Dempsey Apr 2017
!да да да!

darling daughter
chews
dad's toupee

when she has her fill
Fido takes over

toupee or not toupee
the hairpiece is having
a bad hair day

Fido and next door's doggie
engage in snarling tug o' war
oops that's torn it

dad now looking like a monk
his bald spot badly
sunburnt

darling daughter kisses
where the hairpiece ought to be
claps and slaps: Da...Da...Da. . .DA!"

it is the only word she knows
in Russian
the world is just one big Yes!
when she has her fill
Fido takes over

toupee or not toupee
the hairpiece is having
a bad hair day

Fido and next door's doggie
engage in snarling tug o' war
oops that's torn it

dad now looking like a monk
his bald spot badly
sunburnt

darling daughter kisses
where the hairpiece ought to be
claps and slaps: Da...Da...Da. . .DA!"

it is the only word she knows
in Russian
the world is just one big Yes!
!да да да!

darling daughter chews dad's toupee
when she has her fill
Fido takes over

toupee or not toupee
the hairpiece is having
a bad hair day

Fido and next door's doggie
engage in snarling tug o' war
oops that's torn it

dad now looking like a monk
his bald spot badly
sunburnt

darling daughter kisses
where the hairpiece ought to be
claps and slaps: Da...Da...Da. . .DA!"

it is the only word she knows
in Russian
the world is just one big Yes!
Donall Dempsey Sep 2016
" 'TIS!"

Sure, I shock
Eternity by the hand.

"Yer a grand man so y'are!|"
Eternity kept on saying.

I gave Eternity a peck
on each cheek.

"Ya....cheeky little thing!"
blushed Eternity.

"Ahhhh is it...yer self that's in it?"
gasped Infinity.

" 'tis!"  says I  "...so it is!"

"Welcome...welcome!" cries Death.
"Glad ya could make it!"

I said nothing.

Time was nowhere to be
seen.

"Is that it?"
I shyly asked.

"'tis, so it is!"
they all answered together.

" 'tis!"
" 'TIS!"

Sure, I shock
Eternity by the hand.

"Yer a grand man so y'are!|"
Eternity kept on saying.

I gave Eternity a peck
on each cheek.

"Ya....cheeky little thing!"
blushed Eternity.

"Ahhhh is it...yer self that's in it?"
gasped Infinity.

" 'tis!"  says I  "...so it is!"

"Welcome...welcome!" cries Death.
"Glad ya could make it!"

I said nothing.

Time was nowhere to be
seen.

"Is that it?"
I shyly asked.

"'tis, so it is!"
they all answered together.

" 'tis!"
"'TWAS THEN THE TIME...WE WERE IN THE DAYS"

His head full
of Irish myth.

The here & there
of this & that

bits that stick
in the mind

for as long as
forever is.

Sticky backs hitching
a ride on a boy's blue jumper.

This the emotional
archeology of me

sifting what's left
of times

long long gone by
in the time of his own

long long gone byes.

A winter of '63.

That 67-ish summer.

An Easter
that brought death.

There was a woman
(was there a woman?)

turned into a pool
turned into a fly
blown away by a wind

her name eroded
by a sea of time.

And the legendary heroes
like little boys

building a snowman
that would be the biggest

of the biggest
and

that the women would
compete to see

who could ***
furtherest through this

man of snow.

Some things are
not made

. . .to forget.

Oh such
artifacts of thoughts!

Such shards of stories
come back

to see what
kind of man

the little boy
would become.

He smiles as he remembers
& un-remembers

the such
of such

the unforgettable
calling to him

in mythic voices
the tallest tales

still easier
to resurrect

that his time
of 9

when he was going on
10.
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.
Donall Dempsey Jul 2018
". . .IT IS NOW THE TIME...THESE BE THE DAYS. . ."

One day blossomed
into another.

Spring was seen
walking in the wood.

Time lay scattered
all around.

Last Tuesday was
a bunch of flowers

wilting in a vase.

Tomorrow remained
to be plucked

as if he grasped the mystery
of the world

in his tiny fist
that now

( this now )

was the only time
that could be.

Life is simple
when one is

3.
***

The title comes from James Clarence Mangan's  "King Cahal Mór Of The Wine-Red Hand" which phrase would be known to anyone of my generation experiencing an Irish childhood.

I walked entranced
Through a land of Morn:
The sun, with wondrous excess of light,
Shone down and glanced
Over seas of corn
And lustrous gardens aleft and right.
Even in the clime
Of resplendent Spain,
Beams no such sun upon such a land;
But it was the time,
‘T was in the reign,
Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.

And the refrain comes back again and again but changing all the time...

"And it is the time,
These be the days,
Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.”

“It is now the time
These be the years,
Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.”

"That I dreamed this dream
Of the time and reign
Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand."

But my love of this refrain is far far ahead of me as I am only three and a tree is just another being and the world blooms into my mind. I am totally in love with my world and the world is totally in love with me!
Donall Dempsey Jul 2016
". . .IT IS NOW THE TIME...THESE BE THE DAYS. . ."


One day blossomed
into another.

Spring was seen
walking in the wood.

Time lay scattered
all around.

Last Tuesday was
a bunch of flowers

wilting in a vase.

Tomorrow remained
to be plucked

as if he grasped the mystery
of the world

in his tiny fist
that now

( this now )

was the only time
that could be.

Life is simple
when one is

3.
The title comes from James Clarence Mangan's  "King Cahal Mór Of The Wine-Red Hand" which phrase would be known to anyone of my generation experiencing an Irish childhood.

I walked entranced
Through a land of Morn:
The sun, with wondrous excess of light,
Shone down and glanced
Over seas of corn
And lustrous gardens aleft and right.
Even in the clime
Of resplendent Spain,
Beams no such sun upon such a land;
But it was the time,
‘T was in the reign,
Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.

And the refrain comes back again and again but changing all the time...

"And it is the time,
These be the days,
Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.”

“It is now the time
These be the years,
Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.”

"That I dreamed this dream
Of the time and reign
Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand."

But my love of this refrain is far far ahead of me as I am only three and a tree is just another being and the world blooms into my mind.
". . .IT IS NOW THE TIME...THESE BE THE DAYS. . ."

One day blossomed
into another.

Spring was seen
walking in the wood.

Time lay scattered
all around.

Last Tuesday was
a bunch of flowers

wilting in a vase.

Tomorrow remained
to be plucked

as if he grasped the mystery
of the world

in his tiny fist
that now

( this now )

was the only time
that could be.

Life is simple
when one is

3.
Donall Dempsey Jul 2017
". . .IT IS NOW THE TIME...THESE BE THE DAYS. . ."




One day blossomed

into another.




Spring was seen

walking in the wood.




Time lay scattered

all around.




Last Tuesday was

a bunch of flowers




wilting in a vase.




Tomorrow remained

to be plucked




as if he grasped the mystery

of the world




in his tiny fist

that now




( this now )




was the only time

that could be.




Life is simple

when one is




3.





The title comes from James Clarence Mangan's  "King Cahal Mór Of The Wine-Red Hand" which phrase would be known to anyone of my generation experiencing an Irish childhood.




I walked entranced

Through a land of Morn:

The sun, with wondrous excess of light,

Shone down and glanced

Over seas of corn

And lustrous gardens aleft and right.

Even in the clime

Of resplendent Spain,

Beams no such sun upon such a land;

But it was the time,

‘T was in the reign,

Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.




And the refrain comes back again and again but changing all the time...




"And it is the time,

These be the days,

Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.”




“It is now the time

These be the years,

Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.”




"That I dreamed this dream

Of the time and reign

Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand."



But my love of this refrain is far far ahead of me as I am only three and a tree is just another being and the world blooms into my mind. I am totally in love with my world and the world is totally in love with me!
Donall Dempsey Jun 2018
". . .THE WONDROUS ARCHITECTURE OF THE WORLDE. . "

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and so to Deptford I
do go
thanks to Madame Remembrance

I a poor
purveyor of poetry
clutching at words

and here
a great reckoning
not  in a little room

but on a lost street
staining the scene
a sickly yellow

and so enough
of Prologue...
Act 1 begins

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

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

indeed would welcome
the flicked knife
if it would release me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

who all this wordage
being too much for him
he flees

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Doth teach vs all to have aspyring mindes:
Our soules, whose faculties can comprehend
The wondrous architecture of the worlde.."
Donall Dempsey Jun 2017
". . .THE WONDROUS ARCHITECTURE OF THE WORLDE. . . ."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and so to Deptford I
do go
thanks to Madame Remembrance

I a poor
purveyor of poetry
clutching at words

and here
a great reckoning
not  in a little room

but on a lost street
staining the scene
a sickly yellow

and so enough
of Prologue...
Act 1 begins

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

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

indeed would welcome
the flicked knife
if it would release me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

who all this wordage
being too much for him
he flees

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Doth teach vs all to have aspyring mindes:
Our soules, whose faculties can comprehend
The wondrous architecture of the worlde.."
TAMBURLAINE:

"Nature, that fram'd us of four elements
Warring within our ******* for regiment,
Doth teach us all to have aspiring minds.
Our souls, whose faculties can comprehend
The wondrous architecture of the world,
And measure every wandering planet's course,
Still climbing after knowledge infinite,
And always moving as the restless spheres,
Wills us to wear ourselves and never rest,
Until we reach the ripest fruit of all,
That perfect bliss and sole felicity,
The sweet fruition of an earthly crown.”
― Christopher Marlowe, Tamburlaine the Great, Part 1

ORTYGIUS

What god, or fiend, or spirit of the earth,
Or monster turned to a manly shape,
Or of what mould or mettle he be made,
What star or fate soever govern him,
Let us put on our meet encountering minds;
And, in detesting such a devilish thief,
In love of honour and defence of right,
Be arm'd against the hate of such a foe,
Whether from earth, or hell, or heaven he grow.

― Christopher Marlowe, Tamburlaine the Great ACT II, Scene VI.


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BY CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the Rocks,
Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow Rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing Madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of Roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty Lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and Ivy buds,
With Coral clasps and Amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The Shepherds’ Swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.
Donall Dempsey Dec 2017
"... IN THE UNENDING AFTERNOON OF HER EYES..."

We drift from
Parisian museum to

Parisian museum
as if calling upon

some grand home
and the paintings deign

to see us
we the tourist class.

We are caught
in a deluge.

The unrelenting rain
tears time off

the present moment
revealing the past underneath

an older century
bleeding through.

How fragile are
les temps perdu.

I  whistle a motif
from César Franck.

"What's that ?" you say
"...the National Anthem of our love!"

I gaze up at Proust's
cork-lined room

102 boulevard Haussmann
now become a bank.

Imagine him there
glancing down at us

glancing up  at him
the slight movement of  blue satin drapes.

Or have I imagined him
as he imagines us

hurrying figures
from another time

the rain obscuring us
each from the other.

"Love..." Marcel reminds me
“...is space and time.."

his voice almost lost
in the rain's din

"...measured by the heart.”

"Allons Madeline....allons!"
A French mum scolds her sulky child.

The rain reigns
supreme.
By 1906, Proust’s parents had died, his brother had married, and he felt the family residence was too big. He moved to 102 Boulevard Haussmann(in the Ian Fleming novel Thunderball, it is described as "the solidest street in Paris" and the site of the headquarters of SPECTRE.) a building owned by his Uncle Louis, where he wrote the bulk of his work, mostly in bed.

Today the building belongs to the CIC bank, which has restored the bedroom, famously lined in cork for soundproofing, but the room’s contents are in the Musée Carnavalet, leaving the solitary chamber soulless..the silence listening to us not making a soundl.
.
SPECTRE in some fictional alternative world still has its headquarters on Boulevard Haussmannn...a fact of which I was totally unaware being pulverised by rain and time....the moment coming apart at the seams.

A reconstruction, with original furniture, of the room where Marcel Proust wrote In search of lost time can be seen in the  Musée Carnavalet.

Off in a cramped corner were the reassembled pieces of furniture from Proust’s bedroom, including a five-paneled Chinese screen, a velvet armchair that belonged to his father and a writing desk, used mostly for piling books. He kept his notebooks and writing materials on an old rosewood end table beside the bed. Two other tables are adrift in this cramped tableau, one of which was used for his morning coffee tray, usually served with milk and croissants.

The original Boulevard Haussmann apartment was spacious but crammed with furniture, with double windows always covered by padded blue satin drapes. The bedspread was blue satin as well and there was a chandelier, which was never lit when Proust was working. The only light was from a long-stemmed, green-shaded lamp on the bedside table.

We were headed for  the Musée Jacquemart-André, at 158 Boulevard Haussmann, the former home of banker and art collector Edouard André and his artist wife Nélie Jacquemart, recaptures the interior decor and lifestyle of respectable society. Proust was never a guest there, but he rotated in the same social circles, We were mere tourists...awed by the past.

As Beckett puts it in his essay on Proust...

"Life is habit. Or rather life is a succession of habits, since the individual is a succession of individuals; the world being a projection of the individual’s consciousness (an objectivation of the individual’s will, Schopenhauer would say), the pact must be continually renewed, the letter of safe-conduct brought up to date. The creation of the world did not take place once and for all time, but takes place every day. Habit then is the generic term for the countless treaties concluded between the countless subjects that constitute the individual and their countless correlative objects."

This poem is one of the countless treaties various individuals of me made with the moment in time that was mine being shared with Proust.

The enigma of the “little phrase” that “swept over and enveloped” Swann “like a perfume or a caress..." still lingers on as maybe Frack or as Proust admitted in a letter  Camille Saint-Saëns. I rather prefer Franck's Sonata in A major for Violin and Piano  for its perfect cyclic beauty and its gentle reflectiveness.

But it was Franck's gorgeous Symphony in D minor( and the transformations of its four-bar theme )that I was lost in that day and became for me the "...national anthem of our love."

“It is only through art that we can escape from ourselves and know how another person sees a universe which is not the same as our own and whose landscapes would otherwise have remained as unknown as any there may be on the moon.”

The title comes from a lovely phrase that has always haunted me...

"...calmly imprisoned in the unending afternoon of her eyes..."

THE GUERMANTES WAY - MARCEL PROUST
Donall Dempsey Dec 2018
"... IN THE UNENDING AFTERNOON OF HER EYES..."

We drift from
Parisian museum to

Parisian museum
as if calling upon

some grand home
and the paintings deign

to see us
we the tourist class.

We are caught
in a deluge.

The unrelenting rain
tears time off

the present moment
revealing the past underneath

an older century
bleeding through.

How fragile are
les temps perdu.

I  whistle a motif
from César Franck.

"What's that ?" you say
"...the National Anthem of our love!"

I gaze up at Proust's
cork-lined room

102 boulevard Haussmann
now become a bank.

Imagine him there
glancing down at us

glancing up  at him
the slight movement of  blue satin drapes.

Or have I imagined him
as he imagines us

hurrying figures
from another time

the rain obscuring us
each from the other.

"Love..." Marcel reminds me
“...is space and time.."

his voice almost lost
in the rain's din

"...measured by the heart.”

"Allons Madeline....allons!"
A French mum scolds her sulky child.

The rain reigns
supreme.
***

By 1906, Proust’s parents had died, his brother had married, and he felt the family residence was too big. He moved to 102 Boulevard Haussmann(in the Ian Fleming novel Thunderball, it is described as "the solidest street in Paris" and the site of the headquarters of SPECTRE.) a building owned by his Uncle Louis, where he wrote the bulk of his work, mostly in bed.

Today the building belongs to the CIC bank, which has restored the bedroom, famously lined in cork for soundproofing, but the room’s contents are in the Musée Carnavalet, leaving the solitary chamber soulless..the silence listening to us not making a sound.
SPECTRE in some fictional alternative world still has its headquarters on Boulevard Haussmannn...a fact of which I was totally unaware being pulverised by rain and time....the moment coming apart at the seams.

A reconstruction, with original furniture, of the room where Marcel Proust wrote In search of lost time can be seen in Musée Carnavalet.

Off in a cramped corner were the reassembled pieces of furniture from Proust’s bedroom, including a five-paneled Chinese screen, a velvet armchair that belonged to his father and a writing desk, used mostly for piling books. He kept his notebooks and writing materials on an old rosewood end table beside the bed. Two other tables are adrift in this cramped tableau, one of which was used for his morning coffee tray, usually served with milk and croissants.

The original Boulevard Haussmann apartment was spacious but crammed with furniture, with double windows always covered by padded blue satin drapes. The bedspread was blue satin as well and there was a chandelier, which was never lit when Proust was working. The only light was from a long-stemmed, green-shaded lamp on the bedside table.

We were headed for the Musée Jacquemart-André, at 158 Boulevard Haussmann, the former home of banker and art collector Edouard André and his artist wife Nélie Jacquemart, recaptures the interior decor and lifestyle of respectable society. Proust was never a guest there, but he rotated in the same social circles, We were mere tourists...awed by the past.

As Beckett puts it in his essay on Proust...

"Life is habit. Or rather life is a succession of habits, since the individual is a succession of individuals; the world being a projection of the individual’s consciousness (an objectivation of the individual’s will, Schopenhauer would say), the pact must be continually renewed, the letter of safe-conduct brought up to date. The creation of the world did not take place once and for all time, but takes place every day. Habit then is the generic term for the countless treaties concluded between the countless subjects that constitute the individual and their countless correlative objects."

This poem is one of the countless treaties various individuals of me made with the moment in time that was mine being shared with Proust.

The enigma of the “little phrase” that “swept over and enveloped” Swann “like a perfume or a caress..." still lingers on as maybe Frack or as Proust admitted in a letter to Camille Saint-Saëns. I rather prefer Franck's Sonata in A major for Violin and Piano for its perfect cyclic beauty and its gentle reflectiveness.

But it was Franck's gorgeous Symphony in D minor( and the transformations of its four-bar theme )that I was lost in that day and became for me the "...national anthem of our love."

“It is only through art that we can escape from ourselves and know how another person sees a universe which is not the same as our own and whose landscapes would otherwise have remained as unknown as any there may be on the moon.”

The title comes from a lovely phrase that has always haunted me...

"...calmly imprisoned in the unending afternoon of her eyes..."

THE GUERMANTES WAY - MARCEL PROUST.
Donall Dempsey Aug 2017
"...A STRAIGHT LINE DRAWN CROOKEDLY INSIDE ME..."
( for David Olof Carney )

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

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

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

in the car crash
his last laugh: "Thank you God!
You're a good sport!"
The title is taken from Alvaro De Campos aka Fernando Pessoa's  MARITIME ODE.

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


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

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

He's beginning to think he will never die. Don't know whether that's a good or a bad thing! But yes Jan lives on....long live Jan!

"Quelle douleur incroyable, et quelle joie incroyable! "
Donall Dempsey Feb 2018
"...ALTHOUGH HE WAS LITTLE HIS HONOUR WAS GREAT..."

The only wren
I'd ever seen

displayed to me
with moonlight

as if deliberately
setting a scene.

I  unable ever
to forget.

Trees...leaves...even the breeze
polished to a shaprness

as the moon stepped out
from behind her clouds.

The little bird
wearing a star above its head.

The star delighted
with its small companion

unaware
( as stars are )

of the bird's
tiny death.

All this given as a gift
to the small boy

who could neither
understand or forget it

but forever  aware
that eternity and infinity

could combine
in this sublime

moment
that would last

for all time.
THE WREN SONG

The wren, the wren, the king of all birds,
St. Stephen's Day was caught in the furze,
Although he was little his honour was great,
Jump up me lads and give him a treat.
Chorus:
Up with the kettle and down with the pan,
And give us a penny to bury the wren.
2. As I was going to Killenaule,
I met a wren upon the wall.
I took me stick and knocked him down,
And brought him in to Carrick Town.
Chorus:

3. Droolin, Droolin, whereÂ’s your nest?
Tis in the bush that I love best
In the tree the holly tree,
Where all the boys do follow me.
Chorus:
4. We followed the wren three miles or more,
Three mile or more three miles or more.
We followed the wren three miles or more,
At six oÂ’clock in the morning.
Chorus:

5. I have a little box under me arm,
Under me arm under me arm.
I have a little box under me arm,
A penny or tuppence would do it no harm.
Chorus:
Donall Dempsey Sep 2015
The lost Tarot card
doesn't know what to do.

it hadn't foreseen
getting lost &

finding itself
drowning in a puddle

as big as a lake
or so it seemed.

It smiled at the irony of
it being

a card of water
and moon

and the little boy
who will grow up

to be me
falls in love

with its
mystery.

The small boy doesn't know
it is a Tarot card.

Only that
the beautiful woman

pours eternity
from a jar

and that it  
flows through

every atom
of his being.

Right now she is
drying out

in summer sun
and curling

up at her
edges.

She leaves in the mouth
of a passing dog

who snaps
her up.

The boy's tears
chasing her

into
the forever.
The Star, a tarot card that will appear when the glimmer of hope is about to shine, when your generosity of spirit is making an impact and when your peace of mind has elevated your consciousness to the benefit of those around you.

The card of hopes and dreams of a higher, more significant nature. The card of shining because of inner worth or accomplishments.

The Thoth Tarot /ˌtoʊt ˈtæroʊ/ is a divinatory tarot deck painted by Lady Frieda Harris according to instructions from Aleister Crowley. Crowley referred to this deck as The Book of Thoth, and also wrote a book of that title intended for use with the deck.

Crowley originally intended the Thoth deck to be a six-month project aimed at updating the traditional pictorial symbolism of the tarot. However, the project was to span five years, between 1938 and 1943, as its scope grew ever wider. Crowley and Harris were meticulous in their work, and Harris painted some of the cards as many as eight times.The current edition of the U.S. Games Systems deck contains two prototypes of The Magus card as painted by Lady Harris, each making use of markedly different style and symbols. Completed by Lady Harris but then rejected by Crowley, these were never intended to be a part of the deck proper. They are now included as a bonus treat for aficionados of the deck. Neither Harris nor Crowley lived to see the deck published. The first full publication was by Ordo Templi Orientis in 1969, although this initial printing was seen by many to be of inferior quality, and in 1977 Harris' paintings were rephotographed for a second edition. A further update with new photography took place in 1986, while the current edition is based on a revision of this update which was first printed in 1996.

The illustrations of the Thoth deck are rich in symbolism, based upon Crowley's stated desire to incorporate symbols from many disparate disciplines, including science and philosophy, as well as to draw on his extensive knowledge of various occult system (as described in detail in his Book of Thoth). For example, The Hanged Man and The Moon draw from Egyptian mythology, and the Princess of Disks holds a disk bearing the Taijitu. The pip cards in the four suits (Wands, Cups, Swords, and Disks) depict their objects in carefully crafted positions; for example, the Four of Swords (which Crowley named "truce") shows four swords with their points toward the center of an imaginary square, suggesting a possibly tense peace. The card illustrations are uniformly stark and vividly illustrated throughout.
Donall Dempsey Nov 2017
"...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
The answers are just other questions. The camera just walks through the scene impartially and even the goldfish have as much an opinion as the dying human

The vicar of course is reading.Mark 8:24 from the King James Bible.

"And he said unto them, How is it that ye do not understand? And he cometh to Bethsaida; and they bring a blind man unto him, and besought him to touch him. And he took the blind man by the hand, and led him out of the town; and when he had spit on his eyes, and put his hands upon him, he asked him if he saw ought. And he looked up, and said, I see men as trees, walking. After that he put his hands again upon his eyes, and made him look up: and he was restored, and saw every man clear!"

The fish of course only believe in the Hand that feeds them...he is their God but their entire fishy universe is going to go awry. God is dead is the message they are receiving but finding it hard believing.
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
Donall Dempsey Nov 2016
"...féileacán...féileacán! "

baby on one ******
butterfly on the other
your laughter

butterfly frolics
... amongst
your kimono butterflies

silken-stitch butterflies
play
with the cabbage white

autumn morning
butterfly sits
on a swing

two butterflies
chatting on a swing
waiting for a push

my hands create
shadow butterflies
that fly into daughter's mind

"Make hands
make butlerflies!"
she pleads

her first
real butterfly
sheer awe

her butlerflies
buttle
serving the flowers

butterflies
little bits of coloured thought
flit from mind to mind

she adopts
the butterflies
"My flying flowers!"

she chases them
in Irish
"...féileacán...féileacán! "

refusing to come in
until all the butterflies
have gone to bed
I think you may have guessed that .féileacán is the Irish for butterfly....to her they were her butlerflies....her flying flowers....but she like to chase them with the Irish....so she would "...féileacán...féileacán! " them around the garden.
Donall Dempsey Nov 2018
"...FRESHER FIELDS THAN FLANDERS..."


Christ! Even the Son
of God can get it wrong!

Time his Second Coming
to end up in WW1.

To us he looked like one of the 'Un!
To the 'Un he was one of us.

Both sides let him
have it.

Him who had come
to die for us

and by God
He did.

Hung on the barbed wire
for days on end

we all thinking will it
never end.

Crying for His Father
getting on our ****** nerves.

Some say they saw him
at the Somme

some say at Crucifix Corner
"...forgive them for they know not..."

it went on and on
'...what they've done."

But I had by gum!
I pitied the poor ******.

Crawled out under
****** fire.

Put my last ciggie
between his lips

made of nothing but
tea leaves....liquorice...treacle.

"Thanks mate.!" he gasped
with his last breath

turning into young Tommy
Smith at His Death.

A right good lad I knew
from Hudersfield.

Shell shocked
they said I was.

I wasn't.

All men are the Son
of God as it happens.

Even a dead 'Un is one.

The Son of God is forever
getting it wrong.

Christ! Will He ever
learn.

Timing His next Coming
to land up in WW11.

Other Wars
waiting in the wings

for Him
to come again.

Wish He would just
give up on us.

He's of no ****** use
whatsoever.

Death is a better
friend.

Survival as I know
is Hell.





"...FRESHER FIELDS THAN FLANDERS..." is the last line of a Preface that Wilfred Owen intended for his book.

Was first going to write a sci-fi thing with the Saviour coming down at just the wrong time. But as I wrote I remembered an old man I used to look after who would tell me about his WW11 experiences and of his grand dad's tales from WW1 so that it ended up as a mixture of the real and the unreal in the surreal situation of war and all it entails.
***

"...FRESHER FIELDS THAN FLANDERS..." is the last line of a Preface that Wilfred Owen intended for his book.

Was first going to write a sci-fi thing with the Saviour coming down at just the wrong time. But as I wrote I remembered an old man I used to look after who would tell me about his WW11 experiences and of his grand dad's tales from WW1 so that it ended up as a mixture of the real and the unreal in the surreal situation of war and all it entails.
Donall Dempsey May 2018
"...FRESHER FIELDS THAN FLANDERS..."


Christ! Even the Son
of God can get it wrong!

Time his Second Coming
to end up in WW1.

To us he looked like one of the 'Un!
To the 'Un he was one of us.

Both sides let him
have it.

Him who had come
to die for us

and by God
He did.

Hung on the barbed wire
for days on end

we all thinking will it
never end.

Crying for His Father
getting on our ****** nerves.

Some say they saw him
at the Somme

some say at Crucifix Corner
"...forgive them for they know not..."

it went on and on
'...what they've done."

But I had by gum!
I pitied the poor ******.

Crawled out under
****** fire.

Put my last ciggie
between his lips

made of nothing but
tea leaves....liquorice...treacle.

"Thanks mate.!" he gasped
with his last breath

turning into young Tommy
Smith at His Death.

A right good lad I knew
from Hudersfield.

Shell shocked
they said I was.

I wasn't.

All men are the Son
of God as it happens.

Even a dead 'Un is one.

The Son of God is forever
getting it wrong.

Christ! Will He ever
learn.

Timing His next Coming
to land up in WW11.

Other Wars
waiting in the wings

for Him
to come again.

Wish He would just
give up on us.

He's of no ****** use
whatsoever.

Death is a better
friend.

Survival as I know
is Hell.
"...FRESHER FIELDS THAN FLANDERS..." is the last line of a Preface that Wilfried Owen intended for his book.

Was first going to write a sci-fi thing with the Saviour coming down at just the wrong time. But as I wrote I remembered an old man I used to look after who would tell me about his WW11 experiences and of his grand dad's tales from WW1 so that it ended up as a mixture of the real and the unreal in the surreal situation of war and all it entails.
Donall Dempsey Feb 2018
"...I WANT TO RAISE THE DEAD MYSELF..."

Here in Cookham
Stanley has become sunlight

his voice
become as leaves

that walk amongst
the breeze.

Here my hand
on his battered pram

pushing it along
stepping into the photograph

of him
that the camera catches.

His paintings chat with me
gossip about all they've seen

the comings and goings
in heaven.

I tell them about times
that have come

they talk about  
time gone.

His resurrected voice
speaks to me in rain:

"Painting is
my way of saying '

Ta!' to God,"
Always fascinated with Stanley Spencer so I was enthralled to find myself in his village of Cookham...see his encrusted pallette...the dried up paint waiting patiently to be made into paintings...the old battered pram he pushed his paints and canvases along. Here was Stanley everywhere and nowhere...in the wind and the rain...the sudden sunshine.

"When I see a man putting up a bivouac beautifully...I want to do it ;myself. When I read of Christ raising the dead...I want to raise the dead myself. What a glorious thing to be an artist...to perform miracles...I am on the side of the angels and dirt”
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