A LUCKY SO & SO

As he lay
in the pool of his death

the motorcycle continuing on
a little further without him

before it too
lay down

as if to sleep

he thought the blood
was like a child

wetting the bed

and the fear of
someone discovering it

in the cold light
of morning

he began
to cry

just like the boy
of then

though this was now
and very far

from the place
of his childhood

even as the stink
of petrol

enveloped him

a bird sang

& he thought: “This is the most
beautiful thing...! ” he had ever heard

& his heart grew sad
& silent to hear it

concentrating on it

& on his shirt

emerged a badly-
-drawn map of the world
(but recognisable as such)

(America being a little
lopsided)

drawn in blood
seeping through his fingers

(continental drift slowly joining them together)

“I am half in love
with easeful Death...”

he quoted to himself

and wondered who had wrote it
and where he had ever heard it

“Yeats? Keats? ”

Death as if
anyone might have imagined him

turning up
at a fancy dress party

and only coming second
to a fat guy from Hastings

who obviously had a better costumiers
than Death

(Death thinking this fat bloke’s next)

looked on
dispassionately

as if he had seen it
all before.

There was nothing
new under the sun.

This job could be
so boring.

Humans make such a drama
out of the simple act of dying.

Always the same song & dance act!

Death held his hand
& then...let go.

When he awoke
Death
was nowhere to be seen

and the hospital
bloomed around him

gazing into the fluorescent
tube of light

life seemed almost
too bright

hurting his eyes

a nice pair
of legs

approaching him
& telling him

(he watched the words rise & fall
in the perfect mechanism

of her chest
of which he couldn’t take his eyes off of)

telling him
in no uncertain manner

as if scolding him
(had he wet the bed?)

“Well, you’re
a lucky
so & so!"

A LUCKY SO & SO

As he lay
in the pool of his death

the motorcycle continuing on
a little further without him

before it too
lay down

as if to sleep

he thought the blood
was like a child

wetting the bed

and the fear of
someone discovering it

in the cold light
of morning

he began
to cry

just like the boy
of then

though this was now
and very far

from the place
of his childhood

even as the stink
of petrol

enveloped him

a bird sang

& he thought: “This is the most
beautiful thing...! ” he had ever heard

& his heart grew sad
& silent to hear it

concentrating on it

& on his shirt

emerged a badly-
-drawn map of the world
(but recognisable as such)

(America being a little
lopsided)

drawn in blood
seeping through his fingers

(continental drift slowly joining them together)

“I am half in love
with easeful Death...”

he quoted to himself

and wondered who had wrote it
and where he had ever heard it

“Yeats? Keats? ”

Death as if
anyone might have imagined him

turning up
at a fancy dress party

and only coming second
to a fat guy from Hastings

who obviously had a better costumiers
than Death

(Death thinking this fat bloke’s next)

looked on
dispassionately

as if he had seen it
all before.

There was nothing
new under the sun.

This job could be
so boring.

Humans make such a drama
out of the simple act of dying.

Always the same song & dance act!

Death held his hand
& then...let go.

When he awoke
Death
was nowhere to be seen

and the hospital
bloomed around him

gazing into the fluorescent
tube of light

life seemed almost
too bright

hurting his eyes

a nice pair
of legs

approaching him
& telling him

( he watched the words rise & fall
in the perfect mechanism of her chest

which he couldn’t take his eyes off )

telling him
in no uncertain manner

as if scolding him
(had he wet the bed?)

“Well, you’re
a lucky
so & so!"

ALWAYS

stillborn
you are still
our little girl

ALWAYS THE SAME DREAM

"PING!" goes the microwave.
"PING!" goes the yet-again-Internet.

The Lady of Shallot
deletes Lancelot

from her facebook
friends.

She pokes Tennyson but Tennyson
doesn't like to be poked.

The world and its shadows
stream through her BT provider.

A post informs her that
"Popty Ping!" is Welsh

for microwave.
She clicks Like.

Doesn't remember when she
last interfaced with the real

world
the big bad world

that huffs and puffs
outside the frosted glass.

She posts a new status:
"Agoraphobics are people too!"

What was Tennyson thinking of?
She didn't ask to be created!

A woman made from "words
words...words. . .words!"

"The curse has come upon me!"
She has run out of Lil-Lets.

"Chop shallots & simmer
lightly in butter, then. . ."

the Youtube video
instructs her.

She finishes yet another
bottle of cheap plonk.

It's so hard to be
a fictional character

in a modern world
that's gone digital.

She thinks of Googling herself
but then thinks twice of it.

She falls asleep on the couch.

The cat perches on top of her head.

In her dream she is
forever floating...floating

"On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky"

It's always the same dream.

ALWAYS THE SAME DREAM

"PING!" goes the microwave.
"PING!" goes the yet-again-Internet.

The Lady of Shallot
deletes Lancelot

from her facebook
friends.

She pokes Tennyson but Tennyson
doesn't like to be poked.

The world and its shadows
stream through her BT provider.

A post informs her that
"Popty Ping!" is Welsh

for microwave.
She clicks Like.

Doesn't remember when she
last interfaced with the real

world
the big bad world

that huffs and puffs
outside the frosted glass.

She posts a new status:
"Agoraphobics are people too!"

What was Tennyson thinking of?
She didn't ask to be created!

A woman made from "words
words...words. . .words!"

"The curse has come upon me!"
She has run out of Lil-Lets.

"Chop shallots & simmer
lightly in butter, then. . ."

the Youtube video
instructs her.

She finishes yet another
bottle of cheap plonk.

It's so hard to be
a fictional character

in a modern world
that's gone digital.

She thinks of Googling herself
but then thinks twice of it.

She falls asleep on the couch.

The cat perches on top of her head.

In her dream she is
always floating...floating

"On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky"

It's always the same dream.

ALWAYS THE SAME DREAM

"PING!" goes the microwave.
"PING!" goes the yet-again-Internet.

The Lady of Shallot
deletes Lancelot

from her facebook
friends.

She pokes Tennyson but Tennyson
doesn't like to be poked.

The world and its shadows
stream through her BT provider.

A post informs her that
"Popty Ping!" is Welsh

for microwave.
She clicks Like.

Doesn't remember when she
last interfaced with the real

world
the big bad world

that huffs and puffs
outside the frosted glass.

She posts a new status:
"Agoraphobics are people too!"

What was Tennyson thinking of?
She didn't ask to be created!

A woman made from "words
words...words. . .words!"

"The curse has come upon me!"
She has run out of Lil-Lets.

"Chop shallots & simmer
lightly in butter, then. . ."

the Youtube video
instructs her.

She finishes yet another
bottle of cheap plonk.

It's so hard to be
a fictional character

in a modern world
that's gone digital.

She thinks of Googling herself
but then thinks twice of it.

She falls asleep on the couch.

The cat perches on top of her head.

In her dream she is
forever floating...floating

"On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky"

It's always the same dream.

ALWAYS THE SAME DREAM

"PING!" goes the microwave.
"PING!" goes the yet-again-Internet.

The Lady of Shallot
deletes Lancelot

from her facebook
friends.

She pokes Tennyson but Tennyson
doesn't like to be poked.

The world and its shadows
stream through her BT provider.

A post informs her that
"Popty Ping!" is Welsh

for microwave.
She clicks Like.

Doesn't remember when she
last interfaced with the real

world
the big bad world

that huffs and puffs
outside the frosted glass.

She posts a new status:
"Agoraphobics are people too!"

What was Tennyson thinking of?
She didn't ask to be created!

A woman made from "words
words...words. . .words!"

"The curse has come upon me!"
She has run out of Lil-Lets.

"Chop shallots & simmer
lightly in butter, then. . ."

the Youtube video
instructs her.

She finishes yet another
bottle of cheap plonk.

It's so hard to be
a fictional character

in a modern world
that's gone digital.

She thinks of Googling herself
but then thinks twice of it.

She falls asleep on the couch.

The cat perches on top of her head.

In her dream she is
forever floating...floating

"On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky"

It's always the same dream.

ALWAYS THE SAME DREAM

"PING!" goes the microwave.
"PING!" goes the yet-again-Internet.

The Lady of Shallot
deletes Lancelot

from her facebook
friends.

She pokes Tennyson but Tennyson
doesn't like to be poked.

The world and its shadows
stream through her BT provider.

A post informs her that
"Popty Ping!" is Welsh

for microwave.
She clicks Like.

Doesn't remember when she
last interfaced with the real

world
the big bad world

that huffs and puffs
outside the frosted glass.

She posts a new status:
"Agoraphobics are people too!"

What was Tennyson thinking of?
She didn't ask to be created!

A woman made from "words
words...words. . .words!"

"The curse has come upon me!"
She has run out of Lil-Lets.

"Chop shallots & simmer
lightly in butter, then. . ."

the Youtube video
instructs her.

She finishes yet another
bottle of cheap plonk.

It's so hard to be
a fictional character

in a modern world
that's gone digital.

She thinks of Googling herself
but then thinks twice of it.

She falls asleep on the couch.

The cat perches on top of her head.

In her dream she is
forever floating...floating

"On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky"

It's always the same dream.

ALWAYS YOU ARE

father dear father
you are
the sky over Ballygarvan

you are
the waves crashing
against the Old Head of Kinsale

these the places
where
you were a child

you are the sunlight
that enters
in a morning

you are the shadows
as it leaves
in an evening

the things of now
that are forever
present

father dead father
you are alive
in all the things I see

father dear father
you are
never dead

as long
as you
live in me

ALZHEIMER'S ZONG

'The soul bone's
connected to the heart bone! '

'The heart bone's
connected to the mind bone! '

'The mind bone's
connected to the bone bone! '

'The bone bone's
connected to the thought bone! '

'The Thought bone's
connected to the Time bone! '

'The Time bone's
connected to the memory bone! '

'The memory bone's...'

'The memory bones...'

'... memory's bones...'

'Now where have all
the words

...gone! '

ALZHEIMER'S ZONG

'The soul bone's
connected to the heart bone! '

'The heart bone's
connected to the mind bone! '

'The mind bone's
connected to the bone bone! '

'The bone bone's
connected to the thought bone! '

'The Thought bone's
connected to the Time bone! '

'The Time bone's
connected to the memory bone! '

'The memory bone's...'

'The memory bones...'

'... memory's bones...'

'Now where have all
the words

...gone! '

A MAD WORLD, MY MASTERS




I cut my self

out of the mirror.




My reflection

tinkles to the floor.




I sweep up

these shards of self




with red

dust pan and brush.




Well, that's enough

of this




me

for the moment.




I think to

my self




and wander off

to find




the me

I have




yet to be




discarding

what I have been




reading




Middleton's

A MAD WORLD, MY MASTERS.

A MAD WORLD, MY MASTERS

I cut my self
out of the mirror.

My reflection
tinkles to the floor.

I sweep up
these shards of self

with red
dust pan and brush.

Well, that's enough
of this

me
for the moment.

I think to
my self

and wander off
to find

the me
I have

yet to be
discarding

what I have been
reading

Middleton's
A MAD WORLD, MY MASTERS.

A MAD WORLD, MY MASTERS

I cut my self
out of the mirror.

My reflection
tinkles to the floor.

I sweep up
these shards of self

with red
dust pan and brush.

Well, that's enough
of this

me
for the moment.

I think to
my self

and wander off
to find

the me
I have

yet to be

discarding
what I have been

reading

Middleton's
A MAD WORLD, MY MASTERS.

A MAD WORLD, MY MASTERS

I cut my self
out of the mirror.

My reflection
tinkles to the floor.

I sweep up
these shards of self

with red
dust pan and brush.

Well, that's enough
of this

me
for the moment.

I think to
my self

and wander off
to find

the me
I have

yet to be
discarding

what I have been
reading

Middleton's
A MAD WORLD, MY MASTERS.

*

Tears for Fears MAD WORLD comes on the radio as I fall out of my(self)and death guts my world whilst reading  A MAD WORLD, MY MASTERS.

"Tis a mad world (my masters) and in sadnes / I travail'd madly in these dayes of madnes."

"All around me are familiar faces
Worn out places, worn out faces
Bright and early for their daily races
Going nowhere, going nowhere
Their tears are filling up their glasses
No expression, no expression
Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow
No tomorrow, no tomorrow."

AMANOGAWA
( The Milky Way )

the moon runs aground
on the silhouette
of a mountain

the many stars
swim
for their lives

the night is stifling
even his sweat
sweats

"Ga wa...ga wa!"
cries the child
his mother smiles

"Little one he cries
a river
in Japanese!"

"Gawa?"
I taste the word
bite into its syllables

the mountain slowly
lets the moon go
the word struggles

to stay alive
in my sleepy mind
already erasing it

the mother
curls around her baby
milk on its top lip

a tree now
captures the moon
in its branches

takes the Milky Way
prisoner
Amanogawa struggles

to break free
shakes a leaf
from the tree

but I do not see
for sleep too
embraces me

AMATEUR DRAMATICS

between the acts
the real life
drama occurs

Claudius and Laertes
are as( rumour has it )
"...having it off..."

Hamlet is indeed in love with
his mummy but his mummy
doesn't want to know

Polonius has the hots
for the ghost but
he hasn't a ghost of a chance

Ophelia and Gertrude
have just broken up
Ophelia almost mad with grief

the play's the thing wherein
we catch the private lives of
these living human beings

AMATEUR DRAMATICS




between the acts
the real life
drama occurs





Claudius and Laertes
are as( rumour has it )
"...having it off..."





Hamlet is indeed in love with
his mummy but his mummy
doesn't want to know




Polonius has the hots
for the ghost but
he hasn't a ghost of a chance





Ophelia and Gertrude
have just broken up
Ophelia almost mad with grief





the play's the thing wherein
we catch the private lives of
these living human beings

AMATEUR DRAMATICS

between the acts
the real life
drama occurs

Claudius and Laertes
are as( rumour has it )
"...having it off..."

Hamlet is indeed in love with
his mummy but his mummy
doesn't want to know

Polonius has the hots
for the ghost but
he hasn't a ghost of a chance

Ophelia and Gertrude
have just broken up
Ophelia almost mad with grief

the play's the thing wherein
we catch the private lives of
these living human beings

A MOMENT'S REFLECTION

pen and cygnets
float upside down in
the moment's reflection

AN ABSENCE OF TIME

Here is a slice
of sunlight

captured in 1963.

There the finest first
blackberry ever tasted.

A rhyme that blew away
a dandelion's head

thought scattered
over years.

A moon's shy glance
as you gazed at it

in silent adoration.

Laughter left
upon a hillside.

All these thoughts
on show

in the mind's museum.

Not held captive
behind glass

but
living still

suspended in
an absence of time.

AN ABSTRACT & BRIEF CHRONICLE OF THE TIME

Dónall  Dempsey has
asserted his right to be

identified as the author of
this moment

in accordance with
the Copyright, Design & Patents Act

of this very
now.

All rights reserved.

This moment is his
& his only.

Sea and sky both
have walk on parts.

A mountain is an extra
with no speaking part.

The tiniest of *****
sits enthroned upon

a sea-stained copy of
Prufrock's Love Song.

No one knows of this
moment

except Dónall  Dempsey
who lived it all

by himself
in his own aloneness.

He has turned the
moment into words

of his own
devising

so that you to
whoever you

may be
can partake

of this long lost
forgotten moment

until, human voices
wake us

". . .we drown. . ."

AN ABSTRACT & BRIEF CHRONICLE OF THE TIME

Dónall  Dempsey has
asserted his right to be

identified as the author of
this moment

in accordance with
the Copyright, Design & Patents Act

of this very
now.

All rights reserved.

This moment is his
& his only.

Sea and sky both
have walk on parts.

A mountain is an extra
with no speaking part.

The tiniest of *****
sits enthroned upon

a sea-stained copy of
Prufrock's Love Song.

No one knows of this
moment

except Dónall  Dempsey
who lived it all

by himself
in his own aloneness.

He has turned the
moment into words

of his own
devising

so that you to
whoever you

may be
can partake

of this long lost
forgotten moment

until, human voices
wake us

". . .we drown. . ."

AN ACUTE ABSENCE OF WEATHER

( for my little brother Brian )

tomorrow arrived too late
to save you

you had become
the past tense

no longer present at your own life

time had abandoned you

the world turning its back
on the sun

staring into the night

a darkness
without stars

the far away barking of dogs

a somewhere
that's nowhere

where even the weathervane
doesn't know which way to turn

the acute absence
of weather

AN ACUTE ABSENCE OF WEATHER

( for my little brother Brian )

tomorrow arrived too late
to save you
you had become

the past tense
no longer present at your own life
time had abandoned you

the world turning its back
on the sun
staring into the night

a darkness
without stars
the far away barking of dogs

a somewhere
that's nowhere
where even the weathervane

doesn't know which way to turn
the acute absence
of weather

*

Because of his stature in the world and his skill at making his way through its faults and falls...he had become the BIG BROTHER simply because of who he was. Only now in death does he once more become my little brother. I became a mere meddler with words...a peddler of poems.

When he was truly my little brother he once asked me one of those childlike questions that adults or even slightly big brothers find impossible to answer.

Lost in himself he asked of me" "Is there weather when you die?" I didn't know how to answer it then or...now.

On the great barn that was his shed he had placed a weather vane and we still look at it to this day as it searches for the answer to this question.

I had told him then that: "Whatever...there would be weather."

I suppose he could now answer his 7-year-old-self's strange little question.

AN ALTERNATIVE ENDING TO A DAY
IN '63/////// IN A PARALLEL UNIVERSE

She got out of bed
with that end-of-the-world feeling.

You know the kind
worse than any bad hair day to the power of 2.

She wished she didn't think
in clichés and mathematical terms.

She put her left foot
in the chamber ***

she had **** forgot
to put back under.

Glad she had
only peed in it.

Yuck factor - squared.

She took off her night dress
dried her own *** soiled sole.

Maybe one's own *****
is good for the skin.

"N'est-ce pas?"
the only French she knew

beside "Merci!
and "Non!"

She then uttered
an unsurprising word

she would have never
to be heard uttering.

"F!" she said.
"I just said F!"

She deleted the demotic
in her mind.

"Awake, o sword!"
she quoted the Lord.

Her palms
sweaty...itchy.

The radio sang to her
told her what it would do

if it had a hammer!

She sang along.
She had thing for Trini Lopez.

Imagined him kissing her
she kissing him.

The mirror threw her
reflection at her.

Her eyes catch
the idea of her.

Her mind winces.

A spot growing
to a fulsome point

on the very tip of her
nose.....nOOOOOO!

"Doubleplusungood!"
she scolds her life

Deciding whether to pop it
or not.

Or not - won.
She went cross-eyed looking at it.

Naked she stood
at the window

as if she were a painting
looking out

imagine her self
a Dalí.

A woman full of
drawers!

"Lord, oh Lord!
What next?"

She asked
the mirror.

The clock said it was
7:07.

It was a Tuesday like
any other.

The flash blinded her.
Her eyes rolled down her cheeks.

It was
the end of the world.

AN ALTERNATIVE ENDING TO A DAY
IN '63/////// IN A PARALLEL UNIVERSE

She got out of bed
with that end-of-the-world feeling.

You know the kind
worse than any bad hair day to the power of 2.

She wished she didn't think
in clichés and mathematical terms.

She put her left foot
in the chamber ***

she had **** forgot
to put back under.

Glad she had
only peed in it.

Yuck factor - squared.

She took off her night dress
dried her own *** soiled sole.

Maybe one's own *****
is good for the skin.

"N'est-ce pas?"
the only French she knew

beside "Merci!
and "Non!"

She then uttered
an unsurprising word

she would have never
to be heard uttering.

"F!" she said.
"I just said F!"

She deleted the demotic
in her mind.

"Awake, o sword!"
she quoted the Lord.

Her palms
sweaty...itchy.

The radio sang to her
told her what it would do

if it had a hammer!

She sang along.
She had thing for Trini Lopez.

Imagined him kissing her
she kissing him.

The mirror threw her
reflection at her.

Her eyes catch
the idea of her.

Her mind winces.

A spot growing
to a fulsome point

on the very tip of her
nose.....nOOOOOO!

"Doubleplusungood!"
she scolds her life

Deciding whether to pop it
or not.

Or not - won.
She went cross-eyed looking at it.

Naked she stood
at the window

as if she were a painting
looking out

imagine her self
a Dalí.

A woman full of
drawers!

"Lord, oh Lord!
What next?"

She asked
the mirror.

The clock said it was
7:07.

It was a Tuesday like
any other.

The flash blinded her.
Her eyes rolled down her cheeks.

It was
the end of the world.

AN ALTERNATIVE ENDING TO A DAY
IN '63/////// IN A PARALLEL UNIVERSE

She got out of bed
with that end-of-the-world feeling.

You know the kind
worse than any bad hair day to the power of 2.

She wished she didn't think
in clichés and mathematical terms.

She put her left foot
in the chamber ***

she had **** forgot
to put back under.

Glad she had
only peed in it.

Yuck factor - squared.

She took off her night dress
dried her own *** soiled sole.

Maybe one's own *****
is good for the skin.

"N'est-ce pas?"
the only French she knew

beside "Merci!
and "Non!"

She then uttered
an unsurprising word

she would have never
to be heard uttering.

"F!" she said.
"I just said F!"

She deleted the demotic
in her mind.

"Awake, o sword!"
she quoted the Lord.

Her palms
sweaty...itchy.

The radio sang to her
told her what it would do

if it had a hammer!

She sang along.
She had thing for Trini Lopez.

Imagined him kissing her
she kissing him.

The mirror threw her
reflection at her.

Her eyes catch
the idea of her.

Her mind winces.

A spot growing
to a fulsome point

on the very tip of her
nose.....nOOOOOO!

"Doubleplusungood!"
she scolds her life

Deciding whether to pop it
or not.

Or not - won.
She went cross-eyed looking at it.

Naked she stood
at the window

as if she were a painting
looking out

imagine her self
a Dalí.

A woman full of
drawers!

"Lord, oh Lord!
What next?"

She asked
the mirror.

The clock said it was
7:07.

It was a Tuesday like
any other.

The flash blinded her.
Her eyes rolled down her cheeks.

It was
the end of the world.

ANAM CARA
( Soul Friend )

the sun bursts
into the tiny room
seating itself on the sofa

the water boils
whistles impatiently
waiting for the human to make tea

she feels like an object
in a room full of objects
an object cursed with consciousness

milk gone sour
out of cigarettes
impossible to live without cigarettes

dashes barefoot
to the opening shops
out of her favourite brand

an impossibly old man
almost a living cartoon
turns the handle of a barrel *****

as if they had
being beamed down
from another century

the young Irishman
(she had heard him talking to)
the monkey in the red fez

when he was not
reading Hamsun's
The Hunger

the monkey yanking at
his manacled left foot
when he wasn't dancing

"Ahhh Anam Cara!"
he comforts the monkey
"Me monkey too in Chinese Zodiac!"

The Merry Widow Waltz
wafting above a tree
its music entangled in its branches

the barrel *****
erupts incongruously into
Abba of all things

she watches the Irishman
now from her bedroom window
a figure trapped in a painting

he reads all day
until the light declines
to help him

she wonders at what thoughts
roam inside his head
what images grow there

dusk comes quickly
as if it's in a hurry
to get day done

tiny stars nail the night
to the frozen sky
before morning tears it down

the Irishman
observes the lights go on
in all the windows  

he appears to be
outside of time
she wishes she had spoken to him

"Ahhh Anam Cara!"
she mimics his voice
comforting herself

not knowing what
the words mean
her voice touching their tenderness

he leaves
his Hunger behind him
on the bench

she pockets it
falls asleep reading it
dreaming of him

*

This was a park in Rotterdam as the evening declined and night came on...I was a very lonely young man. I was reading Knut Hamsun's THE HUNGER and just letting life stream past me as if I were a rock in a river. Then a barrel ***** with a monkey hove into sight and sound. I had never thought to have encountered such a thing as I had only seen them in films and it was as if it had squeezed through some wormhole and escaped into this future. It played all operetta interspersed with the hits of the day so surprising to have the Merry Widow one moment and then Dancing Queen the next. The old man looked as if he had been sculpted from pure sadness as did his monkey who wore a red fez and a dashing scarlet waistcoat. The incongruity of meeting a dancing manacled monkey dressed in human attire was not lost on me. It was like being in a scene from The Third Man and I expected to glimpse Mr. Lime at any moment as the night came on.

In the morning a barefooted woman from one of the flats across the road came and got some cigs and milk and stopped to look at me as I talked to the sad monkey in Irish. She smiled fleetingly and dashed back to her home. I had a sudden flash that maybe she was my soul mate and we were doomed to miss each other in that one mad moment. So I imagined her loneliness in her room and my loneliness in this park and how we we would never encounter each other ever again. And so my soul mate was to be this poor monkey as if we both recognised that we were both tied to this mysterious moment by a fake gold chain that let us dance but never escape the ***** grinder. I forgot the book when I was told the park was closing and the man and his monkey had long gone. I still had not finished it and it was only years later that I finally got around to its final pages.

A NAME BY ANY OTHER. . .

She smiles in Russian.
"What's your name?" I ask her.
"Is Tina!" she laughs.

"Ah...Tina!"
"No not..Tina!"
"Istina!. . .it means...the Truth."

she winks
slinks as if she's
in inverted commas

her eyes the colour
of an ocean
now green now blue

hidden inside
her smile
(the kiss )

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

the grand piano
sits in its silence
dreaming of music

A NAME BY ANY OTHER. . .

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


she winks
slinks as if she's
in inverted commas

hidden inside
her smile
(the kiss )

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

the grand piano
sits in its silence
dreaming of music

A NAME BY ANY OTHER. . .

She smiles in Russian.
"What's your name?" I ask her.
"Is Tina!" she laughs.

"Ah...Tina!"
"No not..Tina!"
"Istina!. . .it means...the Truth."

she winks
slinks as if she's
in inverted commas

her eyes the colour
of an ocean
now green now blue

hidden inside
her smile
(the kiss )

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

the grand piano
sits in its silence
dreaming of music

AN AMPERSAND &...

An & and
an & and another.

I fill up the page
build a wall of &’s

I’ve always loved
their variousness

this the sharp contraction
of the simple “and.”
&&&&&&&&&&
&&&&&&&&&&
&&&&&&&&&&
&&&&&&&&&&
&&&&&&&&&&
&&&&&&&&&&
My writer’s block
hides behind

my wall of ****
ampersands.

Suddenly the words
break through

my man-made
ampersand wall!

“Thought I’d almost lost
you there sunshine!”

the poem beams.

“Ok, words!
Let’s get to work here!”

“Hup hup let’s get this
poet up and running!”

The poem puts
the pen in my hand

puts the pen
to the page.

“Ok son…get on
with it!”

And the hand
remembers

by candlelight how
it all happened

one day in
…French.

The poet goes &
makes a cup of Cocoa.

The page reads
the poem over

to itself.

“Not bad…not bad!”
the page laughs to itself.

“Poets! Ha!
Who’d ‘ave ‘em!”

VERRE D'EAU

il pleut dans
le verre d'eau oubliée
remplir à craquer

le verre vide maintenant
renversée par la pluie féroce
scintillant dans le soleil

une coccinelle rampe à l'intérieur
cet univers de verre
le chant des oiseaux tombe sur l'herbe mouillée

She takes off
all her clothes

just for
the fun of it

every now & then I
catch a glimpse

of naked ***

as it runs not here
or there but helter-skelter.

She who only
mastered the art of walking

not so long ago

now glorying
in her limbs.

'Hey Cherub! '
I call out to her

& she turns
& comes

not because she's
understood

but understands the love
dripping form the words

an honeycomb
of language.

She tries to clothe
the nakedness of her

experiences

in a dress
of words.

She is surprised
to find

that her
anabooboo

doesn't stick
to the cat

and the cat
wanders aimlessly off

discarding with disdain
her attempt

at naming him.

Soon the cat
will become its sound

(me! how?)

then finally
making it to being

C A T
(just like that) .

It's a long journey
into knowing.

I almost prefer
her almost Martian naming

her alien
way of seeing.

I curtly call the cat that
and even name the next cat that

an ANABOOBOO

and still can drive her
mad

years later
in a future far from here

calling my teenage
daughter

to say her date
is here.

'Hey Anabooboo! '

& see a blushing
Princess

descending the stairs

lithe of limb
and(thankfully)

fully clothed!



I draw/spell her
C/A/T
she copycats my cat



Teaching Tilly her letters in the long long ago...it's funny the little scraps that survive the years. I tore a bit off an old copy book and scribbled this C/A/T into being to her great delight...and here he is still prowling about in his own peculiar C/A/T way.

AN ANABOOBOO!

She takes off
all her clothes

just for
the fun of it

every now & then I
catch a glimpse

of naked ***

as it runs not   here
or there   but helter-skelter.

She who only
mastered the art of walking

not so long ago

now glorying
in her limbs.

'Hey Cherub! '
I call out to her

& she turns
& comes

not because she's
understood

but understands the love
dripping form the words

an honeycomb
of language.

She tries to clothe
the nakedness of her

experiences

in a dress
of words.

She is surprised
to find

that her
anabooboo

doesn't stick
to the cat

and the cat
wanders aimlessly off

discarding with disdain
her attempt

at naming him.

Soon the cat
will become its sound

(me! how?)  

then finally
making it to being

C A T
(just like that) .

It's a long journey
into knowing.

I almost prefer
her almost Martian naming

her alien
way of seeing.

I curtly call the cat that
and even name the next cat that

an ANABOOBOO

and still can drive her
mad

years later
in a future far from here

calling my teenage
daughter

to say her date
is here.

'Hey Anabooboo! '

& see a blushing
Princess

descending the stairs

lithe of limb
and(thankfully)  

fully clothed!



I draw/spell her
C/A/T
she copycats my cat



Teaching Tilly her letters in the long long ago...it's funny the little scraps that survive the years. I tore a bit off an old copy book and scribbled this C/A/T into being to her great delight...and here he is still prowling about in his own peculiar C/A/T way.

AN ANABOOBOO!

She takes off
all her clothes

just for
the fun of it

every now & then I
catch a glimpse

of naked ***

as it runs not   here
or there   but helter-skelter.

She who only
mastered the art of walking

not so long ago

now glorying
in her limbs.

'Hey Cherub! '
I call out to her

& she turns
& comes

not because she's
understood

but understands the love
dripping form the words

an honeycomb
of language.

She tries to clothe
the nakedness of her

experiences

in a dress
of words.

She is surprised
to find

that her
anabooboo

doesn't stick
to the cat

and the cat
wanders aimlessly off

discarding with disdain
her attempt

at naming him.

Soon the cat
will become its sound

(me! how?)  

then finally
making it to being

C A T
(just like that) .

It's a long journey
into knowing.

I almost prefer
her almost Martian naming

her alien
way of seeing.

I curtly call the cat that
and even name the next cat that

an ANABOOBOO

and still can drive her
mad

years later
in a future far from here

calling my teenage
daughter

to say her date
is here.

'Hey Anabooboo! '

& see a blushing
Princess

descending the stairs

lithe of limb
and(thankfully)  

fully clothed!



I draw/spell her
C/A/T
she copycats my cat



Teaching Tilly her letters in the long long ago...it's funny the little scraps that survive the years. I tore a bit off an old copy book and scribbled this C/A/T into being to her great delight...and here he is still prowling about in his own peculiar C/A/T way.

AN ANABOOBOO!

She takes off
all her clothes

just for
the fun of it

every now & then I
catch a glimpse

of naked ***

as it runs not   here
or there   but helter-skelter.

She who only
mastered the art of walking

not so long ago

now glorying
in her limbs.

'Hey Cherub! '
I call out to her

& she turns
& comes

not because she's
understood

but understands the love
dripping form the words

an honeycomb
of language.

She tries to clothe
the nakedness of her

experiences

in a dress
of words.

She is surprised
to find

that her
anabooboo

doesn't stick
to the cat

and the cat
wanders aimlessly off

discarding with disdain
her attempt

at naming him.

Soon the cat
will become its sound

(me! how?)  

then finally
making it to being

C A T
(just like that) .

It's a long journey
into knowing.

I almost prefer
her almost Martian naming

her alien
way of seeing.

I curtly call the cat that
and even name the next cat that

an ANABOOBOO

and still can drive her
mad

years later
in a future far from here

calling my teenage
daughter

to say her date
is here.

'Hey Anabooboo! '

& see a blushing
Princess

descending the stairs

lithe of limb
and(thankfully)  

fully clothed!



I draw/spell her
C/A/T
she copycats my cat



Teaching Tilly her letters in the long long ago...it's funny the little scraps that survive the years. I tore a bit off an old copy book and scribbled this C/A/T into being to her great delight...and here he is still prowling about in his own peculiar C/A/T way.

A NATION OF ONE

her hair a golden banner
flung out behind her
proclaiming the country of herself



UNA NAZIONE DI UNA

I suoi capelli - una bandiera d'oro
gettata alle sue spalle dietro lei
proclamano la sua patria

A NATION OF ONE

her hair a golden banner
flung out behind her
proclaiming the country of herself

UNA NAZIONE DI UNO

I suoi capelli - una bandiera d'oro
gettata alle sue spalle dietro lei
proclamano la sua patria

AND ALL FOR NOTHING

the house waited for him
like the faithful dog
he had not got

"Hello...hello!" said the house
smiling
with all of itself

"Welcome!" said the mat
his own home at last
the silence filled up with his footsteps

"Read me...no read me!"
the books on his shelves
argued amongst themselves

made himself a G&T
watched the sunset
like it was TV

slowly the night
crept through the house
found him asleep in the chair

he startled awake
saw her smiling at him
from an old photo

he turned the photo
face down. . .a tear ran
into the edge of his moustache

"And all for nothing..."
he told himself
"...all for nothing!"


*

I never got to see this fabulous house. I met him in a pub and we just fell into talking...then he'd have to get a train back to Manchester to "my house!" But somehow the house in words was greater than any house he could show me. He was Greek and would always tell me that his wife was "the King of my house!" Because his English was not good( learnt from movies )he had picked up the King of Siam's "etc., etc., etc." phrase in order to fill in the thoughts suggested but unavailable to him in words. Every time I see this fabulous film I remember him and how his wife was "the King of my house and my heart!"
The big dream was to own his own home. Then he got married and his wife died in childbirth so now the big dream( ever since he was a little kid )was here but....empty.

I prefer the "not knowing" in the poem. The elements in the poem are the delight in having the dream house and then for the sorrow and the emptiness you have to imagine the rest...asking the reader to complete the poem with their imagination. An air of mystery...suffice it to say...something soul destroying has happened but the wondering what it is...is...another poem.

AND DID THESE FEET...

Jesus is wearing
scuffed sneakers

the hood down.

Jesus, he's
one handsome dude.

Obviously a man
of colour.

Second Comings
are just like that difficult

2nd album.

Surely the critics
won't crucify me again

here
in an American shopping mall.

Some a cappella  busking
should go down well.

The remix of
BLESSED ARE.

But it's a SIGN OF
THE TIMES

he's shot
as Prince rings out.
"Made in China."

A hoodie with

Jesus reaching for
the Good Book.

The white cop
who shot

claims he didn't know
what he was

reaching for...

didn't look like
no saviour to me.

Also he was obviously
a man of colour.

Blood pools
like a halo

around his
dear head.

Most people reach for
their mobile phones.

Only one passerby
kneels and prays.

AND DID THESE FEET...

Jesus is wearing
scuffed sneakers

"Made in China."

A hoodie with
the hood down.

Jesus, he's
one handsome dude.

Obviously a man
of colour.

Second Comings
are just like that difficult

2nd album.

Surely the critics
won't crucify me again

here
in an American shopping mall.

Some acapella  busking
should go down well.

The remix of
BLESSED ARE.

But it's a SIGN OF
THE TIMES

he's shot
as Prince rings out.

Jesus reaching for
the Good Book.

The white cop
who shot

claims he didn't know
what he was

reaching for...

didn't look like
no saviour to me.

Also he was obviously
a man of colour.

Blood pools
like a halo

around his
dear head.

Most people reach for
their mobile phones.

Only one passerby
kneels and prays.

An angel
falls to the ground

learns what it is
to be

human
after all

to have hunger
gnaw at your guts

the cold to take hold

freeze even
your memory

its feathers
falling away


***** & grey
now only

a mere
human

wondering if there is
a Heaven

and if
angels

really
exist.

AND IF YOU HEAR ME SPEAK
( for Granny Dempsey )



and if you hear me speak
of the greenest goosegogs
then it is obviously the summer of '63



with the sunlight of that year
trapped tightly
within them



and if you hear me speak
of goosegogs and a certain year
then I most



certainly will be
talking of
my blind granny



who used her crooked hands
to sculpt my face into being
and I am here



because her blind hands
saw me so
completely



and I was made
anew each year
as if I had never been



before
but
am now



and if you hear me speak
of goosegogs, the year of '63
and my blind Cork granny



then you will know
that I speak of
the gentlest love



I have ever known
and now I will speak no more
for I have said everything



that can be said
and that
goes beyond all saying

AND IF YOU HEAR ME SPEAK
( for Granny Dempsey )

And if you hear me speak
of the greenest goosegogs

then it is obviously
the summer of '63

with the sunlight of that year
trapped within them.

And if you hear me speak
of goosegogs and a certain year

then I most certainly will be
talking of my blind granny

who used her crooked hands
to sculpt my face into being

and I am here
because her blind hands

saw me so
completely

I was made
anew each year

as if I had
never been

before but
am now.

And if you hear me speak
of goosegogs, the year of '63

and my blind
Cork granny

then you will know
that I speak of

the gentlest love
I have ever known.

Now I will speak no more
for I have said everything

that can be said and that
goes beyond all saying.

AND IF YOU HEAR ME SPEAK
( for Granny Dempsey )

and if you hear me speak
of the greenest goosegogs
then it is obviously the summer of '63

with the sunlight of that year
trapped tightly
within them

and if you hear me speak
of goosegogs and a certain year
then I most

certainly will be
talking of
my blind granny

who used her crooked hands
to sculpt my face into being
and I am here

because her blind hands
saw me so
completely

and I was made
anew each year
as if I had never been

before
but
am now

and if you hear me speak
of goosegogs, the year of '63
and my blind Cork granny

then you will know
that I speak of
the gentlest love

I have ever known
and now I will speak no more
for I have said everything

that can be said
and that
goes beyond all saying

AND I ONLY THE MOST RECENT INCARNATION

thousands of voices
flowing through my head
the ancestors are restless



I borrow their faces
use their voices
inhabit this present



let them live
through me
I a cast of many




and who
will borrow my face
many ages from now

AND I ONLY THE MOST RECENT INCARNATION

thousands of voices
flowing through my head
the ancestors are restless

I borrow their faces
use their voices
inhabit this present

let them live
through me
I a cast of many

and who
will borrow my face
many ages from now

thousands of voices
flowing through my head
the ancestors are restless

I borrow their faces
use their voices
inhabit this present

let them live
through me
I a cast of many

and who
will borrow my face
many ages from now

...AND I WAVE BACK

Outside the hatch
he turns slowly

and talks
but I can't make out
the words he says

they fall from his lips
dangle and float in space

outside the backyard fence
a hill grabs the moon

and then slowly
lets it go again

the moon floating just
out of reach

laughs; 'Go on...do that again! '

the hill smiles: 'Just you wait... just you wait! '
the moon beams
as a little bird

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

and then finds flight
take hold of it as if

it had only discovered it that minute
and absconds with it

the darkness
barks

and falls
into silence

and then another part
of the darkness

barks back

held in a gentleness
a leaf tiptoes down the breeze

as if descending
a spiral staircase.

Time holds its breath

outside the hatch
flat on his back

the earth a little blue ball he has let go of

the astronaut
slowly turns and waves

& I
wave back.

...AND I WAVE BACK

Outside the hatch
he turns slowly

and talks
but I can't make out
the words he says

they fall from his lips
dangle and float in space

outside the backyard fence
a hill grabs the moon

and then slowly
lets it go again

the moon floating just
out of reach

laughs; 'Go on...do that again! '

the hill smiles: 'Just you wait... just you wait! '
the moon beams
as a little bird

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

and then finds flight
take hold of it as if

it had only discovered it that minute
and absconds with it

the darkness
barks

and falls
into silence

and then another part
of the darkness

barks back

held in a gentleness
a leaf tiptoes down the breeze

as if descending
a spiral staircase.

Time holds its breath

outside the hatch
flat on his back

the earth a little blue ball he has let go of

the astronaut
slowly turns and waves

& I
wave back.