AROUND me the images of thirty years:
An ambush; pilgrims at the water-side;
Casement upon trial, half hidden by the bars,
Guarded; Griffith staring in hysterical pride;
Kevin O'Higgins' countenance that wears
A gentle questioning look that cannot hide
A soul incapable of remorse or rest;
A revolutionary soldier kneeling to be blessed;
An Abbot or Archbishop with an upraised hand
Blessing the Tricolour.  "This is not,' I say,
"The dead Ireland of my youth, but an Ireland
The poets have imagined, terrible and gay.'
Before a woman's portrait suddenly I stand,
Beautiful and gentle in her Venetian way.
I met her all but fifty years ago
For twenty minutes in some studio.

III
Heart-smitten with emotion I Sink down,
My heart recovering with covered eyes;
Wherever I had looked I had looked upon
My permanent or impermanent images:
Augusta Gregory's son; her sister's son,
Hugh Lane, "onlie begetter' of all these;
Hazel Lavery living and dying, that tale
As though some ballad-singer had sung it all;
Mancini's portrait of Augusta Gregory,
"Greatest since Rembrandt,' according to John Synge;
A great ebullient portrait certainly;
But where is the brush that could show anything
Of all that pride and that humility?
And I am in despair that time may bring
Approved patterns of women or of men
But not that selfsame excellence again.
My mediaeval knees lack health until they bend,
But in that woman, in that household where
Honour had lived so long, all lacking found.
Childless I thought, "My children may find here
Deep-rooted things,' but never foresaw its end,
And now that end has come I have not wept;
No fox can foul the lair the badger swept --

VI
(An image out of Spenser and the common tongue).
John Synge, I and Augusta Gregory, thought
All that we did, all that we said or sang
Must come from contact with the soil, from that
Contact everything Antaeus-like grew strong.
We three alone in modern times had brought
Everything down to that sole test again,
Dream of the noble and the beggar-man.

VII
And here's John Synge himself, that rooted man,
"Forgetting human words,' a grave deep face.
You that would judge me, do not judge alone
This book or that, come to this hallowed place
Where my friends' portraits hang and look thereon;
Ireland's history in their lineaments trace;
Think where man's glory most begins and ends,
And say my glory was I had such friends.

Thrill with lissome lust of the light,
O man ! My man !
Come careering out of the night
Of Pan ! Io Pan .
Io Pan ! Io Pan ! Come over the sea
From Sicily and from Arcady !
Roaming as Bacchus, with fauns and pards
And nymphs and styrs for thy guards,
On a milk-white ***, come over the sea
To me, to me,
Coem with Apollo in bridal dress
(Spheperdess and pythoness)
Come with Artemis, silken shod,
And wash thy white thigh, beautiful God,
In the moon, of the woods, on the marble mount,
The dimpled dawn of of the amber fount !
Dip the purple of passionate prayer
In the crimson shrine, the scarlet snare,
The soul that startles in eyes of blue
To watch thy wantoness weeping through
The tangled grove, the gnarled bole
Of the living tree that is spirit and soul
And body and brain -come over the sea,
(Io Pan ! Io Pan !)
Devil or god, to me, to me,
My man ! my man !
Come with trumpets sounding shrill
Over the hill !
Come with drums low muttering
From the spring !
Come with flute and come with pipe !
Am I not ripe ?
I, who wait and writhe and wrestle
With air that hath no boughs to nestle
My body, weary of empty clasp,
Strong as a lion, and sharp as an asp-
Come, O come !
I am numb
With the lonely lust of devildom.
****** the sword through the galling fetter,
All devourer, all begetter;
Give me the sign of the Open Eye
And the token ***** of thorny thigh
And the word of madness and mystery,
O pan ! Io Pan !
Io Pan ! Io Pan ! Pan Pan ! Pan,
I am a man:
Do as thou wilt, as a great god can,
O Pan ! Io Pan !
Io pan ! Io Pan Pan ! Iam awake
In the grip of the snake.
The eagle slashes with beak and claw;
The gods withdraw:
The great beasts come, Io Pan ! I am borne
To death on the horn
Of the Unicorn.
I am Pan ! Io Pan ! Io Pan Pan ! Pan !
I am thy mate, I am thy man,
Goat of thy flock, I am gold , I am god,
Flesh to thy bone, flower to thy rod.
With hoofs of steel I race on the rocks
Through solstice stubborn to equinox.
And I rave; and I **** and I rip and I rend
Everlasting, world without end.
Mannikin, maiden, maenad, man,
In the might of Pan.
Io Pan ! Io Pan Pan ! Pan ! Io Pan !

Dangerman
—a buyer and seller
of mostly himself

Petticoat
—a ***** on the take
and about to slip

Each made promises to the other
but both loved journeys
and valleys
and limericks
and turntables
and spirits
and skirt-raising
and slowdives
and lip-biting
and come-hither
more than their here-and-now vow

Trigger-happy begetter
with an ax to grind
killing captives slowly
with jagged little things
it's the strangest sound
in spite of the plight of
the ringing in his ears
it never fades away

I reckon numbers and lead are arbitrary
to a button man
whose wheels turn circles
mainly in his skull
revolving/rouletting
as infinite go-around

Never mind though, the time must be now
for a show of hands

Motherhood waited in the ship's hold
until the treasure hunt
brought her to this final island
a choice between gold
and the aging ******

The young who suckle at her breast
might one day run mum through
with the sword at Payback
—that unsteady little homestead
where profit and loss
share the same face

Never mind though, the moment must be now
to ring the bell

And raise redemption
like a burning flag of regret

Sea captain who brings with him an air of comfort,
first mate, confetti egg shell,
metal-framed reservoir.
Cradle my head, pull my hand,
Stand.
Solve the equation for me. Don't.
Be my carriage horse. Roam free.
Burn the papers. Lock them away.
Join the feast. Serve us, **** the beast.

Begot, begetter
A stain-glass window, more like a painting
wet with thinner.
Broken calculator, hard-to-getter.
Man the weather--man the ship. Don't, I can do it myself.
Hideous, antique bird-feeder
favoring the magpies above all and doves the least.
Join the feast. Let us leave the little
beast alone, they've done nothing truly bad! because
Just a little cut doesn't hurt.
As long as the blood doesn't spurt.
As long as Sylvia is my dead friend.

As long as you're an indescribable friend,
always there among the bramble
of the old flower field, abandoned long ago.
In the 30s.

Sea captain who brings sun, my
first mate of all singing first mates, of
all operatic dancers.
Dance with me.

I write this to get your attention,
This piece doesn’t convey any meaning
Whatsoever; this one is just for your love;
For sometimes I need this; just as you are
In need of love and
Hahahhah
Attention
Oh my
It’s hard not to laugh at the view of a
Space expanding ever
Oh sh f it s hard to strain oneself
Yourself
Myself
From
Ohhhhh haha haha
Oh you can’t
Thou canst not even picture it
O my head so a jumble man
Yo bruh sez myman how come you are so high so low so late time eh
Oh it bothers you you little sh
Come here and I ******>The broken glass and spilled kvas
I was just a child that time
The splinters in my ankles and thighs
It hurts all the same
O
Right
I forgot what it was all about
Never mind
Happy new cycle
Piece **** pls

My Prospero, I admit
is, yea, badly drawn

& keeps falling off
his lollipop stick.

My Caliban, on the other hand
well drawn and forsooth...sticks to...his stick.

I wiggle each
character’s characteristic

and they come alive
speak the lines, I pray you,

trippingly upon my tongue
“Come to me with a thought!”

I command my paper people.

“Your thoughts I cleave to!”
they flash into my consciousness.

“Ariel, my Ariel...”
fine-tooled from foil

that comes from fabled Consulate
& Woodbine packets.

“Ah, my trusty sprite...”
dangles from a purple thread that

is borrowed from
me Mam’s sewing basket.

All is well
in this my make-shift

Shakespeare theatre
made from Kellogg’s

Cornflakes packets.

See the great **** crow
under the proscenium!

Weetabix boxexs
construct the wings.

Rows of Nite lights
serve as footlights.

And, so...let the Masque begin!

I hum bits of Adeste
Fideles....then sing

as Prospero & Ariel
do their thing.

“Solua domus dagus!”
my voice rings out

but see how
dangerous a nine year old knee

can be
to paper theatre.

The floodlights being knocked over
the stage flames in amazement.

My patchwork Globe
of Cornflake and Weetabix boxes

burns to the ground

only Ariel survives
in an all too blackened shrunken

crumpled piece of foil.

I exit
( pursued by a clip on the ear )

the profession of producer of
the plays thereof the only begetter of

this ensuing story
lost, alas my lack, to me!

But wait, is this a football I see
before me?

Then play on Dinger Dwyer!
And ****** be him who first cries hold!

We cry "*******!" and let slip
the dogs we are!

**

I was afraid that people might be offended by the word "*******!" so I pushed Prospero out onto the stage to apologise for such language but as usual he was completely off his stick. "Oh Puck..." I cried but Puck said: "No way am I going out there and apologising for your ***** work....no way" but anyway and anyhow push came to shove and he ended up on his rear on the boards and had to come up with something!

"If we shadows have offended...." he blurted out and me and all the other characters cheered him on. I gave him a big hug when he came off stage! Caliban just jeered and said: "What's wrong with rowlocks?" "*******!" we said and Caliban just scratched his head and went away singing "Ban Ban Caliban...got a new master...got a new man!"

Sometimes it's hard to keep the characters in check...don't know how old Shakey did it! "Where there's a Will...there's a way!" as he always said to me over a pint of Guinness.

This is from the mind of the deranged--
Little did I know, I had a pleasure for carnage.

It always made me intoxicated.
To conceive the crying children,

As they pray to their begetter--
For a place of refuge.

I explicitly annotate--
It's not me who you resent.

I have so much tribulation--
I wish I was habitual.

But I'm afraid I am a bit melancholy--
Which leads me to foresee.

Many deaths that are to be--
Between this fraudulent identity.

The stars shift in the sky around our home,

and we shift in the sky around theirs,

like some great cosmic cog wheel.

Interlocking forces and components....

galactic nuts and bolts in some giant machine that we call the universe.

Operating in perfect unison.....

vast orbs spinning and weaving,

movements perfectly timed and executed,

like a great heavenly dance.

Begetter of mysteries .......

nameless alien entities, eddies of cosmic dust,

circulating through the perpetual, cryptic darkness.

Flawless configuration......

minuscule components in a vast and complex system,

yet each one a vital part of its structure.

Beginning unknown, and ending a mystery......

which causes me to wonder.... who is the architect, and who is the commander of this machine?

You shine a light,
On a cold and lascivious world.
You are the altruist,
On the coldest of winters.
You are the begetter,
Of the greatest scheme of all.
To steal my heart.

MUCH ADO ABOUT SOMETHING

My Prospero, I admit
is, yea, badly drawn

& keeps falling off
his lollipop stick.

My Caliban, on the other hand
well drawn and forsooth...sticks to...his stick.

I wiggle each
character’s characteristic

and they come alive
speak the lines, I pray you,

trippingly upon my tongue
“Come to me with a thought!”

I command my paper people.

“Your thoughts I cleave to!”
they flash into my consciousness.

“Ariel, my Ariel...”
fine-tooled from foil

that comes from fabled Consulate
& Woodbine packets.

“Ah, my trusty sprite...”
dangles from a purple thread that

is borrowed from
me Mam’s sewing basket.

All is well
in this my make-shift

Shakespeare theatre
made from Kellogg’s

Cornflakes packets.

See the great **** crow
under the proscenium!

Weetabix boxexs
construct the wings.

Rows of Nite lights
serve as footlights.

And, so...let the Masque begin!

I hum bits of Adeste
Fideles....then sing

as Prospero & Ariel
do their thing.

“Solua domus dagus!”
my voice rings out

but see how
dangerous a nine year old knee

can be
to paper theatre.

The floodlights being knocked over
the stage flames in amazement.

My patchwork Globe
of Cornflake and Weetabix boxes

burns to the ground

only Ariel survives
in an all too blackened shrunken

crumpled piece of foil.

I exit
( pursued by a clip on the ear )

the profession of producer of
the plays thereof the only begetter of

this ensuing story
lost, alas my lack, to me!

But wait, is this a football I see
before me?

Then play on Dinger Dwyer!
And ****** be him who first cries hold!

We cry "*******!" and let slip
the dogs we are!

No guts to ***** a meager mea culpa ?

Were you begging me to spare you, man
Trudging on the floor raising your shabby swords
I would still silence you saying, ''Any last words?''
Separating your soul from this soil, despising your wan...

Your blood would flow, your pain would glow
Appearing obvious under my enameled blades
However, I would remain in the reassuring shades
Watching your pride wiggle and wail, hearing you swallow

The shame that would strike you at your utmost.
As soon as you cursed me, I hated you the most
Do not rely on your ideal, this is your ordeal
Your dreaded nightmare, except that it is now real!

Were you begging me to forgive your mistake
I would only whisper that you are now at stake
You did choose to solve this case in your lull
Tell me, were you tortured and was this as dull

As this devouring pain cursing through your body?
Years went by and you ignored my fading name
Uttering in your sleep that I was surely the one to blame
Feel it, tremble under it, this is your deserved agony

You thought it was a sporadic game, dices to roll
You have played with numbers, and you stabbed our love
Livid will turn your face, because soon funeral knells will toll
The poisonous clove will soon sprout, I have an iron hand in my velvet glove

And you will finally fall from your God ****** grace
The yellowish waxy rotten tone of your face will melt
Under the fires of justice that have become scarce
Watch my hand you fed undo the blades from my belt

Any last words, coward, before my rage hits your rib-cage, loafer?
Anything to say, threatened by the horrific scythe, loser
You poor excuse for a man, let alone for a fallacious father
You used to lift me up to the glories of the skies and call me 'my daughter'...

Were you begging me to spare you, begetter
I would turn my heart away from you, rather
This sturdy bone structure of yours handed over to the reaper.
He whom despises mercy to reason deserves neither



I wish I could pretend believing we never saw it coming
But what is the point of keeping your head high
When nothing remains in you, not even the faintest sigh
You are going to expire and yet, not even your lips are moving.

Were you begging me to love you, as you pant
I would tell you that the clock is adamant,
We both are well aware time has now run out
Anything...? -  you have been ruled out.


December, 27, 2013

sing a song of soft intent
whisper magic incantent
feel heavenly connection
strengthen strings o' soul libation

weave a net of thought and letter
take a part in being begetter
tread your steps with surety
whispering words in purity

hew the air with mind 'n heart
see the visions take apart
mystic mist of shadow dark
letting shine everlasting spark

I have never
borne a child.

But there is
a part of me
that craves
the catharsis
of seeing something
so delicate
and pure
and so much
a part of myself
come from within,
from a place
of love.

Some days
I wonder
how I could have
ever been trusted
to bring up
something so good
(in humility)
with so much beauty
(in modesty)

every moment
it begs
for truth--
how could I not
give this little one
my name?

Other days
the roles are reversed
and suddenly it is
my fears that
are comforted
my tears that
are dried
my passion,
confusion,
or other outburst
borne with grace
on the page--
in these moments
the begetter
is held together.

No,
my children are not
flesh and bone
but rather
heart and soul

and my job
is to prepare them
to go out
and change
the world.

I am a man
I am a human being
I am an animal
I am within myself myself
I am the one that cannot be everywhere
I am a dancer on the tightrope
I am an infant
I am a child
I am a creator of all things
I am a writer
I am a poet
I am a scoundrel
I am a fraud
I am a swindler
I am a swine
I am a partner
I am en entity
I am the space
I am the liar
I am a man that sometimes cannot take it
I am a hallow man
I am a ball suspended on a chain
I am a denizen of the world
I am a zealot
I am a hater
I am an envious seraphim
I am a revelation
I am an atonement
I am a perdition of this world
I am this world
I am all of it
I am nothing at all
I am the Essenes of this soul
I am the pale king
I am myself my kingdom and my throne
I am myself my life
I am the one that cannot be forgotten
I am the one that cannot be forgiven
I am the one by every other hated
I am the one by every other loved
I am a son
I am to be a begetter
I am to be the salt of the earth
I am to be an angel in the heaven
I am to be the devil in the hell
I am the fallen
I am the arisen
I am the one that chainéd to the rock
I am the one who’s lover being plucked
I am a no one

WHAT THE CAT DON'T WANT TO HEAR
                               THE CAT DON'T HEAR

(TO.THE. ONLIE. BEGETTER. OF.THESE. INSVING. LINES.  Mr. A.S.J. ALL. HAPPINESS. AND. THAT. ETERNITIE. PROMISED.)

The chair liked the room
it was living in.

The day before
it was living in a shop.

Only one
of many such chairs.

Now
it had its own room.

Indeed it was
the only chair there.

It even had
its own desk.

Yet the desk was full
of its own self importance

and had only indulged
in the usual polite conversation

about how far or near
one should be to it.

The chair was rather proud of
THE CLOUD OF UNKNOWING

that lay open upon it
at page 144.

The desk was profoundly
jealous of it

whereas the chair
actually took pleasure

in the mere fact of
its mistress's posterior.

A mirror slightly to the side
allowed the chair to look out

upon a garden
who talked continuously

about the weather.

A lawn ran down
to a flint-faced wall

and beyond the wall's
flint facedness

lived
( so the chair believed )

the World.

The chair
( even if it had to say so itself )

and human voices
agreed with its opinion

that it looked
extremely elegant.

The chair enjoyed
being a chair.

The only thing that irked
was the cat

whose habit
it was

to doze upon it
when the humans left the room.

"Shoo...shoo!"
the chair cried out

in deep despair
but the cat

either did not
speak

or
pretended not to

understand

what was said
to it.

WHAT THE CAT DON'T WANT TO HEAR
              THE CAT DON'T HEAR

(TO.THE. ONLIE. BEGETTER. OF.THESE. INSVING. LINES.  Mr. A.S.J. ALL. HAPPINESS. AND. THAT. ETERNITIE. PROMISED.)

the chair
liked the room
it was living in

the day before
it was living
in a shop

only one
of many
such chairs

now
it had
its own room

indeed it was
the only chair there
it even had its own desk

yet the desk was full
of its own
self importance

and had only indulged
in the usual
polite conversation

about how far
or near
one should be to it

the chair was rather proud of
THE CLOUD OF UNKNOWING
that lay open upon it at page 144

the desk was profoundly
jealous of it
whereas the chair

actually took pleasure
in the mere fact of
its mistress's posterior

a mirror slightly
to the side
allowed the chair to look out

upon a garden
who talked continuously
about the weather

a lawn ran down
to a flint-faced wall and
beyond the wall's flint facedness

lived
( so the chair believed )
- the World

the chair
( even if it had to
say so itself )

and human voices
agreed with its opinion that
looked extremely elegant

the chair
enjoyed
being a chair

the only thing that irked
was the cat
whose habit it was

to doze upon it
when the humans
left the room

"Shoo...shoo!"
the chair cried out
in deep despair

but the cat
either did not
speak

or
pretended
not to

understand
what was said
to it