DONALL DEMPSEY HAS LEFT THE POEM!

This...this Blue Plaque

business is

distressing to say the least

and rather intrusive

don't you

think?

I mean when

did it all start?

DONALL DEMPSEY

...THIS!

DONALL DEMPSEY

...THAT!

I mean...who cares?

HERE IS THIS HOUSE

DONALL DEMPSEY WROTE...

DONALL DEMPSEY

LIVED HERE WHILST WRITING...

Maybe it's a Government

tracking device.

Donall Dempsey...

PAUSED HERE FOR THOUGHT!

( No! I ****** didn't!)

Whatever I do it seems

a blue plaque is more

than willing

to tell you.

Time was when

they waited until one

was sufficiently

dead and famous

to commemorate

one's efforts

at living

and Life.

But, now:

holy cow!

When I got back home

I found "home"

had just been turned into

( yes you've guessed it)

THE DONALL DEMPSEY

MUSEUM.

I even had to pay

to get in.

"If your'e Donall Dempsey

( 'the' Donall Dempsey )

then I'm Schrödinger's ****** cat !"

The crowd all laughed at that.

But I did get a concession

for being old and decrepit.

There was a sign

telling me not to

sit in

my favourite chair.

And they had gotten

facts wrong.

I had written this...before...that.

I looked at the manuscript

of this poem

the usual scribble scrawl

made more precious

by being

preserved under glass.

It was like being an episode

in THE TWILIGHT ZONE.

I glanced up

at the Blue Plaque

positioned just

as it happens

above my curly

confused head.

HERE DONAL DEMPSEY

...refused any more to be

part of

all this and

left

the poem.

Yes folks...

DONALL DEMPSEY HAS LEFT

THE POEM.

This...this Blue Plaque
business is

distressing to say the least
and rather intrusive

don't you
think?

I mean when
did it all start?

DONALL DEMPSEY
...THIS!
DONALL DEMPSEY
...THAT!

I mean...who cares?

HERE IS THIS HOUSE
DONALL DEMPSEY WROTE...

DONALL DEMPSEY
LIVED HERE WHILST WRITING...

Maybe it's a Government
tracking device.

Donall Dempsey...
PAUSED HERE FOR THOUGHT!

( No! I ****** didn't!)

Whatever I do it seems
a blue plaque is more

than willing
to tell you.

Time was when
they waited until one

was sufficiently
dead and famous

to commemorate
one's efforts

at living
and Life.

But, now:
holy cow!

When I got back home
I found "home"

had just been turned into
( yes you've guessed it)

THE DONALL DEMPSEY
MUSEUM.

I even had to pay
to get in.

"If your'e Donall Dempsey
( 'the' Donall Dempsey )
then I'm Schrödinger's ****** cat !"

The crowd all laughed at that.

But I did get a concession
for being old and decrepit.

There was a sign
telling me not to

sit in
my favourite chair.

And they had gotten
facts wrong.

I had written this...before...that.

I looked at the manuscript
of this poem

the usual scribble scrawl
made more precious

by being
preserved under glass.

It was like being an episode
in THE TWILIGHT ZONE.

I glanced up
at the Blue Plaque

positioned just
as it happens

above my curly
confused head.

HERE DONAL DEMPSEY
...refused any more to be

part of
all this and

left
the poem.

Yes folks...

DONALL DEMPSEY HAS LEFT
THE POEM.

"BEWARE THE DONALL DEMPSEY MY SON!"

The frog slid slowly down
my throat.

It's legs sticking out of
my mouth...still kicking.

The world was running away
into the final darkness.

My eyes were robbed
of trees and sun.

The day being stolen
from me.

"Death by frog!"
How unlikely a dying.

The bullies were all
short-trousered lads like me

sculpted from the sunlight
of 1963.

Then either the frog gave
a desperate last minute kick

or I silently yelled
and expelled

friend frog who
having escaped death by swallowing

hopped it
lost itself in the long grass.

Perhaps the horrible tale
of down-the-gullet

is told still to its descendants
far removed from that sunny day.

"Better watch out..." Mamma Frog
would make her voice shiver

making her tiddlers tremble
with trepidation

"...or the Donall Dempsey
will get you!"

*

I was having a bad day....nothing going my way....but still Kim Moore  managed to wring this out of me in her wonderful writing workshop. She applied a Chinese burn to my mind and out popped this in a seven and a half minute sprint of the mind. I was halfways through reliving the trauma of a frog being shoved down my throat to gales of laughter when I suddenly thought "What about the poor frog? How did he cope?"

What did he tell the other frogs and how in the world of frogs it became the tallest of tall tales and my name entered the lexicon of frog horror stories that have been passed down through generations of frog families despite being the innocent victim! All the frog heard in its terrification was my name
chanted over and over again in great grievous glee "Ha ha ha...Donall Dempsey!"  Me and friend frog were in this tormenting together. But despite all this my name has gone down in frog history as if I were a Grendel or a Grendel's mother or a Jabberwocky. Just say Donall Dempsey and see what the reaction is...faster than a Basho plop and splash

"DONALL DEMPSEY INDEED!"

'LLANOD YESPMED?"
he squinted at my driver's licence.

"It's pronounced CLANOD!"
I said with extreme exasperation.

"Y'are not from these here parts
. . .are ya fella?"
he drawled dryly

squinting closer firstly at me then
back again to my !D.

"I'm of Welsh/Turkish extraction
but I was born on Venus!"

I explained as if to
a little kid.

"Ha ha...haha!" he snorted
a tiny trickle of snot

yo-yoing up and down
his hairy left nostril.

"Ha ha...if you were to
spell yer name backwards
it would spell:

Donall Dempsey!"

I was not amused.

"Ya know...that crazy hairy
Irish earthling poet dude!"

"I'm not him!"
I fumed.

"Alright...alright...keep yer
antenas on...geeeez!"

He handed me back
my Id ID.

Tipped his hat.
Wiped his nose across his sleeve.

"Welcome to Mars.
You drive carefully now!"

I stepped on the rocket boosters.

Left him eating my stardust.

"****** customs!"
I yelled to myself.

"Huh...Donall Dempsey
...indeed!"

'**** THAT JANICE WINDLE & DONALL DEMPSEY
. . .**** 'EM!"

January & June
were having fun

hanging out together
not just for

sweet alliteration's sake
but because

- they could.

And they had always
secretly fancied each other.

Time had taken
a holiday.

Not an every day
occurence.

So they took
advantage of

this once
in a blue moon

- happening.

Monday & Sunday
were in bed together

( don't ask me what
they were doing ).

A century & a second
were gazing into

each other's eyes
amazed to see themselves

reflected there.

The hands of the clock
were spooning.

An hour was courting
( such an old fashioned word )

a beautiful young ahhhhh
moment.

Time itself
was sulking

because the lovers
weren't paying him

any mind
what so

ever.

They seemed to live
in the "...now, now, very now"

( as Mr. Shakespeare puts it )

scattering their smiles
here and everywhere

see them blossoming
into squeals and laughter.

A new millennium
had just turned up &

was at once
( "Wot de...!")

press ganged
into one of their forever

kisses.

"**** that Janice Windle & Donall Dempsey!"

Time throwing a hissy fit!

"**** that Janice Windle & Donall Dempsey!"

"**** 'em!"

January & June
were having fun

hanging out together
not just for

sweet alliteration's sake
but because

- they could.

And they had always
secretly fancied each other.

Time had taken
a holiday.

Not an every day
occurence.

So they took
advantage of

this once
in a blue moon

- happening.

Monday & Sunday
were in bed together

( don't ask me what
they were doing ).

A century & a second
were gazing into

each other's eyes
amazed to see themselves

reflected there.

The hands of the clock
were spooning.

An hour was courting
( such an old fashioned word )

a beautiful young ahhhhh
moment.

Time itself
was sulking

because the lovers
weren't paying him

any mind
what so

ever.

They seemed to live
in the "...now, now, very now"

( as Mr. Shakespeare puts it )

scattering their smiles
here and everywhere

see them blossoming
into squeals and laughter.

A new millennium
had just turned up &

was at once
( "Wot de...!")

press ganged
into one of their forever

kisses.

"**** that Janice Windle & Donall Dempsey!"

Time throwing a hissy fit!

"**** that Janice Windle & Donall Dempsey!"

"**** 'em!"

THE PICTURE OF DONALL GREY

My face distorted
in a tea spoon

( much more the real one
that I feel )

than the me
I am.

I hide this real me
under my palm.

I can feel it

biting into my flesh
refusing to be

hidden.

Reality takes a step
...back.

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

No sugar.
Slice of lemon.

And taking the spoon
from under my palm

drown the real me
in the lemon'd tea.

I smile falsely & hope
no one else noticed.

Two fictional characters
walk into a bar

in Malta
( * Marsaxlokk - to be precise ).

"To...be....tooo beee. . ."
stammers Hamlet.

"Oh fer Gawd's sake...two beers!"
J. Alfred Prufrock snaps.

"You really milk that
"To be or not..." thingy."
J.A.P. scolds Hamlet.

"Tsk...tsk!" Hamlet tsk tsks.
( sticking his tongue out ).

Two Cisks are plonked
down before them.

"No...I am not Prince Hamlet or
was meant to be..!"
J.A.P. quotes him self.

"Awww fer Jaysus sake...loooook
just for the fun of it...the gas of it

we swop
texts!"

Hamlet interrupts Prufrock's
protestations.

"Ohhhh....o.....K?"
Prufrock ponders somewhat doubtfully.

And, so:
Hamlet the Dane

( for yea it is indeed he)
dares

(1) to eat a peach (2) wear the bottoms of his white
flannel trousers rolled (3) parts his hair behind even

(4) dares
to aks

the overwhelming question

"( Oh, do not ask, what is it! )"

Oh & (5) gets to hear
( ** ** ** )

"...the mermaids singing...."

Prufrock "Hum...."
kills the king.

Becomes the king.

Beds.
Weds
Ophelia.

" Buzz buzz...come come..go...go!"

"It's a very foreshortened
Hamlet...I know

but - what the heck!

"See..? slurps Hammy
". . . now, that wasn't so bad...was it?"

"Another Cisk?"
"Naw...I'll have a Becks!"

"Jaysus Prufrock now
...what's up?"

"Don't know..."mutters J.A.P.
wearing a frothy beer moustache.

"HURRY UP PLEASE...IT'S TIME!"
roars the barman in Maltese.

"I can connect nothing
with...nothing!"
Prufrock almost sobs.

"Like that time
on Margate sands..."

Hamlet cuts him curtly off.

"Don't even go...there!"

"But I still get that squirmy
...you know...feeling

we are just
fragments of

the imagination of
some *long haired Irish poet

sunning himself by
the waters of

the shimmering waters of
a Sliema hotel pool

...up up in the clouds!

Hamlet sighs.

"Yeah, me too
spooky...innit?"

Hamlet looks behind him
checking for what isn't

there. . .

"Ahhhh well, never mind eh?"

Prufrock attempts an attempt
at being cheerful.

Fails miserably.

"Let us go, then
you and I...

when the evening is spread out
against the sky..."

Like a patient etherised upon a table!
they both sing outta time and outta tune

stumbling one
into the other.

A long hair Irish poet
smiles as he watches them

go.

"Għaġġel fil-għoli...wasal iż-żmien JEKK JOGĦĠBOK!"
the barman roars.

NOTES

Pronounced MAR SA SCHLOCK. Those Maltese Xs being really SHs in disguise.

* Pronounced CHISK but the new barman is obviously new to the language and pronounces it TSK which makes him think that is what our two fictional characters are ordering.

Not to be confused with mobile texting but rather the literary texts of which both of them owe their existence.

* The play bounded in a nutshell as it were.

One Donall Gearld Oliver Denis Dempsey is a good example of this sort.

* The No. 1 song all over Heaven...beating Sparks THE NO. 1 SONG ALL OVER HEAVEN  to the top spot.

** "Għaġġel fil-għoli...wasal iż-żmien JEKK JOGĦĠBOK!" Once again the new Irish barman hasn't got his tonsils around the Maltese lingo and comes out with this terrible mish mash of the typical barman's cry.

"BEWARE THE DONALL DEMPSEY MY SON!"

The frog slid slowly down
my throat.

It's legs sticking out of
my mouth...still kicking.

The world was running away
into the final darkness.

My eyes were robbed
of trees and sun.

The day being stolen
from me.

"Death by frog!"
How unlikely a dying.

The bullies were all
short-trousered lads like me

sculpted from the sunlight
of 1963.

Then either the frog gave
a desperate last minute kick

or I silently yelled
and expelled

friend frog who
having escaped death by swallowing

hopped it
lost itself in the long grass.

Perhaps the horrible tale
of down-the-gullet

is told still to its descendents
far removed from that sunny day.

"Better watch out..." Mamma Frog
would make her voice shiver

making her tiddlers tremble
with trepidation

"...or the Donall Dempsey
will get you!"

THE STATUE

'Dying is fun! ' you say
'...once you get the hang of it...'

'...& as long as
the pain stays away! '

Your face says ouch
without saying 'Ouch! '

'It adds an extra spice to life
knowing how many minutes there are left! '

'I calculated it  with my solar power
pocket calculator! '

'It seems like you live it twice
as fast...twice as intense

seeing everything
so precise

seeing even
what's.. not...there! '

The pain laughs at your puny efforts
to control it.

'Doc...says a year(at the most)  
maybe a matter of months...weeks! '

'It depends on what the cancer thinks! '
you laugh.

'And to think I'm a Cancerian! '
The pain has not got your sense of humour.

Already I can see it is bored by you
tries to wipe that grin off your face.

It almost...succeeds.

'Seems like I'm nothing now
but this cancer! '

'It's all that anybody can see! '

'Like it's been rubber stamped
on my forehead or something! '

'Well, Mrs. Cancer...'
I swore I heard the doctor say.

'And, all that my friends can see is...my death! '
'They annoy me with their crying! '

'Hello...hell.. o! I'm not dead yet! '
'This ****** cancer has taken on a life

of it's own

tells me what I can or can't do! '
'It's the boss! '

'Now...that there's a limit to it
Time...is precious
can't bear...to waste a minute.. of it! '

'It feels as if the cancer
is a famous sculptor

& labours to create
the shape of my death

bit
by
bit! '

'Seems like it's one of those
ugly modern abstract statues

you know

meaning nothing
with a hole in the middle! '

'And everyday the cancer
chiseling away at it

striving for perfection! '

'I tell the cancer
Oh...get on with it! '

'Get it over with! '

'See...I'm becoming quite the philosopher! '

'Now...get out of here! '

'Stop talking to a dying woman
get out in the sun don't waste
a min-
-ute
of
it! '

I laugh.

You're still so.. you!

You ask me for a favour
before I go.

I scratch your ***
(you can't reach it no more) .

You tell me
'That's the best scratch in all the world! '

I smile tell you
you always had the best *** in the world.

You laugh.
(It...hurts) .

I go

Close the door behind me
on your dying.

Step into brash sunlight
that feels like it's lying.

Two months later your death greets me
disguised as an airmail letter.

I missed your dying by a week ...it seems
I'm in a different country...crying.

A weak sun
shivers in the land

of the living.

From beyond
Death

you write me
a private letter

with handwriting
I wouldn't recognise as yours.

It just says:

'Donall Donall! '
on the envelope.

Inside
(a card)  

a wood engraving
by Eric Gill

the one with Mary Magdalene
covering a crucified Christ with her body

her hair like a river
covering them both.

The handwriting almost broken
only kept alive by your iron will.

'Guess the statue's done
&
Death is no Michelangelo

could have done better myself
but I wasn’t up to it! '

My tears
dissolving your words.

THE PICTURE OF DONALL GREY


My face distorted
in a tea spoon

( much more the real one
that I feel )

than the me
I am.

I hide this real me
under my palm.

I can feel it

biting into my flesh
refusing to be

hidden.

Reality takes a step
...back.

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

No sugar.
Slice of lemon.

And taking the spoon
from under my palm

drown the real me
in the lemon'd tea.

I smile falsely & hope
no one else noticed.

"DONALL DEMPSEY INDEED!"

'LLANOD YESPMED?"
he squinted at my driver's licence.

"It's pronounced CLANOD!"
I said with extreme exasperation.

"Y'are not from these here parts
. . .are ya fella?"
he drawled dryly

squinting closer firstly at me then
back again to my !D.

"I'm of Welsh/Turkish extraction
but I was born on Venus!"

I explained as if to
a little kid.

"Ha ha...haha!" he snorted
a tiny trickle of snot

yo-yoing up and down
his hairy left nostril.

"Ha ha...if you were to
spell yer name backwards
it would spell:

Donall Dempsey!"

I was not amused.

"Ya know...that crazy hairy
Irish earthling poet dude!"

"I'm not him!"
I fumed.

"Alright...alright...keep yer
antenas on...geeeez!"

He handed me back
my Id ID.

Tipped his hat.
Wiped his nose across his sleeve.

"Welcome to Mars.
You drive carefully now!"

I stepped on the rocket boosters.

Left him eating my stardust.

"****** customs!"
I yelled to myself.

"Huh...Donall Dempsey
...indeed!"

*

Without any intro I would tell a class to take a blank piece of paper and exactly and neatly write their name in the very middle of the page. Then I would go around to look at them and go "No...no...no!" They would look at me in great surmise. "I meant...backwards!" So painfully as if it were a hard maths question they would backward themselves and ask me how to pronounce themselves. And then with their new "selves" I would get them to invent who they "now" were. They went at this with great gusto and characters born purely form pure sound would be created right in front of me> They're "I" had changed into a hee hee hee "HE" and suddenly there were all these different people running around in their minds. They even drew these new "thems" and the playground resounded to the new sounding Nairbs and Yrams who had sloughed off their usual monikers to be born anew as an inventive character.

I would never not do what I would tell the kids to do...so I became this LLANOD YESPMED who had problems with a border guard somewhere in the 25th century.

"BEWARE THE DONALL DEMPSEY MY SON!"

The frog slid slowly down
my throat.

It's legs sticking out of
my mouth...still kicking.

The world was running away
into the final darkness.

My eyes were robbed
of trees and sun.

The day being stolen
from me.

"Death by frog!"
How unlikely a dying.

The bullies were all
short-trousered lads like me

sculpted from the sunlight
of 1963.

Then either the frog gave
a desperate last minute kick

or I silently yelled
and expelled

friend frog who
having escaped death by swallowing

hopped it
lost itself in the long grass.

Perhaps the horrible tale
of down-the-gullet

is told still to its descendents
far removed from that sunny day.

"Better watch out..." Mamma Frog
would make her voice shiver

making her tiddlers tremble
with trepidation

"...or the Donall Dempsey
will get you!"

SO PRIKETH HEM NATURE IN HIR CORAGES

Never did
help my Da enough.

Always
head-stuck-in-a-book.

"Donall son..."he call
"Can you hold this while

...I saw.!"

"Awwww Da!"
I'd wail.

Me lost in Chaucer
and his tale.

And so the saw saws
but all I see is..."Yo!"

"The Miller was a chap of sixteen stone,
A great stout fellow big in brawn and bone.

The saw cuts through the afternoon.

Pauses: then....
Chaucers on again.

"He did well out of them, for he could go
And win the ram at any wrestling show."

"Say what...?

Oh, don't get me
wrong I

adored the aesthetic beauty of
sawdust floating

in a universe of its own
suspended in sunlight and shadow..

The smell of pine
kidnapping my mind.

The green dance of the bubble
in a spirit level.

Didn't have time for all that
hammering and sawing.

I was a boy on a mission
ever since our teacher sighing

"Oh I...don't know why I
teach you scruff Chaucer

...you'll never read the book!"

But by the weekend
( furious at the rebuff )

I( ha ha)HAD!

My poor auld Da
only getting begrudging help.

"Whan that Aprille..."
( the words falling like gentle rain upon my mind )

"...with his shoures soote
the droghte of Marche..."

Words words oh sweet words.

"hath perced to the roote"

My mind
( "...bathed every veyne in swich licour, )

the bubble in the spirit level
poised perfectly...perfectly poised

"Of which vertu engendred is the flour."

Each night
I would follow you

through the rituals
of what you had to do

being Daddy.

I wanted to be Daddy too.

Mimicking your gait
becoming an exact

copy
of you

trailing along
in your footsteps

like a lone seagull
following in the wake

of some great ship
of state

watching the water
burn

'til it was all bubbles

then letting it
calm down

before filling my mother's
hot water bottle

carrying it to her side
like a lover's gift.

I was
your little shadow.  

She'd always smile:
'Thank you Danny! '

'That's alright love
was always the answer.

These the ritualistic words
in the hot water bottle ceremony.

Then he'd teach the clock
to ****

adjusting it with his hands
and wind up Time

so that it spit tick & tocks
all through the night

then go lock doors
turn keys
draw bolts.

'That's it, son! '

I used to imagine
being you

and now I am
my own man

winding up Time

bringing my missus
the gift of a hot water bottle

(the gift of me)    

both equally
heart warming.

'Thank you Donall! '
she always smiles.

'That's all right love! '
I always answer.

Me the man
I am

because of you.

BECOMING THE MAN MY FATHER ALWAYS WAS
(for Brian D)

Each night
I would follow you

through the rituals
of what you had to do

being Daddy.

I wanted to be Daddy too.

Mimicking your gait
becoming an exact

copy
of you

trailing along
in your footsteps

like a lone seagull
following in the wake

of some great ship
of state

watching the water
burn

'til it was all bubbles

then letting it
calm down

before filling my mother's
hot water bottle

carrying it to her side
like a lover's gift.

I was
your little shadow.  

She'd always smile:
"Thank you Danny! "

"That's alright love"
was always the answer.

These the ritualistic words
in the hot water bottle ceremony.

Then he'd teach the clock
to ****

adjusting it with his hands
and wind up Time

so that it spit tick & tocks
all through the night

then go lock doors
turn keys
draw bolts.

"That's it, son!"

I used to imagine
being you

and now I am
my own man

winding up Time

bringing my missus
the gift of a hot water bottle

(the gift of me)  

both equally
heart warming.

'Thank you Donall! '
she always smiles.

'That's all right love! '
I always answer.

Me the man
I am

because of you.

DOC. NO. 30060

to you
who

reads me a thousand
years from now

an impossible you...I
could not begin to imagine

survivor of
WW3

the world almost ceasing
to be

and I, a fragment
of history

a few burnt pages
a charred eye

an happenstance of
history rather than

merit where
all words...any words

were made precious
me now

an historic document
that you try to  breath

live into
a me imposible to know

me the so
long ago

eaten by time
devoured by history

the symbolic irony
of the charred eye

the rest of the photo
not making it

and so, my impossible to know
write your academic paper

on this me that has
long ceased to be

but how my thought survives
in my only known poem

words burnt
at the edges

so many unknowns
so many...ellipses

I, Donall Dempsey
artifact No. 30060

returned to the library
at 6.30

Thursday, 30018
the 15th of July

"La vita è una scuola di probabilità."

I appear
to have fallen

out of myself
no longer the me I am

but as if I had become
the statue of my self.

A pigeon **** tear
runs down my granite cheek.

"La vita è una scuola di probabilità."
the pigeon perched upon my head announces.

"Probably..?" I answer.
More a maybe-perhaps.

I am now an actor
playing the part of myself

unsure of what is expected of me
"What's my motivation?" I ask the director.

But he has been taken off
this picture.

The Donall Dempsey I used to be
no longer exists.

Someone or something
has broken into my head

and stolen the me
I was.

I now have no dialogue
only a walk-on-part

in my own life
an unimportant footnote

somewhere on page
42.

"What will I do..?"
I whistle the Berlin tune

the pigeon flying off my head
taking my thoughts with it.

CEREMONY

“Do you...
(Donall Donall)      

take this woman’s body
to have & to hold

to totally transform
by the bliss

of loving her? ”

“I do...I do! ”

“Do you...
(Janice A. Windle)      
take this man

to tease & to tempt
to tantalise beyond

all human endurance

so that he almost
expires from the ecstasy

of your loving arms? ”

“I do...I do too! ”

“You may now
make love.”

FESTINE LENTE FESTINE LENTE

Up the Green Road
under an arch of sunlight & leaves

I travel through Time & Space
mastering speed.

Balance still a little odd
as I try to...cycle faster...keep up with my Dad

who is forever far ahead
calling: “Come on, Donall – that’s the lad! ”

All that time I am
that eternal summer

always

struggling to learn

how to do

7 x Tables
(tie my shoe)
master bicycles.

Down the Green Road
under an arch of Time & Autumn

I cycle faster with the wind
behind me...calling to the man

who languishes forever
far behind me:

“Come on, Dad...”

“Take it easy, Donal lad! ”

*
Festine Lente is the Latin for Hurry Slowly!

THE INCLINING TEST

The Honeymooners
have locked themselves in

C135.

The cabin proving
a better draw

than either deck quoits
or adult shuffleboard.

We oblivious to
one and all

making our own sport
to our own great amusement.

Taking no notice what so
ever to

the ship's "Inclining Test"

to confirm its weight
and centre of gravity.

We only aware of
our own inclinations

to do
what we gotta do

being good
honeymooners

in accordance with the rules set by
The International Honeymooners Organisation

The IHO

an important part of
our compliance programme.

Our kisses and what nots
all seem to be in perfect

working order

only 3,000 miles of
wedded bliss to go

before we hit shore.

"Steady as she goes Miss Janice!"
"Steady as she goes Cap'n Donall.

We advance at
a steady rate of knots

into the rest of our
married life.

SO PRIKETH HEM NATURE IN HIR CORAGES

Never did
help my Da enough.

Always
head-stuck-in-a-book.

"Donall son..."he call
"Can you hold this while

...I saw.!"

"Awwww Da!"
I'd wail.

Me lost in Chaucer
and his tale.

And so the saw saws
but all I see is..."Yo!"

"The Miller was a chap of sixteen stone,
A great stout fellow big in brawn and bone.

The saw cuts through the afternoon.

Pauses: then....
Chaucers on again.

"He did well out of them, for he could go
And win the ram at any wrestling show."

"Say what...?

Oh, don't get me
wrong I

adored the aesthetic beauty of
sawdust floating

in a universe of its own
suspended in sunlight and shadow..

The smell of pine
kidnapping my mind.

The green dance of the bubble
in a spirit level.

Didn't have time for all that
hammering and sawing.

I was a boy on a mission
ever since our teacher sighing

"Oh I...don't know why I
teach you scruff Chaucer

...you'll never read the book!"

But by the weekend
( furious at the rebuff )

I( ha ha)HAD!

My poor auld Da
only getting begrudging help.

"Whan that Aprille..."
( the words falling like gentle rain upon my mind )

"...with his shoures soote
the droghte of Marche..."

Words words oh sweet words.

"hath perced to the roote"

My mind
( "...bathed every veyne in swich licour, )

the bubble in the spirit level
poised perfectly...perfectly poised

"Of which vertu engendred is the flour."

BECOMING THE MAN MY FATHER ALWAYS WAS
(for Brian )

Each night
I would follow you

through the rituals
of what you had to do

being Daddy.

I wanted to be Daddy too.

Mimicking your gait
becoming an exact

copy
of you

trailing along
in your footsteps

like a lone seagull
following in the wake

of some great ship
of state

watching the water
burn

'til it was all bubbles

then letting it
calm down

before filling my mother's
hot water bottle

carrying it to her side
like a lover's gift.

I was
your little shadow.

She'd always smile:
'Thank you Danny! '

'That's alright love."
was always the answer.

These the ritualistic words
in the hot water bottle ceremony.

Then he'd teach the clock
to ****

adjusting it with his hands
and wind up Time

so that it spit tick & tocks
all through the night

then go lock doors
turn keys
draw bolts.

'That's it, son! '

I used to imagine
being you

and now I am
my own man

winding up Time

bringing my missus
the gift of a hot water bottle

(the gift of me)

both equally
heart warming.

'Thank you Donall! '
she always smiles.

'That's all right love! '
I always answer.

Me the man
i am

because of you.

PAST LIvES

In a previous existence, I
was Attila

...the Nun!

The other nuns
mocked my moniker.

I was having
none of it!

It was just
not on.

I massacred them one
by one.

**** their pretentious
piety.

Other ninja nuns
came and tore me

limb
by
limb.

The world vanished
into the darkness

& I woke
inside this head

fat & folish
hairyish & Irish!

A poet of no
renown

Donall of
the Dempseys.

God's( ha hA HA!)
little idea of

a joke.

THE MAN WHO WALKS BOOKS

He was a Donall
just like me

but preferred to be
known as D or Dee.

In Cuba he...
"The Man who walked Books!"

The sun shining on
his bald pate

as he strode along
head stuck in a book

his legs having to do
all the seeing.

He breathing in the words
they staining his mind.

An emotional osmosis.

On dusty white roads
halfway 'round a bend

he always "...the man
who walked books."

Your death both
shock and surprise

it seeming so absurd
a D could die.

You always so
alive.

Death filters back
just the basic facts

without too much
how or why.

Tears the only
words I have.

Keeping you forever
in my mind

you can only
always be

a dusty dot
now a dusty nearness

"The man who walks books!"

THE STATUE

'Dying is fun! ' you say
'...once you get the hang of it...'

'...& as long as
the pain stays away! '

Your face says ouch
without saying 'Ouch! '

'It adds an extra spice to life
knowing how many minutes there are left! '

'I calculated it with my solar power
pocket calculator! '

'It seems like you live it twice
as fast...twice as intense

seeing everything
so precise

seeing even
what's.. not...there! '

The pain laughs at your puny efforts
to control it.

'Doc...says a year(at the most)
maybe a matter of months...weeks! '

'It depends on what the cancer thinks! '
you laugh.

'And to think I'm a Cancerian! '
The pain has not got your sense of humour.

Already I can see it is bored by you
tries to wipe that grin off your face.

It almost...succeeds.

'Seems like I'm nothing now
but this cancer! '

'It's all that anybody can see! '

'Like it's been rubber stamped
on my forehead or something! '

'Well, Mrs. Cancer...'
I swore I heard the doctor say.

'And, all that my friends can see is...my death! '
'They annoy me with their crying! '

'Hello...hell.. o! I'm not dead yet! '
'This ****** cancer has taken on a life

of it's own

tells me what I can or can't do! '
'It's the boss! '

'Now...that there's a limit to it
Time...is precious
can't bear...to waste a minute.. of it! '

'It feels as if the cancer
is a famous sculptor

& labours to create
the shape of my death

bit
by
bit! '

'Seems like it's one of those
ugly modern abstract statues

you know

meaning nothing
with a hole in the middle! '

'And everyday the cancer
chiseling away at it

striving for perfection! '

'I tell the cancer
Oh...get on with it! '

'Get it over with! '

'See...I'm becoming quite the philosopher! '

'Now...get out of here! '

'Stop talking to a dying woman
get out in the sun don't waste
a min-
-ute
of
it! '

I laugh.

You're still so.. you!

You ask me for a favour
before I go.

I scratch your ***
(you can't reach it no more) .

You tell me
'That's the best scratch in all the world! '

I smile tell you
you always had the best *** in the world.

You laugh.
(It...hurts) .

I go

Close the door behind me
on your dying.

Step into brash sunlight
that feels like it's lying.

Two months later your death greets me
disguised as an airmail letter.

I missed your dying by a week ...it seems
I'm in a different country...crying.

A weak sun
shivers in the land

of the living.

From beyond
Death

you write me
a private letter

with handwriting
I wouldn't recognise as yours.

It just says:

'Donall Donall! '
on the envelope.

Inside
(a card)

a wood engraving
by Eric Gill

the one with Mary Magdalene
covering a crucified Christ with her body

her hair like a river
covering them both.

The handwriting almost broken
only kept alive by your iron will.

'Guess the statue's done
&
Death is no Michelangelo

could have done better myself
but I wasn’t up to it! '

My tears
dissolving your words.

BECOMING MY WORDS...

I've been so many
Donall Dempseys

it's hard to remember
which one is which.

Every time I arrive
at a different me.

All this making and
unmaking me

to greet the next
moment I am to be.

Death, I guess
will be a holiday

from myself
the new me I'll never see.

Ahhhh, as Walt once said:

"If you want me again look for me
under your boot-soles."

Hopefully one day
I shall become

my words only
only my words.

SURE THERE'S NOTHING TO THIS DYING!

It's a young ghost I am.
New to this game.

I hear the living
talk of the dead.

And it's my name
they're saying.

"Donall Dempsey is.."

( Jaysus I never even
felt myself going )

. . .DEAD!"

Voices that
when I was alive

never had a good word
to say about me.

I blow their umbrellas
inside out.

Throw their hats
into the open grave.

"Dead!" they said and
isn't it all always

the same and I
the last one to be knowing.

"And what did the poor auld cratur
die of...if I might ask?"

Some sincere insincerity
added with great aplomb.

"Too much poetry
in the head it is said!"

an old rival snickers who
hated "my stuff" from the first.

"Ahhh the auld words will
always get ya in the end!"

This from someone who wouldn't
know a poem if it bit him on the ***.

"Ahhh sure...didn't I know him well!"
cries another who I never saw before.

Jumping on
the band wagon of my death.

"He was a gentleman
a real gentleman!"

They are really sticking
to the formula.

"A nicer man there never was!"
some mourner from another funeral weeps.

"Ahhh 'tis true
to be sure...to be sure!"

proclaims one who weeps
and eats the cold meats.

Only here for the beer
and the free feed.

"We'll never see his like again!"
someone snivels and then adds

"Thanks be
to God!"

And these tears?
Only their own fears!

"Sure amn't I only
the same age as himself?"

They too scared
their sell by date is due.

Death snickers . . ."I'll be
coming after you and you and you!"

"I got a ( cough cough)
the same old( cough cough)he had!"

"Was it that that took him!"
Someone trying to save going to the doctors.

"No, knocked down he was
and he outside his own front door!"

The blood still to be seen
outside No. 64.

Never saw Mr. Death coming
listening to the poem

that was inside
himself growing.

It's getting used I am
to the ghost  I've become.

I whisper words
into the auld deaf priest's ear.

"Well, I think I can speak
for all of us when I say

he's dead and gone and
good riddance to bad *******!"

He adds with fervour
"Praise be...praise be!"

The congregation laugh nervously.
It's exactly what they were thinking.

They stare about them as if
I might suddenly appear.

"Will you all rise now and
we'll sing hymn No. 63!"

But I have become the wind
running naked through a wheat field.

Tossing birds like words
up in the air.

I becoming
the poem of myself.

BECOMING THE MAN MY FATHER ALWAYS WAS
(for Brian )

Each night
I would follow you

through the rituals
of what you had to do

being Daddy.

I wanted to be Daddy too.

Mimicking your gait
becoming an exact

copy
of you

trailing along
in your footsteps

like a lone seagull
following in the wake

of some great ship
of state

watching the water
burn

'til it was all bubbles

then letting it
calm down

before filling my mother's
hot water bottle

carrying it to her side
like a lover's gift.

I was
your little shadow.

She'd always smile:
'Thank you Danny! '

'That's alright love."
was always the answer.

These the ritualistic words
in the hot water bottle ceremony.

Then he'd teach the clock
to ****

adjusting it with his hands
and wind up Time

so that it spit tick & tocks
all through the night

then go lock doors
turn keys
draw bolts.

'That's it, son! '

I used to imagine
being you

and now I am
my own man

winding up Time

bringing my missus
the gift of a hot water bottle

(the gift of me)

both equally
heart warming.

'Thank you Donall! '
she always smiles.

'That's all right love! '
I always answer.

Me the man
i am

because of you.

NOWHERE MAN

I just...you know
stood there

leaning nonchalantly against
the universe

looking like I was
doing nothing.

But nothing was what
I wasn't doing.

I had found a tear
in the space-time continuum thingy

and with an elongated thumbnail
of my guitar picking hand

I widened  it bit by bit
until I could

disappear  
into it.

I doubled back
quick as a flash

to the past where
I could see my self

heading for
my future.

I told him not to
bother

he would only
become me.

This really scared him.
He didn't want to believe me.

He pretended I wasn't
there

lalalalala'd me.
God I hated when I did that.

Climbed the next step
of the creaky old stair.

Ahh well he can't say I
didn't warn him.

He had me
coming to him.

Serve us right!

Now where was that tear in the thingy?
Jaysus...I am...stuck here.

As if one wasn't
enough now there's two.

Donall Dempseys
loose in the world.

Can't remember now
which one am I?

TALKING TO THE FOLKS

I was talking to the folks
back in oh

I don't know
1904?

They didn't know me and
I didn't know them

from Adam
but what the heck

folks is folks.

They were my folks
living their 1904 lives

unaware of a me
they didn't exist

as yet.

My Granda hadn't as yet
got around to making

my Da and my Da
hadn't yet invented me.

Not even a photo exists
of who they used to be.

No black&white or sepia people
to ponder upon and wonder.

Hey he's wearing my ear
and she's got my smile

plastered all over
her face.

And so I go
back to the past

walk the roads
they walked

see the skies
they lived under

listen to them talk
the things they may have said

lean against a wall
they would have leant against

solid brick against my back
soaking up the sun

of 1904.

"Howdy folks!"
I'd say

leaping out of my time
machine of words.

And the folks would say:
"So, you're Donall, eh?"

in their kind Dempsey way
smile their 1904 smiles.

"Delighted to meet you at
. . .last."

they'd laugh
in their Corkonian way.

"Them words are a mighty fine
time machine!"

nodding their heads
in time.

"What's it run on?"
they'd ask

in their 1904 way.

"Oh...!" I'd say
in my 21st Century voice

"Thought,
just
pure thought!"

FACING UP TO REALITY

There is a tap
on my shoulder.

I turn around and
face Reality.

"Well, well..."
smirks Reality

"...Fancy
meeting you here!"

I smile inside my self
keeping a poker face.

Reality always insists
on calling me by that name.

"The name's...Imagination."
I remind it.

"Donall's...Imagination!"
giving it a Bondian spin.

"So, still keeping the poems coming
...I see!"

it smiles facetiously.

"How could I not...?" I answer
giving nothing away.

I do not ask Reality
to sit down.

It shifts from foot to foot
embarrassed that it knows me

and who may see it
talking to me.

"Well...be seeing you!"
it smirks yet again

seething with anger
that I and not it

is Donall's little pet.

I nod.
Say nothing.

"Ahhhhhhhh...tough!"
I say to its retreating back.

Trap it
in this poem.

.PAST LIvES

In a previous existence, I
was Attila

...the Nun!

The other nuns
mocked my moniker.

I was having
none of it!

It was just
not on.

I massacred them one
by one.

**** their pretentious
piety.

Other ninja nuns
came and tore me

limb
by
limb.

The world vanished
into the darkness

& I woke
inside this head

fat & folish
hairyish & Irish!

A poet of no
renown

Donall of
the Dempseys.

God's( ha hA HA!)
little idea of

a joke

THAT ALFRED  MOMENT

He felt his life
was already storyboarded.

All very Hitchcockian
living his life out

in a black and white
celluoid world.

Knowing that there is always
the bomb

under the table
the tick tick tick of

the passing moments.

Always locking the door
when taking a shower.

One never too sure
if a friendly local ******

may decide to
pop  up

and the Hermanesque music
eek...eek...EEKS!

One shower curtain rail
after another.

The unerving gaze of
“Mother.”

And that famous silhouette
in that suspenseful half hour

voice
that could only be his.

"Good evening. .  !
“Donall Dempsey has only now

realised he is
just one

of my many
scenarios.

One can only hope against hope that
he finds the experiences

enjoyable!

If enjoyable is
the right word

for where  he
finds himself.

TALKING TO THE FOLKS

I was talking to the folks
back in oh

I don't know
1904?

They didn't know me and
I didn't know them

from Adam
but what the heck

folks is folks.

They were my folks
living their 1904 lives

unaware of a me
they didn't exist

as yet.

My Granda hadn't as yet
got around to making

my Da and my Da
hadn't yet invented me.

Not even a photo exists
of who they used to be.

No black&white or sepia people
to ponder upon and wonder.

Hey he's wearing my ear
and she's got my smile

plastered all over
her face.

And so I go
back to the past

walk the roads
they walked

see the skies
they lived under

listen to them talk
the things they may have said

lean against a wall
they would have leant against

solid brick against my back
soaking up the sun

of 1904.

"Howdy folks!"
I'd say

leaping out of my time
machine of words.

And the folks would say:
"So, you're Donall, eh?"

in their kind Dempsey way
smile their 1904 smiles.

"Delighted to meet you at
. . .last."

they'd laugh
in their Corkonian way.

"Them words are a mighty fine
time machine!"

nodding their heads
in time.

"What's it run on?"
they'd ask

in their 1904 way.

"Oh...!" I'd say
in my 21st Century voice

"Thought,
just
pure thought!"

FESTINE LENTE FESTINE LENTE
(for Bud the Brian)

Up the Green Road
under an arch of sunlight & leaves

I travel through Time & Space
mastering speed.

Balance still a little odd
as I try to...cycle faster...keep up with my Dad

who is forever far ahead
calling: “Come on, Donall – that’s the lad! ”

All that time I am
that eternal summer

always

struggling to learn

how to do

7 x Tables
(tie my shoe)
master bicycles.

Down the Green Road
under an arch of Time & Autumn

I cycle faster with the wind
behind me...calling to the man

who languishes forever
far behind me:

“Come on, Dad...”

“Take it easy, Donal lad! ”

*
Festine Lente is the Latin for Hurry Slowly!

PAST LIvES

In a previous existence, I
was Attila

...the Nun!

The other nuns
mocked my moniker.

I was having
none of it!

It was just
not on.

I massacred them one
by one.

**** their pretentious
piety.

Other ninja nuns
came and tore me

limb
by
limb.

The world vanished
into the darkness

& I woke
inside this head

fat & folish
hairyish & Irish!

A poet of no
renown

Donall of
the Dempseys.

God's( ha hA HA!)
little idea of

a joke.

WE ARE LEGEND...WE ARE MYTH


"Donall
Seanie...
SeanieDonall!"


My uncle & me
we are legend
we are myth

escaping from my auntie's voice
tracking us down
I sitting in the saddle of his neck

his curls my reins
traveling the world
on his giant shoulders

my uncle hearing
voices in his head
afraid of other humans

who hunt the thoughts
he's thinking
wanting to keep himself for himself

our beings fused
into one joyfulness
uncle & boy morphing into centaur

we are legend we are myth
we hide in haystacks
from her hounding voice

roam fields where ever empty spaces
takes us until there is only us
he more little boy than even I

"Keep me company!"
he pleaded
his thoughts all curly like his hair

we now one another
the last lost centaur
galloping off into a time

that no longer exists
we are legend
we are myth

*

and the boy grew out of my head
where I had stuffed him on my shoulders
and I became his walker of worlds

galloping across fields
running away from the voices
inside my head

that eat my thoughts
this boy I uncle
has become my mind for me

minds me
soothes the voices lies to the voices
tells them  I have vanished

into the mystery of myself
and the voices fall for it
I watch them retreat

I move my feet n giant steps
the boy growing out of my head
sees the world for me

tames the world for me
so that I can laugh whinny & neigh
like the human horse I have become

no longer confused
fused into one being
him & me

drinking in a sunset
sniffing rain on the wind
galloping across time time.

. . time
time. . .
out of mind

BECOMING MY WORDS...

I've been so many
Donall Dempseys

it's hard to remember
which one is which.

Every time I arrive
at a different me.

All this making and
unmaking me

to greet the next
moment I am to be.

Death, I guess
will be a holiday

from myself
the new me I'll never see.

Ahhhh, as Walt once said:

"If you want me again look for me
under your boot-soles."

Hopefully one day
I shall become

my words only
only my words.

SURE THERE'S NOTHING TO THIS DYING!

It's a young ghost I am.
New to this game.

I hear the living
talk of the dead.

And it's my name
they're saying.

"Donall Dempsey is.."

( Jaysus I never even
felt myself going )

. . .DEAD!"

Voices that
when I was alive

never had a good word
to say about me.

I blow their umbrellas
inside out.

Throw their hats
into the open grave.

"Dead!" they said and
isn't it all always

the same and I
the last one to be knowing.

"And what did the poor auld cratur
die of...if I might ask?"

Some sincere insincerity
added with great aplomb.

"Too much poetry
in the head it is said!"

an old rival snickers who
hated "my stuff" from the first.

"Ahhh the auld words will
always get ya in the end!"

This from someone who wouldn't
know a poem if it bit him on the ***.

"Ahhh sure...didn't I know him well!"
cries another who I never saw before.

Jumping on
the band wagon of my death.

"He was a gentleman
a real gentleman!"

They are really sticking
to the formula.

"A nicer man there never was!"
some mourner from another funeral weeps.

"Ahhh 'tis true
to be sure...to be sure!"

proclaims one who weeps
and eats the cold meats.

Only here for the beer
and the free feed.

"We'll never see his like again!"
someone snivels and then adds

"Thanks be
to God!"

And these tears?
Only their own fears!

"Sure amn't I only
the same age as himself?"

They too scared
their sell by date is due.

Death snickers . . ."I'll be
coming after you and you and you!"

"I got a ( cough cough)
the same old( cough cough)he had!"

"Was it that that took him!"
Someone trying to save going to the doctors.

"No, knocked down he was
and he outside his own front door!"

The blood still to be seen
outside No. 64.

Never saw Mr. Death coming
listening to the poem

that was inside
himself growing.

It's getting used I am
to the ghost  I've become.

I whisper words
into the auld deaf priest's ear.

"Well, I think I can speak
for all of us when I say

he's dead and gone and
good riddance to bad *******!"

He adds with fervour
"Praise be...praise be!"

The congregation laugh nervously.
It's exactly what they were thinking.

They stare about them as if
I might suddenly appear.

"Will you all rise now and
we'll sing hymn No. 63!"

But I have become the wind
running naked through a wheat field.

Tossing birds like words
up in the air.

I becoming
the poem of myself.

DANNY DEMPSEY'S SON

my name
floated free
from me

like a child's ballon
taken prisoner
by a sky

here at the Old Head
of Kinsale where
my father had been born

I had become
"Ahhh Danny Dempsey's son!"
"Ahhh Danny Dempsey's boy!"

my Donall-self lost
in their delight of my father
"Where's my name gone?"

"He's the spit of ya!"
"The very echo of ya!"
"Hasn't he stole yer face!"

everyone having an opinion
of who it was
I was

and wasn't I only
delighted to be
" Ahhh Danny Dempsey's son!"

*

It was the first and only time I had been taken to my father's birthplace. And despite being long away from here he was instantly  
known by strangers who could tell him by just the look of him. And it turned out everyone was a second or seventh cousin. They delighted in him...sheer happiness to be in his presence as in the wild sky generation after generation linked together in the cry of the gulls.

The lighthouse was too dangerous to go up in so we stood at its base with a storm rearing its head. It was odd that nobody referred to me by my name only as "Danny Dempsey's son!" I wore this naming like a medal...always delighted to be his child.

On my first Holy Communion I was taken to Dublin for the great day. We were walking down Moore Street with the women selling their fruit and vegetables in full voice. A babble of voices....crazy as gulls.
When they saw us the whole street as one stopped and smiled with glee. One after another they declaimed: "Ahhh sure if it isn't Danny with his little fella!"  I was petted and patted and hair ruffled and oooh'd and ahhh'ed over.Money and fruit...fruit and money were ****** into our hands despite our protestations.

I thought it was the Cork effect happening all over again. It was like my Da was The Beatles but they had simply mistaken him for someone else. And the more he tried to tell him who he was...didn't they laugh and say: "Ahh sure isn't it a terrible man y'are altogether...always the joker.!"

We tried to give the money back but they wouldn't be having it. I whispered to my Da: "Who are they...do you know them?" He gulped; "Know them? No!" I gulped: "What do we do?" He told me" "We take the money and run!"

And so we did...dropping oranges and apples as we made our escape. The stall women shouting after us:.."Don't forget to come back!" I still wonder what happened when their Danny turned up!