3.00pm this Saturday 24th Mar, as part of Rathmines Community Clubs and Soc's Day, writers from the Rathmines Writers Workshop will read from their own work. The event is taking place in the Town Hall, Rathmines and admission is free.
Also worth mentioning that there is an opportunity to play chess courtesy of Rathmines Chess Club.
So what else are you doing Saturday.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Monday, March 19, 2012
What is poetry
Reading through various answers to this question, and recognizing there are no forms that define poetry, I have opted for a basic statement:
Poetry is a composition of words corralled together in such a way as to magnify its impact beyond what would be achievable in a similar sized body of prose or in everyday parlance.
Poetry is a composition of words corralled together in such a way as to magnify its impact beyond what would be achievable in a similar sized body of prose or in everyday parlance.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
18 Everyday English Words That Come from Irish
[For St Patrick's Day,a list with a few surprises. http://www.accreditedonlinecolleges.com/blog/2012/18-everyday-english-words-that-come-from-irish/ Thanks to Emma Taylor.]
This poem came from viewing Rousseau's Sleeping Gypsy. The desert around is totally dead.Without scale, and alone in your position beneath the Milky Way, you maybe be as big or as small as you wish to be.
That said, the picture reminds me of the night I slept outdoors on Inis Mór.Many years ago (too many to admit to). In the middle of the night I woke up; there was a donkey's face within 6 inches of mine. Do you have any idea How big a donkey's head is?
The other memorable detail from that same weekend was a girl wading in the shallows playing with a dogfish. She was putting her palm under it and throwing it maybe 6 foot away, and it was coming back again and again like a dog chasing a ball. I wouldn't have thought it likely.
Dream
The desert has
no wings
to ruffle the air
nor insect
to displace a sand grain
nor throat
to crease the silence.
The desert is
a platform
on which I stand,
and am
as I dream:
atom or planet,
as colossal, as minute.
This poem came from viewing Rousseau's Sleeping Gypsy. The desert around is totally dead.Without scale, and alone in your position beneath the Milky Way, you maybe be as big or as small as you wish to be.
That said, the picture reminds me of the night I slept outdoors on Inis Mór.Many years ago (too many to admit to). In the middle of the night I woke up; there was a donkey's face within 6 inches of mine. Do you have any idea How big a donkey's head is?
The other memorable detail from that same weekend was a girl wading in the shallows playing with a dogfish. She was putting her palm under it and throwing it maybe 6 foot away, and it was coming back again and again like a dog chasing a ball. I wouldn't have thought it likely.
Dream
The desert has
no wings
to ruffle the air
nor insect
to displace a sand grain
nor throat
to crease the silence.
The desert is
a platform
on which I stand,
and am
as I dream:
atom or planet,
as colossal, as minute.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Rathmines Community Clubs n Soc's Day
A new departure in this part of town and maybe the first of many: Rathmines Community Clubs n Soc's Day, Saturday, 24th March from 12:00 until 17:00 in Rathmines Town Hall.
This is a free event which presents the community in the Rathmines area with an opportunity to meet members from a variety of organisations (clubs, societies, volunteering organisations and community groups)active in their locality, to get information on activities, events and membership.
So grab the opportunity to become more active, part of what's happening. The day is being organised by Cultural and Corporate Project Management students in Rathmines College.
See you there.
Michael
Swan Fashion Show in aid of Our Lady's Hospice and Care Services
A cause worth supporting. The Swan Fashion Show in aid of Our Lady’s Hospice and Care Services will take place at 8.45pm on Tuesday 27th March in the Swan Centre, Rathmines.
The show, which is being organised by Rathmines College in association with the Swan Centre, promises to be a very enjoyable night out with audience having the option of arriving in 20’s style clothing,(spot prizes for the best), and for a paltry €20 (VIP)having a few glasses of wine too.
Tickets cost €10 and €20 and can be bought at The Candy Bar in the Swan Centre from Fri 16th March. Doors for VIPs 8.20pm.
Email: rathminesccpm@gmail.com
Saturday, March 10, 2012
November Leaf
The maple leaf had all the colours I wish you.
A parchment clinging to a web of veins,
a fallen star lying on the path by the river,
somehow it seemed right.
The greatest beauty is the fragile beauty,
that’s what I thought of you;
with the blue barely clinging to your irises,
your smiles precarious as November leaves.
A parchment clinging to a web of veins,
a fallen star lying on the path by the river,
somehow it seemed right.
The greatest beauty is the fragile beauty,
that’s what I thought of you;
with the blue barely clinging to your irises,
your smiles precarious as November leaves.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Trap
I was in a hawthorn,
trapped in its branches;
all arms, hands and fingers
prevailing on me not to struggle.
I was an exhibit in a jar
ragged and shock-eyed,
praying for a passer-by
where ravens perch still for hours.
I was a storm-blown tatter
caught in another’s stitching;
my cries drifting into the sky
nonchalant like dandelion seeds.
(from Turn Your Head)
trapped in its branches;
all arms, hands and fingers
prevailing on me not to struggle.
I was an exhibit in a jar
ragged and shock-eyed,
praying for a passer-by
where ravens perch still for hours.
I was a storm-blown tatter
caught in another’s stitching;
my cries drifting into the sky
nonchalant like dandelion seeds.
(from Turn Your Head)
Friday, March 2, 2012
Banned Books
A selection of paintings from “We Exercise The Power” is currently on display in Rathmines Library. The exhibition has been travelling around various libraries countrywide since last August.
It’s an unusual project, “100 watercolour paintings of 100 books by 100 author's who have at one time or another been banned in Ireland throughout the last century.” John Jones is the artist, and you can read about and see the paintings at http://johnjonesartist.blogspot.com/
We know Ireland has seen some enthusiastic censors in its time, particularly where books offended Catholic sensibilities, but still the list makes surprising reading and includes Gulliver’s Travels, Molloy by Samuel Beckett, Of Mice and Men, The Catcher in the Rye, John Updike’s Rabbit,Run and many others. That’s a taster, have a look yourself.
This prompted me to look a bit wider. A list of books that have been (at some time) banned internationally includes pearls such as, Candide by Voltaire (USA), Frankenstein by Mary Shelley (South Africa), Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell (Soviet Union), Peyton Place by Grace Metalious (Canada), Ulysses by James Joyce (UK, USA, Austrailia), The Diary of Anne Frank by Anne Frank (Lebanon), The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer (USA).
It’s an unusual project, “100 watercolour paintings of 100 books by 100 author's who have at one time or another been banned in Ireland throughout the last century.” John Jones is the artist, and you can read about and see the paintings at http://johnjonesartist.blogspot.com/
We know Ireland has seen some enthusiastic censors in its time, particularly where books offended Catholic sensibilities, but still the list makes surprising reading and includes Gulliver’s Travels, Molloy by Samuel Beckett, Of Mice and Men, The Catcher in the Rye, John Updike’s Rabbit,Run and many others. That’s a taster, have a look yourself.
This prompted me to look a bit wider. A list of books that have been (at some time) banned internationally includes pearls such as, Candide by Voltaire (USA), Frankenstein by Mary Shelley (South Africa), Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell (Soviet Union), Peyton Place by Grace Metalious (Canada), Ulysses by James Joyce (UK, USA, Austrailia), The Diary of Anne Frank by Anne Frank (Lebanon), The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer (USA).
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Marine.
Prostrate on the beach,
a slop of sea pulse,
a glob black as chewed tobacco
fallen from the lip.
My mother said -
the sea is sick,
it's breath on the beach is bad
and its puke is scattered
all over the sand.
She said
all its pin points are boiling,
its stomach heaves;
that it will yellow our skin
if it gets half a chance.
Then this morning,
when something with small eyes
came out of the sea,
I pelted stones at it
till the tractor came.
(from Sunfire)
a slop of sea pulse,
a glob black as chewed tobacco
fallen from the lip.
My mother said -
the sea is sick,
it's breath on the beach is bad
and its puke is scattered
all over the sand.
She said
all its pin points are boiling,
its stomach heaves;
that it will yellow our skin
if it gets half a chance.
Then this morning,
when something with small eyes
came out of the sea,
I pelted stones at it
till the tractor came.
(from Sunfire)
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
How poetry can save your life
John Betjeman, at one time Britains’s Poet Laureate and best-selling poet, produced umpteen lovable rhyming poems. I’m very fond of them myself. So lovable, they saved his life.
Betjeman was a press attache in the British embassy in Dublin in the early years of the WW2. He was also working very successfully for British Intelligence. He appears to have had a winning way him and befriended many who hitherto would not have had any truck with his likes. (He got on well with Paddy Kavanagh). He was, however, picked up by the IRA radar and they plotted to kill him.
Poetry saved him. Years later Diarmuid Brennan, the IRA army council's head of civilian intelligence, wrote to him saying, "I came to the conclusion that a man who could give such pleasure with his pen couldn't be much of a secret agent. I may well be wrong". And on this basis, the plot was abandoned.
Now, there is no doubt that the poetry suggests a sort of loveable old versifier with a very English take on life, ‘a spot of tennis’ type of thing. But maybe the IRA needed an expert in poetry analysis, because behind this outer veneer, the poems are very accomplished indeed.
Betjeman was a press attache in the British embassy in Dublin in the early years of the WW2. He was also working very successfully for British Intelligence. He appears to have had a winning way him and befriended many who hitherto would not have had any truck with his likes. (He got on well with Paddy Kavanagh). He was, however, picked up by the IRA radar and they plotted to kill him.
Poetry saved him. Years later Diarmuid Brennan, the IRA army council's head of civilian intelligence, wrote to him saying, "I came to the conclusion that a man who could give such pleasure with his pen couldn't be much of a secret agent. I may well be wrong". And on this basis, the plot was abandoned.
Now, there is no doubt that the poetry suggests a sort of loveable old versifier with a very English take on life, ‘a spot of tennis’ type of thing. But maybe the IRA needed an expert in poetry analysis, because behind this outer veneer, the poems are very accomplished indeed.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Tonight I Nearly Died.
Tonight I nearly died
in the Sunday chain
returning to Dublin.
A scythe
arched onto the road;
as I rushed
I nearly overtook life.
What did I learn?
My eyes are good
dilated in horror.
in the Sunday chain
returning to Dublin.
A scythe
arched onto the road;
as I rushed
I nearly overtook life.
What did I learn?
My eyes are good
dilated in horror.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Familial Conflict
The wars go deeper, the psychology is deeply considered and brutal, the routes beneath the skin are so well known. No surprise then that civil wars are so ugly. No surprise that familial conflict is often savage.
No Tanks, No Guns,
neither mercy nor rules,
no limits;
not dogs nor even their teeth,
just ourselves quarrelling.
How dexterously we tease
at each other's sores,
making our incisions
with surgical precision.
No Tanks, No Guns,
neither mercy nor rules,
no limits;
not dogs nor even their teeth,
just ourselves quarrelling.
How dexterously we tease
at each other's sores,
making our incisions
with surgical precision.
Monday, February 6, 2012
This wonderful photograph by John Minihan appeared in Shadows From the Pale, Portrait of an Irish Town, (Martin Secker & Warburg Limited, London, 1996). The church dates from the sixties. If ever a photographer caught the incongruity of architectures from different times, it is here. And this picture gave me ammunition for a few short poems.
The Dressmaker
Eileen Johnston lived in one of cottages on Convent Lane;
her sign barely fitted between hall-door and eaves.
Long hours she spent, years fitting and pinning up,
face to her Singer lamp, tracking the straightness of seams,
crawling the railways of the world.
Women came with pictures of dinner-dance dresses or for alterations,
but less and less as the shop lights grew brighter,
their windows bigger, bigger than the cottages on Convent Lane;
and all the time the new church below was pointing away;
pointing away to the future.
-----------------------
The new church was a rocket
heaven-bound;
it soared
beyond Convent Lane.
The old cottages glared
at the wall opposite,
praying the rocket
be on its way.
Missing Guinness Advert
I'm very partial to a pint of Guinness,and for the moment I'm able to afford one or two, (though that could change anytime soon).
And I've enjoyed their ads over the years, particularly those going back a bit e.g.
A lot of them are available online but the one I'd really like to see,"The Big Wave", is only available as a very poor fragment. It was a cinema staple for years back in the seventies;you have no idea how beautifully those turquoise waves washed over my Galway days. This is all I can find,the music is wrong and I have a real yearning to hear that music again.
And I've enjoyed their ads over the years, particularly those going back a bit e.g.
A lot of them are available online but the one I'd really like to see,"The Big Wave", is only available as a very poor fragment. It was a cinema staple for years back in the seventies;you have no idea how beautifully those turquoise waves washed over my Galway days. This is all I can find,the music is wrong and I have a real yearning to hear that music again.
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