Measure A Life Span

How many times did you dip a spoon  into  sugar, drink a cup of tea, eat a slice of bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread, dip a spoon, drink a cup, eat bread.................................

 The Fall 

When apples fall

like pocket watches

among the trees

and leaves

like closing old hands,

the fog is rising,

old souls

over the green. 

There is a quietness

like padded feet

or, quietest of all,

the droplets

playing in the hedge;

and the grumpy whimper

of hedgehogs

scuttling for their sleep. 

Most of all I notice

the thud of Winters

changing children into men.

Moon poem

Desire brushing my face

like some woman’s hair.

Trapped in a drizzle of muscles,

beneath a moon

filling the world with longing

and hopeless space.

Boyle Arts Festival Poetry Competition

Boyle Arts Festival Poetry Competition 2016 has announced arrangements for the 2016 poetry competition. Prizes are €250 first prize, 2 prizes of €50 for highly commended.  This year’s judge is Ross Donlon (http://www.rossdonlon.com/index.html ) and the closing date is June 30^th. Part of the Boyle Arts Festival, the Awards Ceremony takes place in the splendid King House on July 30th.

  

Tel 00 353 (0) 7196 63085 info@boylearts.com www.boylearts.com

You Take the Sea; I'll Take the Land

You Take the Sea; I’ll Take the Land.

            

Then, growing cautious of air currents,

my ears will extend to points,

nose become a snout, eyes flinty.

I will grow a coat of hair to thwart the wind,

jointed limbs that angle to take a fall.

Your sides will be sleek to cut the water,

your face an arrow, even eye-lids planed to nothing.

Your skin will have the dapples of flowing liquid,

drop-shaped scales. By then, of course,

we will not know each other at all.

Irish steps and places very much alive in the U.S.

While browsing the net, looking through Irish  place-names that have been exported to America, I landed on some footage of a four-year Irish dancer, Oscar Donnelly,  performing the set dance the Kilkenny Races at a speed that would likely win the Kilkenny races. Take a look: http://www.irishcentral.com/culture/craic/4-year-old-Irish-dancer-could-be-the-worlds-next-Michael-Flatley-VIDEO.html          Prodigious, I'm guessing, we'll hear the name again..

Back to the place-names, I was checking out County Roscommon, only to find counties Clare, Wexford and Antrim also exist in Michigan. Apparently there are 21 Dublin towns is the U.S. and Galway town is in Saratoga County, New York as is Waterford town.  There are a number of Limericks, Kildares; Baltimore of course, Newry, Tyrone,  Killarney, Mayo, Letterkenny, Kilkenny, Bantry, lots of Avocas, Derry, Londonderry, Duncannon, Dundalk and many more. Not surprising, I suppose, as immigrants tried to cling to a little bit of home. There’s a list of Irish place-names abroad at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Irish_place_names_in_other_countries#Placenames_by_Irish_county

I'm particularly struck by the Killarney in Zimbabwe, listed on this page, not to mention Conamara in outer space. Let’s hope the Gaelic language is holding up out there.

Mind you it’s not been all one way, there’s a very small Boston in Co. Clare, and, very impressively, America sits snuggly, a townland in Co Roscommon.

Outsider

I was born in a tree;

before words rustled,

thoughts rustled.

Caught, netted in November:

the leaves fallen,

ten fingers hooked around a branch.

They felled the tree

rather than see me sitting in its branches;

stuck their words into my mouth.

Charlie Brown's Eyes

Stopped to watch

Charlie Brown's eyes

winking in pools

as the rain fell

on Lower Kimmage Road.

Earlier in the pub

a burnt-out match

and a rib of hair

snagged my attention.

Drank more than intended.

Large raindrops and

yellow street-lights

are an iodine stain.

A carrier bag gulps

on the broken white line.

Back in the hallway,

removing my overcoat,

I stop,

stare at the carpet,

pull the collar back to my neck.

Creative Writing Opportunities with writer and poet Gerry Boland in Leitrim Libraries

Dublin-born poet, now living on the Leitrim/Roscommon border, Gerry Boland, has recently launched his second collection of poems, entitled In the Space Between and published by Arlen House. 

To mark the publication of this new book, Leitrim County Library Service has invited Gerry to present a series of poetry writing workshops during the month of April in Manorhamilton, Mohill and Ballinamore Libraries. Gerry will read from his new collection and provide participants with an opportunity to learn, to share, to create and to appreciate, in a warm and inspiring setting.

The readings/workshops are free of charge and take place on the following dates:

•             Saturday 09 April - Manorhamilton Library            10.30a.m. – 12.30p.m. - 071-9856180

•             Saturday 16 April - Mohill Library                               10.30a.m. – 12.30p.m. – 071-9631360

•             Saturday 23 April - Ballinamore Library    10.30a.m. – 12.30p.m. – 071-9645566

They are open to everyone, whether you have ever written before, or indeed, are an accomplished amateur writer. Places are limited, and booking is advised.

Submissions, please!

AvantAppal(achia), a new ezine for the avant garde, was founded by Sabne Raznik and Kodi Mullins. They are currently looking for experimental visual art, short stories and poetry from around the world. The deadline for the first issue is May 31, 2016.

Submission details can be found at  http://www.avantappalachia.com/submissions.html

With the wonderful objectives of bringing Appalachia to the world and the world to Appalachia, I wish them every success. 

In an old bar

All afternoon a fly dragged its buzz,

a clock its tick,

and the sun, dumped on the counter,

had the dust swimming silvery.

A white-shirted barman,

herring-boned temples,

glinting ginger down his arms,

was deep-buried in the Independent.

.

I sat behind my pint, followed

the fitful buzzing below the ceiling

while the city traffic guffawed

outside and beyond.

I, the centre of contentment,

seeing beauty in this cosmos of small things,

was God: all seeing, all knowing;

all that and more: nothing.

Unwelcome Meeting

I wish I could remember who inspired this small poem. In fact, I've no recollection of writing it at all.

Many years ago, when I  first started writing and submitting poems for publication, I was told by a friend that I had a poem published in the magazine Cyphers. I  had no memory of submitting a poem, and did not believe the report. But after one or two other people mentioned it, I  went into a shop to check. I remember quite clearly reading it and concluding that it was far better than anything I could write and concluded that there was another Michael O'Dea writing poetry. In fact, I concluded that the gulf  in the standard of the writing was the reason that I would never be published. Later I realised that the subject matter was very familiar to me, and, that all things considered, it had to be mine.

A drink too many, I think, and so it seems nothing's changed; and I'm not sure that Cyphers would publish this.

 

 

Unwelcome Meeting.

 

Smile:

my bracelet snaps.

 

Speak:

chicken bones.

 

Touch:

                             a dusty rug for shaking.

Loneliness

At One End Of A Bench.

 

At one end of a bench

an old man wearing Winter clothes

regards the fountains and Summer

through melt-water irises.

 

He needs my ear to be a conch

 

so that he can call to the past

 

down these auditory canals.

And when he calls, his wife and son

 

will resurrect, return, reverse

 

like filings into a family.

 

It is mid-morning in Stephen's Green;

the usual sounds: clacking fowl

 

and fountain symphonies, and beyond

the thrash of traffic and voices. 

In that moment: two strangers on a bench

 

 

are travelling backwards to Mayo;

elsewhere a beggar has recreated himself

 

in a bank window and somewhere,  in a kitchen,

 

a woman is conversing though the voice

 

that answers has not been heard for years.

A Surprising Image

A number of people have commented on how the chance arrangements of  magnetic words on a fridge door have prompted fresh ideas or modes of expression that they could use in their poetry. Indeed, maybe as good a way as any to come up with a new poem.
Images too can have unexpected origins. I was surprised when burnt larks arrived into the poem below. It came from an old cook-book, Mrs Beeton's; somehow it had stayed in my head  from childhood. (My mother had the book). I searched online, but couldn't find it: a roasting tin or dish with an array of roasted larks on it.
I found these instead,  there just might be a poem our two lurking somewhere in  these delectable-looking pies. If you find one please send it here for posting.

 

Mrs Marshall’s The Cookery Book (London: 1885)

 

 

Tired.

  

Tired,

tired words

burst like plastic footballs.

 

Waiting on this sand-paper plain,

I am no more than a skull

propped up.

 

With biro for harpoon,

I remain still

in the little pool of my shadow,

 

turning questions over

on the spit of my mind;

I have burnt larks on my plate.

 

Historic Walk around Rathmines and Cathal Brugha Barracks

If you’re at a loose end this coming Tuesday (March 15^th) afternoon, you might really enjoy the free guided walk around Rathmines, including the historic Cathal Brugha Army Barracks, which is leaving Rathmines Town Hall at 2.15 pm. The event is sponsored by Rathm ines College as part of its Proclamation Day, (a special day in which colleges and colleges commemorate the 1916 Rising), programme of events.

It is particularly poignant to stand in the small exercise yard behind the barracks guardroom where Francis Sheehy Skeffington was murdered on April 26th 1916. The brick below, now part of the National Museum Collection, is embedded with one of the bullets fired by the firing squad on that day.

Today the guardroom is a small museum with some very interesting artefacts, particularly some memorabilia that belonged to Michael Collins.

 

 

Child with Gun

Footage of child soldiers is always frightening.  Such barbarity.  Do a search in Google images, ‘arabic child with  gun’ and be appalled.

Now search  images of ‘american child with gun’. Be appalled. ‘But they’re not killing people’, you might say. Of course not, the US is not in a war zone, which makes some of these pictures even scarier.

The Washington Post reported  in relation to the  U.S.: “ At least 265 children under the age of 18 picked up a firearm and accidentally shot themselves or someone else with it in 2015, according to numbers compiled by the gun control advocacy group Everytown for Gun Safety……………………………That works out to about five accidental shootings by children each week this year. Of those, 83 ended in death…………..”