Sound Energy in a Time of Fascism

We have a duty to ourselves and the world to speak up. It's not easy but we can make a difference.
There are ways to raise our voices - or amplify voices who should be heard.
We can be proactive - mundane or magical, both count.

Sound Energy in a Time of Fascism 

 

Write letters / make calls. Compose Rosc and call the wrath of all passing gods on them. Choose honied words and persuade the deluded to turn against the cult. Pretend to sympathise - old Irish saying "a lie told to the invader is a valuable act"
Use satire and ridicule. They hate being laughed at. Laughter robs them of power. Laughter conquers fear. Satire holds up mirrors.
Be joyful. Sing and dance. Shout and take up space. Distract them from those who cannot afford to make noise and make waves. Be the bright red flag that maddens the bull.

We can also bear witness. Start writing it down. Write it all down. Make stories and poems and songs about it all. Pass it on. Take names. When this is over, remember who to trust and make sure everyone knows. Don't let them steal history and destroy culture. Recite it. Like the women of Ireland memorized our music, created lilting to preserve it, sang it back to the next generation and the next - so we still have our songs. Do it for your own and every culture.

When someone speaks use your privilege. Amplify them. Silence your own voice to let theirs be heard. Shout their message like a megaphone. 

Use silence like a weapon - hone the edge of it til it's razor sharp. Stare down the cult in ice cold silence, the kind that sucks air from the lungs. Your silence can be filled with contempt and rage. Your silence can slice. 

And use words to unite. Codewords. Shared language. In jokes. Find others. Build bridges. Sing together. Exchange stories. Gift each other poetry. Recommend books and music and movies. 

And hex the enemy, with your rising and falling breath. Let the sight of you, the sound of you, the very fact of you, be a reproach and a heartscald to them. Find the notes they hate and bellow them. Whisper maledictions as they pass. Snigger as they pose. Curse them and all who ride with them.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne 2025

     

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The Body Politic: Caroline Jordans's #Dublin in 2012

 It's 2012 and Caroline Jordan is about to be embroiled in her latest mystery, The Body Count. So in previous posts we've explored Christ Church the area she works in and the area around Leinster House, the home of Irish Politics.  but there's so much more to Dublin than buildings, or even pubs and restaurants.

Dublin is a city justly famed for its characters, wit and unique outlook. True Dubliners (whether born on the North or South side! famous for the rivalry between them) are known for their dry wit, ability to pour scorn with a well turned phrase, kindness to strangers, and huge sense of community. Whether its the famous Liberties (think Imelda May, our amazing singer/songwriter) or the leafy suburbs, a Dubliner is proud of the "blue" (colours of our GAA teams) and proud of their city. 

Flower Sellers on many Dublin Streets bring a splash of colour

Back in 2012, we were still reeling from the demise of our boom era known globally as the Celtic Tiger. Bank scandals rocked the nation, and all eyes were on the public coffers, as we demanded less wastage of money, fewer payouts to politicians and better regulation of Banking. There were also disturbing signs of far right politics, and other unsavoury elements. However the majority of the population backed more progressive, generous politics and left leaning parties saw a rise in popularity as did grass roots activism. In many ways, an exciting time in Irish public life. 

The year saw a number of high profile scandals, politically, at a time when the country called for strong leadership. 

In Caroline's world, I have reimagined the reality of Ireland at the time, with the creation of the worldly, flawed but generally decent Michael T O'Mahony, and his closest advisor, Derek Fields - along with Caroline they bring some integrity and reform to Irish politics. What might we have achieved if only there had been someone like that?

And the Irish police, the Gardaí, started to investigate a bank called Anglo-Irish and one of the great banking scandals of modern Ireland began to emerge. 

It's little wonder that The Body Count (due out end Nov) will see Caroline dealing with some very dodgy banking types indeed.

In nicer news, in 2012 the Aurora Borealis made a rare appearance in Irish skies, and Dublin City Council voted overwhelmingly to support Marriage Equality for all couples, including same sex. (In 2015 Ireland became the first country in the world to vote Marriage Equality into our constitution, in a landslide victory. One of the areas with the highest Yes vote was Dublin city!)

Dublin's Colony of Swans on the Canal

At the London Olympics, Team Ireland did well with Bray native Katie Taylor winning boxing gold! A heroine to the whole of Ireland, her influence is felt today in 2021 with the amazing Dubliner Katie Harrington also securing gold for Ireland in boxing. Dublin (and Ireland) has no shortage of great female characters, strong women who have shaped the nation and continue to do so. 

A famous character you'll meet on every Dublin Street is the Irish Mammy* - we are a formidable breed. We are tough on our own kids, but woe betide you if you look crooked at them. Only we are allowed criticize them and there's nothing we won't do for our families. We used to be famous for spoiling our boys and many an Irishman had his mammy doing his laundry until he was married with kids of his own (and sometimes, even then...) The modern breed of Irish Mammy is determined to raise better equipped men - capable of laundry, washing, and child-rearing. But we'll probably be cooking them dinner until they're fifty!

Grand Canal Docks, February Morning

2012 saw the loss of a Dublin institution, Clery's Department Store, a prestigious retailer,. Apart from shopping there,  generations of Dubliners used it as a meeting place in the evening, and "Under Clery's Clock" is where many couples met up to go on a date. 

Dublin wit and humour is legendary and god help the eedjit who tries to enter a battle of wits with a true blue Dub. Dublin Insults are among the most colourful in the world. and even the most casual - ya muppet, I'm scarleh for yah! - sting like no other. Half of the pain comes from the actual words and half from the delivery, the contempt of the Dub for the unfortunate non-Dub. Equally however, the kindness of Dubliners is deeply ingrained: the very auld wan who was calling you a bleedin' dope a few minutes ago will be the first to pick you up and help when disaster strikes.

As Caroline moves through this small but richly endowed city, past ancient buildings and modern apartments, she takes strength from knowing she is a part of it; she's a True Blue Jackeen*

St Stephen's Green, Dublin City Centre Park

Caroline Jordan is the heroine of The Body Politic : a murder mystery set in Dublin in 2010. The second in the series, The Body Count is due to be published in November 2021. 

She also appears in the short story CatNap, available for newsletter subscribers click the link to sign up and claim.

* Dublin / Irish slang - eejit (EEE jiht) is a foolish person. Jackeen is a Dubliner, believed to have its roots in Jacobite. 

*Irish Mammy - the Irish word for mother is Máthair but the affectionate version is Mammy, from (mo Mhammaí in Irish) There is also another use of the word Mammy in the USA, pertaining to a Black slave who was forced to act as a nursemaid to white children, The word in Irish has no connection to that usage, but out of respect for others, when writing on largely US groups or websites please use the shortened form "Mam" for Irish mothers. 

ALL photos in this post courtesy of Ceolnet Irish Design, photographer GMB: all rights reserved

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Caroline Jordan's #Dublin : Merrion Square, #LeintsterHouse #GovernmentBuildings #TheMerrionHotel and more

 

When she's not in her office in Christ Church, Caroline Jordan is usually to be found dealing with her political clients - first the late, unlamented Minister Fitzpatrick and now the leader of the Irish Government himself, An Taoiseach Michael T O'Mahony. This work takes her to a different part of Dublin City, the areas surrounding Leinster House, The Offices of An Taoiseach and Government buildings. 

This includes the beautiful Merrion Square, with its sculptures (notably the Oscar Wilde statue and The Victims) and the War Memorial, These are more than just works of art or tourist stop off points, these represent deeply felt emotions, and events that Dubliners still care about. The affection felt for Oscar is visible in the cheerful "howya's" of regulars to the statue as they walk past. There are few visitors unmoved by the unusual war memorial (that commemorates as much those lives lost in the cause of Peace Keeping with the UN, as those lost in war in the more aggressive sense.) 

One side of the Square runs opposite to the Entrance to Leinster House, the seat of the Irish Parliament known as The Dáil (pro. Doyle or Dawl) or  Dáil Éireann. As described in The Body Politic this was once a ducal palace, designed for the Duke of Leinster, acquired for the State and enlarged and modernised over the decades, although the centre part is still the original building. Caroline's original boss the Minister for Justice* operates out of The Department of Justice on St Stephen's Green but his basic paranoia meant he stayed closer to the seat of power whenever possible. When she starts working for the leader of the Dáil himself, Michael T O'Mahony* she finds herself working in the Offices of An Taoiseach. Taoiseach is the title of the Irish Premier and means Chief, or leader. The second in command is the Foreign Minister, An Tánaiste. The use of Irish terms for our parliamentarians is an important statement of cultural and political freedom; members of the house are called Teachtaí Daile or TDs **

Politicians like to do themselves well in terms of wining and dining and Irish ones are no exception. Luckily for them there are number of fabulous pubs and restaurants nearby. The best are The Merrion, and The Shelbourne, two landmark hotels in the city. Visiting dignitaries and celebrities stay in both, and afternoon tea in The Merrion is an institution among Dublin society. But for a sneaky pint, if they're not using the bar in the Dáil itself, you might well spot a politician (maybe in earnest conversation with our Caroline!) in Buswell's Hotel, itself a legend in the city. Doheny and Nesbitts on Baggott street is another old pub with a modern clientele, where advertising and PR execs rub shoulders with musicians and the occasional Hipster or tourist. Of course with their own bar and the Oireachtas* restaurant, it's hard to tempt the political animal out of its lair. 

When she can, Caroline will walk back towards the Grafton Street area, away from the rather rarefied air of the Dáil and into the heart of the best pubs and restaurants in Dublin 2. The Long Hall is her favourite, and many a huddled conference has been held there between her, Paula and Stephen, the trio that make up Jordan PR. She'll grab food in the excellent San Lorenzos or Green Hen restaurants, and coffee in any of the great coffee shops like Kaph on Drury Street. Her job brings her to every trendy restaurant and "must be seen here" venue but when she's with real friends, she wants real food and drink. Meet in Brooke's Hotel, enjoy a drink in their ultra comfortable lounge, and then wander from there to see what's open. Bar with No Name, while trendy has the virtue of having a great atmosphere, and the Stag's Head is another place to stop for a drink and a chat. (Caroline and the gang have been known to leave work early on a Tuesday to catch the Ukulele Tuesdays in the Stag's Head, but if anyone asks they were all working late!)

Being a Southsider, she rarely ventures Northside - the rivalry between both sides of the city runs deep! - but like all Dubs, she's convinced the worst bit of Dublin is better than the best bit of the rest of the country. Everyone outside Dublin is a Culchie, Irish slang for a country bumpkin. Her city, Dublin City, has it all.

* All names and indeed, personalities of politicians in TBP are fictional and bear no resemblance to anyone living or dead. Any such resemblance is coincidental. If anyone thinks they recognise themselves I'd keep quiet about it. It's probably not a compliment. 

** A Teachta Dála ( /ˌtjɒxtə ˈdɔːlə/ TYOKH-tə DAW-lə, Irish: [ˌtʲaxt̪ˠə ˈd̪ˠaːlˠə] ; plural Teachtaí Dála)

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January 20th, A Poem. #womensmarch #inauguration #resistance #feminism

January 20th

While the False Man blustered, and ranted;
while he mis-used words like great
And made empty promises that hung on the cold air
Like icicles only to melt away like ghosts;
a woman walked across the street to give
Food to a needy neighbor, check on the old
Help a friend with tired and hungry kids
Held a hand and mopped up broken tears
A man paused as he walked, reached into pockets
Walked back a 100 yards to give what little he had
To the man who had even less, and shared a smile
That said, I love you and I see you
A child stood up to the bullies in her class
Because they used words adults have made common
And she shielded the outsider, the smaller
The scared from their anger and their hate.
And millions of hats bobbed up and down as they marched
And millions of banners waved in the night
And millions of candles were held in defiant hand
And chains of love and hope and decency and progress
Were woven again and again and again until
When the Fake Men pushed the vulnerable over the edge
A safety net caught them and a million hands set them
Gently on their feet, to rise again.

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When Things Were Better, In the Good Old Days

I'm increasingly sick of the blather about the good old days. Apparently, there were no murders, no problems, no hate crimes - nothing to make CIS white people uncomfortable. 
Really?

When Things Were Better, In the Good Old Days

I remember he says

the respected actor with his trademark grimace

the good old days.

Do you? Really?

These would be the days when women were silent

not uppity, emancipated.

Nice quiet women, 

who didn't report pesky things like domestic violence

in those halcyon times.

Nice mothers at home

using prescription pills and booze in lonely boredom

in that past idyll.

Lets celebrate, eh?

The days when being white was not so problematic

and people knew their place

Good-natured banter

and people could take a joke against themselves 

and a lynching or three.

Happy days of fun

When jobs for white men were assured and everyone else

did the dirty work.

When using words

like weapons, piercing souls and destroying futures

wasn't such a big deal.

When being gay

or trans or different or visible or soft or effeminate

could get you killed.

When adults screamed

abuse and hatred at a little girl walking to school

surrounded by FBI agents.

When the Church

in Ireland, and beyond, put women in their place

quite literally

Put them in their place,

a Magdalen laundry where they rotted for a lifetime

in those gentler times.

Ah tell me more

about political correctness gone mad in these post feminist days

while I puke. 

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Another Angry Black Woman Speaks.....#feminism #SandraBland #SayHerName

I'm white, Irish, privileged and middle class, educated and while I'll never be rich I've never suffered true poverty. That is my disclaimer, because whenever anyone writes about someone else's experience, someone else's point of view, they risk bringing a patronizing layer of filter to the issue. I can't say I know what it is to be a woman in a developing country, or to have a disability . I know what it's like to experience racism but I don't know what it's like to experience daily racism, at first glance, in a million insidious ways. It's not my place to speak for black women; my sisters in feminism share many experiences with me that we can freely explore but I will never know how it feels to be them any more than they can say they "know" what it was to be Irish in Britain in the 80s. It's not my place to pretend I do.

But a lovely friend shared her frustration at the following and unruly poetry made itself in my head and I wrote it down and now I rely on her charity, and yours, to allow it stand, with the above in mind.

Inspired by Kazi

Another Angry Black Woman Speaks And Makes Us All Uncomfortable

She pauses.

Don’t think I’m being aggressive, it’s not that -

I’m not saying you are the same, I’m not -

Just that – one more person dead for being Black

In the wrong place, at the wrong time? How can that happen?

And yes I know not all police/white/insert your demographic

Are like that, I know you’ve never done it,

But it’s hard to read and watch and fear and think

What the hell is going on? And then

When I talk to white friends, I see them stiffen

Instead of listen, And it’s the body language,

 the expression

The veiled reception of my words that says

Oh no, another (she’s such a, so very much a)

I can see it coming

“..Another Angry Black Woman.”

She stops, and sighs. I know, I say tentatively

Well, obviously I don’t know, but I can glimpse

If a woman talks at all, passion is hysteria

Emphasis is aggression

Strong words are criticism/harsh/giving out

The dreaded

“going on and on about it” -

And I can see, from over here, how that is amplified

For non white, or poor, or gay

And our friends agree, oh my god yes

They say,

I can totally see your point.

We move on,

The topic tactfully, skilfully changed

Lighter moods prevail, we rail no more at fate.

But later, I get a call / text/ pm

“omfg what did you make of that?

Why was she going on about it to us?

I’ve never been racist! I don’t see colour, you know that!!

She made us all uncomfortable, and after you left

We were all talking, you know the way

She used to be a laugh but don’t you think…

I don’t like to say it

But hasn’t she become…”

And the words are unsung, hung by hesitation

But I hear them so loudly they scream.

“another angry black woman," that's what they mean

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In Bahrain Today

This is a poem for the medics arrested in Bahrain as part of the brutal clampdown on pro democracy demonstrators; some were arrested for their politcal prodemocracy views and others for helping injured demonstrators in the street. They are falsely accused of inflicting worse injuries on patients than originally suffered. The charges are cruel, injust and downright lies. Some of the Doctors will be executed if the Bahrain government has its way; for "extending" wounds suffered in the attack on demonstrators. In fact they were only trying to tend the injured people. One doctor's wife was abducted and tortured in an attempt to force her to lie about her husband. One lawyer for them was arrested the day before the trial.

In Bahrain today
Hippocrates weeps
Black clothed men stalk
hospital wards
dealing death.

Step outside into the street
In Bahrain today
and ask for help
No doctor will reply
fearing death

If you came to me
In Bahrain today
and begged me to save you
your son your daughter
my no means death

Injustice reigns
In Bahrain today
healing hands
caring eyes
face death


Please get involved Amnesty International

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The Returned Politico

On the pitiful sight of a man whose pursuit of power leads him to renege on his own solemn promise to quit political involvement

The Returned Politico

How sad a sight, the unwanted suitor
Pleading to be taken back, swaggering
As if he was invited. What tattered rag
of dignity he once owned, to warm him
in his leaving is cast now aside to be
trampled under muddy feet, as the mob
rush to mock and be entertained. Poor
fool, in his motley, thinking his words
fall on willing ears. The object of his love
Eriu in her stately beauty, turns aside.
Her protectors sheath their swords and
Send their lackeys to chastise instead.

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Recessive Gene

Ah the Recession: I'm not saying its a good thing - god knows it wasn;t a good thing in the 80s, when there were no jobs and no hope. But I confess to a certain amount of fascinated interest watching the kids who grew up in the boom come to terms - slowly - with the sudden loss of instant gratification. Here's hoping it lasts long enough to teach a few lessons and ends soon enough to spare them the worst lessons of the last recession.


We're going back in time
back to the 80s,
back to the time
when pennies counted and money
pinched us
from payday to payday
and we spent our time hounded by
bills, chased
from one crises of money
management
to another.

The Celtic Tiger died
or at least, is ailing beyond
vetinary aid.
I remember the days
when credit cards were all that stood
between the electricity company
and candlelight cold suppers.
We used to count it a blessing
when there was extra.
Not extra in particular
just any margin between us
and the cold.

What will they do?
little cubs, mewling blind,
like headless chickens still running
from Venu to Brown Thomas
not yet aware that they're out of fuel
- Ah is it schadenfreude? but I confess
I want to see them, creditless
in the city. I want to see them walk,
think twice before wasting;
realize in a disposable society
they are disposed of most easily of all.

If we are lucky,
lack of money, lack of choice
fear and the opening of chasms
giddy depths visible for once
beneath well shod feet,
might breed
compassion; might shake
loose our comfortable
bigotry,
might feed something
unnourished by wealth.


Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Green Party On

In a week that saw the Greens enter power for the first time in their history;


Green Party On

I walked Tara as a child
on ramparts ancient paused,
while parents stared at vistas far beyond
our youthful minds.

They were from a generation
far different from our own;
not for them the instant or the undeserved,
unearned reward.

Now matrons move their children
to the sticks, to mix with others
in surburban bliss, sans roads and schools
and infrastructure.

The chattering classes sit on
their ass and talk about recycling;
while sympathizing with those who would
bulldoze Tara.

The Green voter pledged to Save
Tara, til they smelt power and
in that moment turned to establishment
and economics.

Converted to Mamon
and to Progress, our most devoutly
prasied god in modern Ireland, sans Heritage
or pride.

Party On Green Men. Pary
while they destroy six thousand
years of dreams and literature and history
and sanctity.

Move to Meath, with your SUVs
and flood the rural scene with stress,
you'll be unmolested by men of conscience, not
in Ireland.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Politician in Private Society

One of my favourites, this is a light hearted piece inspired by a chance encounter at a private party with a man then at the height of his power in the country; I was fascinated beyond words by the effect he had on the would-be urbane and aspiringly sophisticated! I doubt the salons of Victorian or Edwardian london could have boasted a better Lion than he prooved to be...so for day that's in it tomorrow......


Urbane he stands, a figure
shaded among gay and vibrant souls
"Dear Sir," his hostess flutters,
murmurs her thanks at his august presence.

He is a figure aloof,
wreathed in smiles and honour
impenetrable fortress of power
graciously unbending to the public eye


It is all we can do to speak
his eye holds us all in thrall
hypnotising with its knowledge
Each uninitiate to the halls of government.

He knows we fight
to keep from staring, touching,
pressing against him as a talisman
a living totem of the forces of opinion

Tomorrow we will casually
lightly boast, disdainful of him
remarking on his public image
delightfully dismissive of his private face

But for now, here and now
in this moment, we are all
swooning at his word and faint
for signs of his good opinion, gracious favour

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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