The Gods of Weather #shortstory #writing #ireland #dublin

Happy new year and many apologies for being MIA recently but life sometimes takes over.
Lots of hopefully interesting things coming up in 2016 but to kick off the new year here is a short story I wrote about 15 years ago. Collating and editing a decade or more of writing in preparation for my collection, publishing later this year, I came across this and remembered how much I enjoyed writing it. I hope you enjoy reading it. 

The Gods of Weather (Dublin Stories)

The gods of weather are fighting it out above the city today. The contest sparked by a row over the glorious spring weather, sponsored in a fit of generosity by Dagda the great Father whose special interest in crops seems to have prompted him to provide the nearest thing to a summer we've seen in five years. Albeit in April.

 But on the other side we have Manannán, undisputed king of the sea, ruler of the western wave and traditional ruler of Dublin, ably assisted by Anna Livia Herself, the great Liffey lover of Manannán.   

"Oh, Anna, " He sighs in the wind, the seagulls driven inwards to the city to act as a chorus to His love poems; "Oh Anna, 'tis too dry, too still, too quiet."

Anna Livia, basking in the unaccustomed warmth and sunshine, rouses Herself with a guilty start, and tries to look as busy as possible. Manannán calls again sadly "O! Anna, sweet Livia, Where are the wild winds of April, the showers of sweet rain, the rainbows the ark like a virgins promise from land to heaven? Where are the last great storms of winter, my last crashing waves against the shore?"

Anna caresses the land as She passes, not wishing to reply, not wishing to fight, wishing only to surrender Herself to the waiting arms of Her lover. But She knows enough to know He'll sulk if She doesn't say something, so She murmurs her sympathy and watches the sunlight through the trees as She croons.

The Dagda smiles down and with a flick of a lazy wrist adjusts the clouds, little wispy summer clouds, hard to conjure out of nowhere in April, soft clouds that adorn the pale blue sky. "come now, Manannán ," His voice is like laughter on the wind, like ice-cream in a pink bowl. "it's been almost ten years since they had a good summer!"

"Who?" Manannán is puzzled. The gods? the Sheep? the fish? The ants?"

"The children," Dagda says casting an indulgent eye over Grafton Street, his favourite street although He knows he should really have chosen Kildare street, for the Politics or one of the Gracious Georgian Squares for a bit of class. 
What can He say? He likes Brown Thomas' and Monsoon. He likes the young women in flighty minis and the boys in trousers that remind Him vaguely of harem pants He saw once on holiday. He quite likes the buskers except the ones who play Van Morrison. He wishes He'd never thought to give "Van the Man" an interest in music - He'd thought maybe the boy would take up the fiddle or even be a music journalist. He really hadn't meant Van Morrison.
But the ones playing Allison Moyet were pretty good. He liked the little colourful stalls and he really liked the smell of coffee from Bewleys, and the little winding streets off Grafton street, they were pretty damn fine if He said so Himself. 

He frowns momentarily: that cheeky Viking upstart taking credit for His winding streets...but no, He smiles again and the sun reappears, the sudden cool shadow cast over the city lifting like gossamer in a summer breeze.

 He'd proven his point, and now all was well with the world: And the spring having gone down so well with the kids, He had big plans for the summer, long hazy days, hot afternoons, impossibly blue skies. It had been ages, ages, since He'd pulled out all the stops.

Manannán growled softly.

"I've told you before, it shouldn't matter what they think" He spread His arms and the waves rose against the shore beating against the rocks in ceaseless rebellion. He tossed His head and the rain spat against the cobbles and assaulted the window panes in venomous sprays.

"Don't be so hard!" Dagda chides. Anna Livia stirs Herself, jealous for Her lovers sake, quick to take offence on His behalf, "Don't you speak to Him like that!" she hisses, undulating in her bed like a lustful snake. And as Manannán stirs the air She raises herself to meet him, baring Her beautiful shoulders and breasts and swelling above the tight marble lines of Her city clothes. "Look" Manannán says proudly. "look. I am the Sea, I am life to these little men. I am the last refuge of the first creatures. I am the loins from which they crawled mewling and gasping, amphibious monsters no one else would tolerate. I fed them, I bore them, but what am I if I listen to them! I am the Sea. I am the Ocean. I am Implacable, Unbridled, Unpredictable. I must roar out the last of my winter blues, I must stretch myself against two continents. I miss the wind, where is my wind?"

At this the four winds hear the call of their master and in their haste to reach His side, alarmed by the rising note of anger and frustration in His voice, collide in mid air and the clouds swirl in confusion, Anna Livia eddies and flows in a whirlpool of movement and the Great Dagda himself is momentarily thrown off balance, a thing He hates. He glares at Manannán and with a click of His fingers restores the clear sky and the sun, the city looking skyward in surprise at the sudden spate of rain and wind, and the as-sudden restoration of glorious unseasonable heat.

"Don't you dare!" Dagda snarls. "It's taken me three months to plan this spring."

Manannan gives a mocking little mince. "Ooooooh, three whole months! I've only been at this game a few hundred thousand years, myself. I suppose you think they'll be grateful do you? think they'll be planning a feast like the old days? Oooh, dear Dagda, thank you for the decent weather and could you keep it dry for the bank holiday? At least I still get the occasional offering, Old Boy and do you know why? because I don't pander to them, me. They respect me."

Dagda turns his dark eyes upon the defiant Manannán, the indomitable Sea-lord, who stares into those dark stars without a trace of fear or awe. Anna Livia thrills with excitement....a storm, a storm...perhaps even some lightening. Already the rain begins to fall softly at first then in great teardrops splashing dark against the pastels and tans of the fashion conscious. It takes all of the Father's concentration to hold the spring together: the rain and cold howling in the outer darkness, banished but resentful, probing for a weak moment so they can roar back into town, take over once more, play with the citizens as they were used to do. Hold off, threaten, hold off, threaten, wait for it, wait for it, she's got a new hairdo, he's not wearing a jacket, wait for it, NOW! rain at will!

Dagda swears in annoyance and throws a small blast of anger at the Sea-Lord. "Now look what you made me do, " he grumbles, "It'll take all afternoon to round them up again. You've ruined today."

Manannán roars in pure anger, dwarfing the Dagda's kindly grumbling or the bitter spite of the rain and cold, summoning up the memories of great storms, hurricanes, tidal waves, continental shift, shark-fins at night, icebergs scraping against iron, lifeboats floating forlornly. "I am Manannán Mac Lir, King of the Sea. I will not cease to roar so that they may have a picnic on my beaches!"

The winds regroup and spin in harmony around His head, a halo of wiry sprites, cheeks puffing and huffing with the desire to blow and wail. The fish settle nervously on the sea bottom, the sharks of the Atlantic take a sharp left away from the west coast, the three headed mutant fish colony of the Irish sea dance their mad dance of glee, too stupid and too crazed to know when to hide.

The sky grows dark. The winds rise. The city holds its breath, staring at the sky anxiously, willing the weather to stay good, just few more days, o don't break now, don't let us down!

And the sweet sound of the Mother Danaan soothes the air, her voice like honey pouring from a silver spoon. "be quiet" she sighs, and raises her head from its slumbers. Her hair spread like red-gold across the Dublin Mountains, her profile raised to the stars, noble in its matronly beauty. She smiles and the sun forces its way through the gathering storm, shining its rainbow across her brow, His love for Her in every hue. She winks at Him, her oldest friend and admirer and then looks reproachfully at the quarreling Gods.

"I was having a nap"

Dagda looks sheepishly at His feet and Manannán almost bites off his own tongue in His haste to excuse Himself. His wife Fand smiles up at Danaan, enjoying Her husband's moment of embarrassment. 
"Hush, now" Danaan says, languid and redolent. "Dagda, I agree with you. The children deserve a little good weather. but Manannán must do as He pleases at sea. He has always ruled the sea."

Her voice caresses the city like the smell of chips at dusk, when you're hungry and tired from the play of long summer day, like the memory of childhood, like the feel of warm sand between your toes. The rain dies down, fades in the face of Her wish, and the Sun makes His triumphant return to the loud applause of the citizens. "I hear, " She smiles at the Sealord, "I hear there is room for a storm out in the Atlantic. I did enjoy that storm you did there last November. I always think they look so much better out there, out in the open. I can really appreciate the subtleties of your craft when I can see the whole storm on the big screen, you know?"

Manannán brightens perceptibly. "We-ell," He says diffidently "I might as well get a bit of practice in, I suppose" He turns his chariot and raises His whip but pauses to ask somewhat suspiciously "You will be watching now, won't you?"

Danaan smiles their special secret smile...."Of course I will." and Manannán races happily across the waves. "Humpph" Dagda settles himself again, to look at the city. "I suppose I had better try to get this sorted....a whole day ruined though. Pity." Danaan leans gently across His shoulder and looks at the little city, now slightly bedraggled, the puddles gleaming like jewels in the smug rays of the reinstated afternoon Sun.

"No, I think it looks nice. You should do another sunset, last night's was beautiful." The Dagda grinned involuntarily. "I wondered if you'd noticed!" He exclaims. "It was quite some job getting that orange-red shade at this time of year, I can tell you. And the Shaded Violets and Indigoes took hours to perfect!"

"Lovely" Danaan says hastily, "Well, one just like it then!"

"Oh, yes, okay," She looks at the great shoulders of Her kindly husband, His earnest good nature showing in every line as He poured over the city streets, trying to catch at the perfect shade of afternoon to suit its mood. His beloved Dublin, his Crossing at the Ford, His Baile Atha Cliath. She smiled at Him, the helpless affection of ten thousand years.

"Here" she says plucking it from her perfect brow and handing to Him. "You can have my rainbow."

copyright Geraldine Moorkens Byrne 2001

1.

I see #Aylan #refugeecrisis #eu #ireland

I dressed my son for school today
I thought of Aylan
I thought, as I wrote my child's name on his jumper
Is this how they would identify him
In the salt tears of the sea
If we were at war
If we fled?

My youngest lies in bed
Just as Aylan lies on the beach
But mine is safe
Because we won a lottery before birth
Born on the right patch of spinning rock
At the right time
In the right skin.

One hundred and sixty years earlier
I would crowd my children onto coffin ships
Ignore the taunts of dirty irish
Scrabble for work or scraps
or beg or steal or walk with bleeding feet
And they would tut at the state of us
The starving irish.

In the veins of my children runs the blood
Of a mother who saved her two year old
From famine and death
By doing these things
And worse
When I close my eyes
I see Aylan
But he has the face of my own child

(If you share this please also note there are practical things you can do -

http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/europe/5-practical-ways-you-can-help-refugees-trying-to-find-safety-in-europe-10482902.html

Thank you)

1.

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

1.

See Me #YesEquality #straightupforequality #MarRef

In hope that May 22nd brings us a new outlook.



SEE ME

See me, says Mary
Born and bred in a rural town
daughter of fields and grey stone walls
See me, for I am a vote
I am a choice, I am a new day dawning

See me, says John
Under the glow of a street lamp
Son of the city, the pavement and street
See me, for I am a vote
I am the future, I am the morning reborn

See me, says Dolores
I may be old, but I can remember
I have seen changes you can't imagine
I am the past, but before I go
the future is mine to secure for the young

See me, See me, for we have decided
never again to close our eyes
never pretend that our friends or our neighbours
should live as we do, should live in the dark
should live without love, invisible hearts

SEE ME. For I am an ally
and I will not let you silence them again
those you ignore, I will acknowledge
those you silence, I will shout out their names
you should see me coming, for I am a vote.

1.

This Poem Has No Planning Permission

This poem is constructed
unstructured
and without
planning permission.


It advocates a YES vote.
I asked no permission.
The artist can advocate what he wants
and so can I


And I add, without permission
an extension
The bully is not oppressed
when we make him stop bullying
Giving others equal rights
does not oppress you


This poem has no planning permission
This poem is a YES vote

1.

By your presence

For Paula, for endless kindness

You will ask, or be asked someday
What good have you done?
What purpose, in this shifting world
What weight did you place upon the scales ?

You cannot answer for yourself
You'll never guess the moments
Only others can tell the tale
Of acts and omissions filed in your name

But like golden coins they'll pile;
Solid, worthy, generous, tangible,
Each one with a testament affixed
And each of these will start with this

By your presence -  three glorious words.
By your presence, we were comforted
By your presence, we were fed
And burdens lifted, hard times eased

By your presence - tangled threads unbound,
Problems solved and time reclaimed
Tea and biscuits, time and thought
And always laughter, always some moments joy.

There will be volumes written and declared.
Each one of a kindness kindly given
Each one shining in the deepening dark
A line of light to lead you home.

You, you wear this lightly as you go
But by your presence are you known

1.

Vote Early Vote Often (a poem about @YesEquality15 and #FiMeIrl)

I do not see, what makes me
more worthy to be wed
than Annie and Jacyntha
or Maurice to his Fred?

I posses no greater intellect
Nor higher moral ground
No secret way to perfect love
Have I or my ilk found.

We row and fight and hurt and bleed
And break and tear assunder
We heal the same, we love the same
And when we're six feet under

We'll all make bones, we'll all make dust
And twill be hard to say -
Which of us was wed or not
And who  was straight or gay

So while we live and breath we draw
And the sun yet shines above
Let us all be equal in one thing -
The beauty of our love.

If your heart holds within
one single spark of joy
It matters not what fans the flame
The sight of girl or boy.

All that counts is if that face
Brings solace to your life
And if you long to call that name
Husband mine, or Wife.

So may fifteen we all must join
To vote for all our sakes
Vote early and vote often for
The difference marriage makes

Vote yes, dear readers !

1.

Late Coffee

You were there.
In the smile when someone
(Could have been me.
Allegedly.)
Wore the plastic gown -
a mournful clown.
You were there.
In the moment you insisted
On sitting up
On getting out of bed
That old defiance, that bold man.
You were there.
In the pallid light
Over late night coffee
In the echo of other times
In brighter places.
You were there.
In the glint of an eye
When we discussed the state
of the Irish nation
after the Black Prince, and you nodded.
You were still there
When I left.
You were still there.

1.

Grand Canal Square In March #poetry #irishpoetry #Dublin #ireland

Grand Canal Square in March

Only in Dublin
would two swans
crossing the docks
greet you in March

Light reflecting
refracting the image
of urban life
and city living

hazy sun and
smokey stacks
 a tall ship mast
and two wild swans

Welcome to my city
cosmopolitan
21st century
metropolis

Welcome to my city
Viking terrority
mystical land
mysterious port.

(Photo taken March 2007 GCS Dublin, on the way from my husband's ( then fiancé) apartment to work.)

1.

The Problem with Women #poetry #feminism #4thwavefeminism #irishpoetry #ireland

The problem with women


I post about issues, many feminist in tone
Abuse of the female, inside the home
or out on the streets in full view of all
Or insidious lessons that make us feel small 
And I say every time not all men do this
A line in my stories some men seem to miss
And I say that the male is vulnerable too
I say men are mainly good, and it's  true.
But then the replies start derailing the thread
As some men read things I never actually  said
Answer accusations I didn't actually  make
Argue the point for argument's  sake
I can talk about women broken and battered
I can post about young girls whose dream have been shattered
Without needing instruction from men who feel slighted
You're not like that? Good. I'm fucking delighted.
Stop telling me that and read what I wrote
Open your hearts and start to take note
Because some of your kind are doing these acts
Don't be defensive just be aware of these facts
Give your opinion without the lecture. I'll  listen
And I'll happily learn if there's something  I'm  missing
But in return when I point out your own oversight 
Don't call me a feminazi for daring to be right.
shrugging off debate with an injured defence
"Oh! The trouble with women is they take such offence ."

1.

Love letters of a busy life

To my husband Mark, who is currently trying not to nod off in work, having minded our poor sick baby all night in one room while I minded the poor sick toddler in another. And then we swopped. Some day my love, we'll sleep in the same bed, have a lie in, have breakfast in bed, have time to chat. Probably after the boys turn thirty. 

Hi, it's me

I'm sorry that I haven't been in touch

I see you every day, morning and night

so why write? well, our time is short

I seem to say hello, goodbye and sometimes

in between, a hurried I love you

but oh! it's not enough, my dear.

Here in my head we talk all the time

like we did when we were leisure rich.

I itch to tell you all the details of my day

and every way in which you touched them,

lightened them, help me carry the load.

Is there room

for love letters of the old type, the ones

that fill the spaces in a busy life? Recount

the dreams and hopes and fears of every day

renew the links that bind us to our life

and say, I would not live any other story

walk any other path, fight for any other cause

but you? You are my star, my stone, my roots 

and all there is to praise in heaven or on earth.

You may not know this but it's written there,

in shopping lists and texts about dinner -

whenever you read between the lines, it's there. 

1.

Between Moments. new #poem #poetry

Between Moments

Colgate and shower gel
The scramble for clean clothes
Inhalers and toast-ready brek-stodge
And a glass of milk; where are the car keys?
Where are - shoes socks bags
Bottles nappies coats
(No not that coat that's not my good coat
I want my fireman sam coat)

Somewhere between milk and bags
You touch my arm
You smile or kiss or squeeze
You wink - we're in this together, love
We're a team; I don't know
Where I put his jumper/what I'd do
Without you. Between moments
Is where true love resides.

1.

Puddles - an adventure by Geraldine Moorkens Byrne #childrensbook

My very first children's book, beautifully illustrated by Austin Lysaght

Tells the story of Dara, a little boy who loves sunny days. When it rains he's very sad and bored....but rain brings puddles and puddles bring fun! Jump right in and enjoy this story ideal for 1-4 year olds.
Copyback:
http://www.lulu.com/shop/geraldine-moorkens-byrne/puddles/paperback/product-21308786.html?ppn=1

Hardback & full photobook version available at blurb.com

1.

Pomegranate Annual Christmas Raffle "Pomegranate"

This is a poem I wrote last year, inspired by Pomegranate the charity http://www.pomegranate.ie/ 

Pomegranate helps couples who otherwise wouldn't have had access to infertility treatment, something that is completely unsubsidised in this country. Their annual Christmas hamper raffle is an amazing event, several fabulous hampers up for grabs including a top prize hamper complete with unique handmade quilt.
Please check them out at either the website above or on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/PomegranateIE
Tickets cost €5

Pomegranate

When they talk of it

It is assumed, only the fecund know

Where the heart lies

When it comes to babies,

When it comes to birth,

When it comes to dreams

Of sticky hands and kisses.

Oh no, no, we the Barren,

We too understand these joys.

We yearn for them in ways

Only we can understand

We are steeped in the mysteries of pain.

Oh but your words can sting us

Anything stirring? No news for us?

Sure would you not relax?

My sister’s neighbour’s cousin’s friend

Got pregnant using the scapula of some saint

 you probably should have tried when you were younger –

I’d never go to those lengths

Ah we know the heart of it all right

We hold their little hands and kiss their brows

A thousand times in our dreams

And the sweet drug of hope

Lulls us into the arms of sleep

Dark night, after night.

1.

Leaf in Autumn

Leaf in Autumn

The gutters turned to streams,
torrents raging through the streets
as grey rain beat down on us
as the wind whipped us
as the sky turned dark.
As I clutched my mother's hand
I saw a leaf charge the rapids,
white water of the drains,
to spend one moment suspended
in the eye of the storm.
And I followed it as it journeyed
through the streets
out of sight but never out of mind.
I follow it still, when the rain howls
and the wind catches my fancy
blowing it where it will
Somewhere out there, it wanders still.

1.

The Games are Over

As Russia prepares to host the Olympic Games, many observers are aware of the hideous treatment of the LGBT community there - including recent laws outlawing homosexuality, talking about or discussing homosexuality, imprisonment of LGBT people, outlawing any LGBT activism - laws reminiscent of Hitler's attacks on the Jewish Community on the eve of the notorious Berlin Olympics. The Olympic committee and the various countries participating in the Olympics seem content to ignore these blatant human rights violations even as most Western countries move forward into an era of equality.


The Games are Over


I sat on Mount Olympus
under a weary sun
and waited til He came
His glory undiminished, the Beautiful One
I greeted him and we talked
of old times and days
of all the strange and wondrous things
since we last parted ways.

And then He asked me sadly
Is it true? Will they
sully the games anew, and hold them ransom
for some coins -
is this the truth?
The games I gloried in, in my youth,
the honour, the pride, like prayers and incense
pain and defeat, victory and joy, offered on my Altar?
Are these things naught?


I told him, yes.
For convenience, cash and an easy life
they'll hold the games where they like.
they will ignore the cries of the oppressed
they'll see them beaten in the streets
and close their eyes, it's for the best -
they'll stride out under a thousand flags
but none will be Rainbows.

I told Him this
and He, manly, wept
He held my hand and talked
of His past loves, of golden limbs
and kisses sweet
They have outlawed me, He cried
I am the one they beat.
I am the one imprisoned
I am the one despised -
Anger hardened His lovely face -
The games they hold offend this sacred place
I curse them and their modern play
Olympus turns its back today.

1.

Posthumous

Inspired by a prompt from my friend and fellow poet Maureen Aisling Duffy-Boose.




Posthumous

I am increasingly hopeful
... that when I die
there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth
my relatives will mourn my passing
with deep black and willows,
and at every gathering from now til the
last one standing
will remark, "If only She had lasted just a little longer.
If only we had had her, just one more day."
For on my deathbed I intend to say
- as my last words, with my last gasping wheeze -
"The box where I keep my money is buried...."
and the death rattle will leave them baffled
and yearning
and missing me, wishing me, alive again.
Just long enough to finish....

1.

Farewell Maggie (better late than never)

This poem needs no explanation except to say, those who like me remember the devastation wreaked by That Woman on both sides of the Irish sea are glad to see this day.


Farewell Maggie, my old foe.
This day has been long in dawning -
too slow.
I wish you had gone long ago
when we were still young, with ideals still intact
before you broke a generation on your rack
of consumerism and greed.
You were driven by a need I cannot guess
some class hatred / self hatred matrix in your soul
but you squandered the price of many lives
to reach your goal, and threw aside
the hopes and dreams and pride
of both your nation, and mine.
I wish you'd left my country well alone
and done at least as much for your own.

Farewell Maggie. Never has it rung so true;
better late than never, was coined for you.

1.

what shall you teach your son?

In the light of recent events, it's time to stop telling our daughters to be careful and start considering what we should be teaching our sons. As the mother of a son I know the kind of man I want him to be. It's my failure if, as a woman, I raise a boy who does not respect women.




               
How do we fix this shit?
Let us start with what we teach our sons                                  
Yes you, my innocent little man;
If you ever lay your head next to mine
And whisper that you have hurt, degraded or demeaned
Some woman
Any woman
Any girl
The old one. The ugly one
 The pretty flirt. The one whose skirt
Is too short or blouse too low.
The silly one. The shy one. The odd one.
The one who was mean. The one who said no.
The one who passed out.
The one your mate said was loose.
Any one of them
You will feel the power of your mother.
  You will quickly learn that I am woman, too.
But I love you, my son.
So I will teach you first  
No means no.
Drunk means no.
Unconscious means no.
Uncomfortable means no.
But before that I will teach you
She is entitled to wear, speak, like, dislike, walk, drink, think, live
How she pleases.
And before that I will teach you
There are just people.
Not a war between sexes.
Just people.
You are people.
She is people too.
And when some people try to make you forget that, I will teach you
To say
NO.

1.

It's her world....but I think I'm living in it too!

One of my favourite tactics when procrastinating about my own writing, is to read other people's writing; sometimes in my official and therefore virtuous role as Editor with the PPP Publishing Collective but all too often in my role as lazy and unmotivated writer with a two year old time-sucking machine. So imagine my joy when I read one of my favourite blogs It's Her World: We Just Live In It and found the newest entry was about ....not writing!

Any blog writer who confesses "Hello Friends, remember me? I'm the lady who USED to write this blog. Now I'm the lady who wishes she had time to write this blog." is all right with me. I sometimes - on a bad month, when my total contribution to the world of literature is a Kafkaesque attempt at a shopping list - refer to myself as "the woman who USED to write poetry." 
The writer of this blog is a mother with two toddlers and therefore has twice my excuse for being unproductive but I add in elderly parents, a business and a really lazy streak and I reckon we are about even. It's a great read, I won't ruin it by dissecting it here, but go enjoy it. One of the reasons this is top of my blog list is the self deprecating style, coupled with genuinely amusing observations and a core of truth. You all know my hatred of clever but empty writing- well, here is some clever but real writing. Top past posts for me were A Letter to my Spirited Child and Facebook Bullying: The New Normal?

Anyway, the title of this particular post "Endless Inspriration, Zero Energy" really hit a chord with me. Endlless Inspiration indeed - I have drawers, and computer files,  full of beginnings. Novels, poems, Short Stories. Some reside in darkness because frankly they are too horrible to see the light of day. But other pieces languish in obscurity because as excited as I was by the flash of inspiration that ignited a frenzy of words across a page.....I was equally incapable of sticking at the damn thing. They reproach me, they berate me, they accuse me...and yet I still ignore them.

Some day I will find myself with that elusive and extraordinary gift - free time. In the meantime I will read blog's like  http://ceeceescrazyworld.blogspot.ie **and enjoy someone else's witty reminder that I am not alone. I leave you with a promise to create more poetry this year, and in the words of the blog "I miss having something burning inside me that I just gotta get down on paper right then and there" 
Also, I too miss my breasts. 



. ** Ceeceescrazyworld blog is written by MamaZinga All copyrights reserved: extracts reproduced here courtesy of author for review purposes only.

1.

Songs Of My Heart Maureen Aisling Duffy-Boose !

One of my great pleasures is to help publish new and exciting poetry and to act as an editor and publisher to emerging poetic voices. I have the immense delight to announce that my latest project, the long awaited collection of poetry from American poet Maureen Aisling Duffy-Boose is now ready and available. It's a great collection, with diverse themes but a unifying style, confident and passionate, but wise and compassionate. And overall, hopeful and optimistic.

One of my personal favourites comes from the first section of the book, the love poems and as it's a wednesday I am sharing it here, with kind permission of Maureen herself. If you would like to read more of Maureen's wonderful poetry, please go to:

Songs of My Heart, Maureen Aisling Duffy-Boose, ISBN 978-0-9562403-2-3  PPP Publishing Dublin, Ireland

Love on a Wednesday

Maureen Aisling Duffy-Boose, Songs of My Heart

It never gets old...

I walk down the halls of this house

and I feel your love for me beating in the walls

Like the blood through my veins.

I never get tired

Of feeling the energy of the love we share

surrounding me like the wall paper.

I walk into my office

And the first thing I see is you smiling at me,

more beautiful even than the view from the windows...

(Which is saying something!)

And I feel the reality

Of every dream I ever dared to dream in secret,

Knowing they were all fairy tales

And never expecting fulfillment.

It's just Wednesday

No special anniversary,

No day made for lovers...

Except that every day is that, now,

And I am among the privileged,

The ones who have someone to cherish,

Something to sing about...

And so I sit here,

And I know every word I say is inadequate

But in the face of beauty,

And love,

And the fulfillment of every waking dream,

How can I be silent

Even on a Wednesday?

Lovely words for a Wednesday ! I'll share some more shorter excerpts from poems over the coming weeks. 

1.

Miracle

The world came to an end today;

as it does each day twixt dusk and dawn

and just as surely as it ends

with morning light it is reborn.

This is a wonder far more deep

than tales and prophecies of old;

the miracle that is each passing day -

is the greatest story ever told. 

1.

She is Autumn

As she turns
I catch sunlight on her cheek,
fragile as crumpled silk.
Her eyelids flutter
   downward movements
      like zyphers
Her hair has changed colour
over the seasons and the years

As she moves
I see grace in every turn
smooth like worn stone.
Her hands make circles
   careless emphasis
     or metemorphosis.
She reminds me so much
of a fallen leaf.

1.

Emer's Poem; Sit Here

Some 30 years ago, this month, I met my best friend. This is her poem; I would like to assure her it's not written solely to embarrass her, although I will get a laugh out of that I admit. It's written because it's been thirty years in the writing, in pubs and clubs, over coffee and in hospital rooms, and once upon a time, in a school room in a convent on the Crumlin Road.This is one of those poems, that had to be written and that were in a sense always written.
After thirty years our lives have coincided again; we have always been there but at times our experiences have been out of sync. One married while the other was single, one away or at home, happy or sad; now the stars align once more and we share a certain common ground, marriage and motherhood. I don't know what has been sweeter in 30 years, the times when we were apart but still holding on or now that we are older, wiser, calmer, and more on the same path. Both times have their joys.
This is for you Emer, from the heart. From all us oddballs.

Sit here

I heard on the news, those dreaded words of childhood

“Back to school,” the death knell of summer, the last nail

in the coffin for the halcyon freedoms of our youth;

I heard it and thought, it’s September – remember! remember

when that meant schoolbags and books and copies and pencils

and suddenly thought, how long have I known her?

 How many years? How many seasons, since that first Autumn,

how many days, since that first day of a new school year?

I walked in, my usual self; constrained by my lumpiness and

dumpiness. I walked in and paused. My usual tactic was to

see where there might be a seat – unobtrusive, unwanted, unlikely

to offend anyone else. Perhaps on the edge of a group, that way I could

occasionally, if the omens were good, turn and talk or share a joke –

as long I didn’t push my luck. I couldn’t see a seat.

I saw her. She smiled and pointed to the seat in front. She had already

found a niche, made a friend, settled in. She pointed to a seat and then to me.

I don’t remember sitting down. I don’t remember the first halting chat.

I remember laughing. If I had to sum up the next thirty years, my friend,

her spirit, I would say…I remember laughing. There’s no end to her laughter,

her good nature. She is kind. Everyone who meets her, says that. She is kind.

She has a knack with us oddballs, she is Mamma to us all. She has a way of

making you feel as if you belong. She has made me feel that for thirty years,

while I did my best to cast myself adrift, while I spun aimlessly out of orbit.

I never knew until I returned, she held a thread and refused to let it go.

I know as she reads this she will – blush, shake her head, laugh at me (gently)

I know she will be pleased, and she will be perplexed. I imagine her shrugging

off compliments, with a certain giggle and a wave of her hand – ah go on!

But we, we who know her value, we must drag her back up to her pedestal

and bribe her up there with yellow rice and wine. We need her, her calm hand upon

the helm; her eyebrow raised. She is our fixed compass, our northern star.

She is my memory and my youth. She is one of the moments on which my life turned.

She is still that girl, the one who points and says, “Sit here.”

1.

The Average House

I wrote this today inspired by a thread on a website celebrating the normal. average, chaotic household.



My abdomen is flabby but my clothes have got the rips
my garden is just perfect, compared to Dublin's tips
my house is like a museam, well it's got a lot of dust
And in any tour of horror sites, our bathroom is a must
Visitors must take their chance, and sit where e'er they can
We're not sure what we'll feed you, if it's easy I'm a fan
There's laundry in the kitchen, the remote is in the sink
the dog was febreezed last night to take away the stink
I hope you'll sit and stay a while, for our philosophy
is put people before housework, and make us all happy.
Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

1.

Get angry about Facebook Bullying; before it's too late

If you read nothing else today, read this excellent blog Her Crazy World:Facebook bullying, the new normal?

It's about a repulsive page that is filled with hateful graphics, many of an overt sexual nature, featuring a 5 year old child called Adalia Rose who suffers from Progeria. The teens responsible for this piece of obscenity claim they did it because Adalia Rose was being "exploited" - although to date they can't explain how comments exhorting her to "just die already" and pictures showing her mouth with the caption "place your penis here" address exploitation of a five year old or are in any way justifiable. Interestingly when some wags created pages aimed at lampooning the main offender, a teen called Bree, she posted in high dudgeon that she was "appalled" and that she should be left alone as she was only 15. It seems being 15 confers some immunity to criticism denied to those who are say, 5 years of age and afflicted with a horrible disease.


By the time of writing, it's possible the page in question has been taken down. Hopefully. However the issue is still hugely important. These teens, filled with hate and a warped sense of entitlement , and no sense of perspective, caused immense hurt to a child and her family. They did so for weeks and months thanks to Facebook's inertia and apathy. I personally know that hundreds of women reported the page. I reported the page. Despite links to photos and graphics and comments that undeniably flouted Facebook's own rules, we all received the same "We can't see anything wrong with it" email. One person was banned from FB for 24 hours for reporting the page too often; FB deemed her a spammer. The pages that lampooned the troll pack of teens responsible were taken down in a day. The Adalia Rose Memes page stayed put.

Facebook has a case to answer here. Please help make sure they do answer it. These teens periodically take down the page when the going gets too hot for them, then put it back up, thinking they will thwart any inquiry. Check regularly to make sure it's not there and if it is, report it. Then report it again. Then ask everyone you ever met in your life to report it.
And when you get the PFO email from FB, take their survey and tell them how they're doing.

1.

Pussy Riots or Ailurophobia in Russian Life

The conviction of the three members of feminist Russian collective Pussy Riot is a disgrace and a challenge to feminism worldwide. It is also yet another attack on secularism, free speech and the rights of the artist.
Ailurophobia is the irrational fear of pussies. Or cats.

Three of the cats who stood

Iconoclastic in their ritual,

Worshipping at the alter

Of free speech, and expression,

Obscenely repressed by

The powers that be;

Three of these pussies

Are to be caged,

Declawed and toothless

In a system long decayed.

Trolleybusses and scaffolds

Are ok, it seems, for girls

In balaclavas or women shouting

The odds, but not a church,

Oh no, women’s voices should not

Be raised in a church.

It’s nothing to do with politics you understand

-it is their bold bad lack of respect for Him.
(not him, Putin, but the other

God of Russian politics.)

Burn your flags, my lovelies,

Far far better than fiery bras.

Bite back, shout and torch the churches,

Roast them on a spit of lampoon –

There is no place for the feminine divine

Among the patriarchs of Russian life.

Three cats jailed by frightened men

and an apathetic nation, still the Party’s bitch.

Come! Let’s be Hooligans, all, and light the way.

Start by saying, today, I am Pussy Riot.

1.

Forgiveness, Some ruminations by Maureen Aisling Duffy-Booze

1. This is a piece written by a writer, musician and philosopher whom I greatly admire and am proud to call Cousin/sister. In keeping with recent themes of Truth, forgiveness and the past it struck me as very timely. My own feelings on forgiveness are that firstly, one can only forgive for hurts done to oneself, not to others. I agree with Simon Weisenthal, no one can forgive on behalf of the dead. Secondly, I think that one can let go of anger and hurt - eliminate the damage done to one's own life by those emotions - without ever actually "forgiving" the actions of another. However as a general rule of life the following strikes me as very empowering, and true. I especially love to think of forgiveness, or as I would see it, letting go, as a gift we give to ourselves rather than a loss from us to the person who injured us.

   
   

   I want to explore in the future the concept of forgiveness further, and the power dynamics involved in granting forgiveness or withholding it.

   Til then I thought you too might enjoy the following!

   
   

   
   

   I am thinking today about forgiveness Maureen Aisling Duffy-Boose

   
   

   I am thinking today about forgiveness. 

   Most of us think of forgiveness as a gift we choose to give to, or to withhold from, people who have injured us, and many times we expect something in the way of an apology and an attempt to make amends before forgiveness is granted. But this isn't really the way forgiveness works. Forgiveness of the Other is a gift we give, not to them, but to ourselves.

    It ...

   doesn't require their apology. It doesn't require their making amends. It doesn't require their even knowing about it. What forgiveness does, when this tool is correctly applied, is free us from the burden of resentment, hatred, anger, and the unfair crowding in our head and heart which is caused by the unwelcome presence of someone else's pile of stinking shit. People are going to be unkind, unfair, inconsiderate, and sometimes, yes, even downright cruel and mean. People are going to say ugly things about us, do mean things to us, and sometimes, yes, go out of their way to hurt us. But--there is something here to consider.

    Whatever someone else says or does to us or about us, is really about them Selves. Someone else's actions in your direction speak volumes about them and not a word about you. What other people say, or think, about you, is not any of your business. And what you choose to do about the hurt is really all about you and not a bit about them. What you choose to do, when you choose to forgive, is to free your Self. You exorcise that demon someone else put in your head with their unkind words, that demon to whom you decide no longer to give head-room. You clear out that pile of stinking shit someone else shoveled into your House of Self, and you decide it doesn't belong to you and you're getting rid of it. 

   And then--you breathe free. You let go. You think to yourself, "You poor thing, to have such thoughts about me, to say such things about me, to do such things to hurt me. I reject them all. You, and your unkind words and deeds, have no Power over me. I take back my Power. I forgive you." And then, you heal. You walk free in the world. And you recognize that everything that happens in your life is really under your own control, no matter who else says or does it. You forgive, you love, you nurture yourself, and you walk in a world of beauty, a world of your own choosing, not the toxic ugly world someone else might want to impose on you. That world doesn't belong to you. It's theirs. Forgive them. Maybe some day they might figure out how to forgive themselves. 

   
   copyright - all rights reserved by the author, do not reproduce without express permission

1.

The Jester

A poem inspired by recent ruminations on Truth


I went to see the Jester in her court
she wore her tattered rags with pride, I saw
pulled at the holes and gently sighed about
the lack of courtly manners in the world.

I listened to the Jester as she sang
her words ringing hollow in the halls
"my cloak I wrap around me in great pomp"
as she pawed the ragged edges with clawed hands

I asked the Jester if she ever wore the Truth;
she eyed me like a spider eyes its prey
I say, It's not that hard a question, to be sure?
she thanks me for my visit with a smile.

I would have pressed her further if I could
she bandies words around like weaponry
forgiveness is a scalpel in her hands
and justice is an axe she likes to throw

I wouldn't trade for all the gold you offer
but the Jester is quite happy, I believe
Our reunion was a success in her eyes
She'll weave a song about it and I'll sing.

1.

HIstory Memory and Truth, writing and re-writing the past.

Several things have made me ponder recently. It happens. I do try to avoid it as I prefer to open myself to Imbas and inspiration before the clumsy affectation of intellect intrudes itself; the conscious creative mind should polish and refine not dictate. But occasionally a lot of thoughts accumulate around a given aspect of writing and poetry and I need to give them free rein. This is one of those times.

There's a tendency to dismiss Firenne, Truths, in modern life. In writing it has become more advantageous to be glib and clever than to have either heart or truth at the heart of one's writing. Each year, prior to having my son, I read the shortlist for the Booker. I lost count of the number of times I closed a book at its final page and thought....meh. Well written but utterly pointless. Nothing new said, nothing original posited, only style. (One reason I was so delighted Wolfe Hall won was that for any flaw it boasted, it more than made it up to the reader with heart and originality.)  
One advantage among many of writing on the Fringe, and one of the joys of being involved in publishing independent poets like Inga Brigitta or Maureen Aisling Duffy-Boose * is that one gets to read or edit honest, heartfelt writing, with real and identifiably genuine voices. I also like to read blogs and news articles; opinion pieces and polemic. I like to read truth, even if it's just that one person's truth, even if I disagree with it. I hate inherited opinion, unthinking comments, glibness. I hate the clichés of apocryphal writing - stories that are urban legends retold as one's own experience.

The question of what is truth arises when one person's version rubs off an other's. It's easy to say that all truths are equal or that there are many truths - until someone lies. Then one begins to think in terms of absolute truths. If I write a version of my past that lies, is it mine to reinvent or do the other players have the right to challenge it? If I recreate myself, and invent my emotions, at what point does my illusion impinge on your reality?

I usually accord a wide latitude to self invention. I mistrust people who never learn, never change and grow and changing often leaves a person far from their origins. I don't begrudge anyone the right to smooth the edges of their life. But there's a point at which lie and truth simply can't coexist. The same is true creatively - without some truth, and some purpose to your truth, you are left with glibness and gloss.
There is no way in my experience to be an honest writer, or artist, without knowing oneself. Acknowledging our flaws, our darkness...more, valuing these things in ourselves...lifts us from scribblers to poets. Our past is as important as our present. We cannot divorce ourselves from the reality of our past without placing 0ur future in danger.
Memory is notoriously unreliable. We all know the example of eye witnesses at an accident who give conflicting accounts of the event. Without rooting ourselves in community, without those old friends and family whose accounts of us help keep us honest, who are guardians of our memories of self, we are rarely true to our pasts.

In terms of poetry, and writing, nostalgia is both a curse and a trap. Equally tempting is the desire to dramatise ourselves, attribute to ourselves wisdom in retrospect, that belies our essential self in that moment and overlies it with some knowing interpreter who refuses to let the older you talk. Even when that's the effect you wish to produce, the secret is to let the original speak and then overlay it with the present.

When you begin to write about shared history, your memories of family, place, society, childhood, youth, it becomes more and more important to respect truth. While you can lie to yourself, lying about others is intellectually dishonest. If you try to present some aspect of truth, warts and all, against your own self if necessary, your audience feels the honesty in all characters. If you try to weight the truth only on your side, the fake peeks through. It's like an acquired accent; you might fool the casual listener for a few sentences but it falters over longer periods and betrays your roots mercilessly.

If you write in truth, even those whose memories differ from yours will find some common ground. We can all, as eye witnesses agree that the crash happened, if not what the driver looked like.



* Maureen Aisling Duffy-Boose's first collection "Songs of My Heart" will be published later this year by PPP Publishing

1.

Lovers in Green

If I were to paint lovers
it would be in the green
perhaps beneath the shade
of some old tree;
perhaps in the autumn
as the leaves turn and fall -
perhaps in the summer,
perhaps not at all.
I would set them among
freshly mown grass,
as the wind gently sighs
and the students run past.
I would paint you in the shadows,
you and I to one side -
smiling and running
your arms open wide.
There would be a bicycle
and a dog chasing ball
and the lovers would sit there
and smile at us all.

1.

Check out a great new blog - "it's her world"

Great new blogfrom upcoming writer Aimee Oakley, a wry look at life, motherhood and the vagaries of crafting. Very enjoyable and definitely one of my "pleasure shared " on this grey whit weekend. Take a look and let her know what you think, we writers need feedback :) In other news if anyone can suggest a good book choice for July for a book club I'd be eternally grateful ! Plus rather chuffed that "at Cluann mac Noise" was used for a poetry workshop last month - hope the participants enjoyed it!

1.

Pomegranate: A poem in honour of the launch of the Pomegranate Charity tonight

Today is National Infertility Day and it coincides with the launch of the wonderful charity Pomegranate . Pomegranate raises funds for those who cannot afford expensive infertility treatment but who yearn for a child; and it also raises awareness of the issues surrounding infertility.
Without SIMS Clinic we would not have been able to have our beloved son. The idea that others are denied the services of such clinics, because of the expense, is tragic. We were extremely fortunate. If you do nothing else today read the Pomegranate website, and donate - no matter how small an amount, you will be helping end the pain of infertility for some future parent. (I have no connection with Pomegranate other than thinking they're a great cause.)

Pomegranate's launch is tonight at 7pm in the Russell Court Hotel (Dicey Reilly’s) on Harcourt Street, Dublin 2. Guest speakers will be Conor Pope of the Irish Times and Steve McGettigan of the Sims clinic.

Pomegranate

When they talk of it

It is assumed, only the fecund know

Where the heart lies

When it comes to babies,

When it comes to birth,

When it comes to dreams

Of sticky hands and kisses.

Oh no, no, we the Barren,

We too understand these joys.

We yearn for them in ways

Only we can understand

We are steeped in the mysteries of pain.

Oh but your words can sting us

Anything stirring? No news for us?

Sure would you not relax?

My sister’s neighbour’s cousin’s friend

Got pregnant using the scapula of some saint

 you probably should have tried when you were younger –

I’d never go to those lengths

Ah we know the heart of it all right

We hold their little hands and kiss their brows

A thousand times in our dreams

And the sweet drug of hope

Lulls us into the arms of sleep

Dark night, after night.

 .

1.

It Was At Tara

It was at Tara

that my love did stand

sword in hand

hand on heart

and gave me his pledge

It was at Tara 

that my son did stand

in front of clan

in the face of tradition

and was given his name.

It was the same Tara

that once took my pain.

 Beneath sweeping skies

 and in the teeth of rain 

Tara gave me peace again. 

1.

Phoenix

First published as part of a calendar in 1993 to celebrate the reopening of the Music shop in Stephen's Street (Charles Byrne Musik Instrumente, est 1870)

Phoenix

As each note trembles
rises, quivers, dies,
so seasons turn -
and after sunrise, dusk and night
as bright to dark
as year will follow year
and out of Winter's dark embrace
comes earth in all its Summer's grace;
as out of one man's lonely hours
a cathedral built of Music towers
and from the pile of broken quills
a poetess her stanza spills;
as out of childhood's broken dreams
the adult learns what freedom means -
in every night, one evening star
so travellers see home from afar
and from their errors men grow wise
as from the ashes, Phoenix rise.

1.

Bród, a poem.... #bródclub #Irish

RTE have a great initiative going at the moment thanks to Bernard Dunne


http://www.rte.ie/brodclub/


The idea is to get 100,00 Irish people who like me, have some Irish but rarely use it, to start using it again. Dig it out, root through your memory and sprinkle a cúpla focail through your conversations and texts and facebook status updates throughout the day.


I can read Irish fairly well but my spoken Irish is horribly rusty and my grammar was non existent (thanks, school!) til I did a Gael Linn course a few years ago. I still have terrible grammar but thanks to the excellent course I now know what I should be doing to re-learn the rotten Irish we were taught in school and make it better. I kept telling myself that all I need is the time, but you know what? I'll never have the time. So I am taking up the Bród challenge, not putting it off any longer and trying to reawaken then Irish I have and hopefully make it better as I go.

This inspired the poem below. My readers know that many of the forms and structures of my poems come from the Irish, from poems and poetry half remembered, and poetic forms that intrigued me far more than their English counterparts. So I owe a debt of gratitude to my langauge.





Bród



I searched through the foclóir of my life
Looking for my roots, mo Teach, mo Tuath is mo Tir
And found some little treasures I’d forgotten
Little seoda
buried here and there.
I found my bród hidden under layers
Of fear, of criticism and of failure.
I found mo grá in sound and form that flowed.
And in the words of poets long departed,
Found mo teanga náisiúnta
– still great and open-hearted.

1.

This is Not a Valentine

This is not a Valentine
for a start it's two days late
and will not rhyme.
This is not a paean to one day
to flowers or cards (ours unexchanged,
unwritten, stolen and returned)
I say again, this is not a Valentine.

This is not a Valentine;
it is a hymn to mundane days,
days without titles and nights
without expectations; when a weary
hand stirs a bottle, takes a turn,
loads a wash, puts on dinner.
No, this cannot be a Valentine.

This is not a Valentine.
No flowery verse would stoop
to describe the loving act of hoovering
or the romantic gesture of sweeping.
No flowers are delivered, when a cup of tea
is made and handed over with a kiss.
No, No Valentine is this.

This is not a Valentine.
They'll never teach this poem in school,
this ode to daily love. A kind word,
a compliment unearned, a gentle touch.
The heroic act of doing more than your share;
to quietly care. Ah no, this is no Valentine.
It is a poem of love.

1.

On swings

I saw my son fall in love today
with swings
in a city playground
in the town I love.
Up til now, their charms
had left him cold;
this afternoon I saw an alchemy
of joy
A boy, a swing, the evening sun
cold air on cheek and childish fun
head - tilted back
and eyes half closed
legs reaching foward, arms straining
and
as the arc died
from glorious heights
to gentle rocking
one word;
more!

1.

PPP Publishing - IN and OUT by Inga Brigitta

Exciting news! Calling all poetry lovers, Inga Brigitta's collection In and Out is almost ready for release! Details of how to order will be posted on http://www.ppppublishing.com - it will retail at £8.95 plus postage from cafepress, or will be available in Ireland from PPP Publishing, and direct from the poet herself in the UK.
This is the ideal xmas gift for poetry lovers, or just for yourself.

1.

In Dublin, on an Autumn Day

Written this morning in the Stephen's Green as my one year old slept happily in his Bugaboo, all wrapped up against the Autumn bite. There is nowhere quite as pleasant as the Green on a quiet Autumnal morning.



In Dublin, it is a treat
to find a seat in the Stephen's
Green
Near the fountains
on Constance's Side
Where if you sit quiet and still
On an Autumn Morning
Chill in the air, and Leaves falling
A robin might appear
at your feet
Under the seat, where careless
Tourists
Spill crumbs from O'Briens
And you watch the punks and goths
flock
Followed by the suits and shoppers
And a park keeper passes
And nods, hello, the ducks in the pond
Rising.

1.

My piece "legacy; these acts make you immortal" on the Balanced Witch Blog

http://thebalancedwitch.com/family/legacy-these-acts-make-you-immortal/

Delighted to contribute a piece to The Balanced Witch blog - this is my piece on motherhood and the spiritual journey. Read and comment, and support a lovely blog/site.

1.

The Balanced Witch Blog; my piece "legacy"

1.

1.

For Ronan Mac Aongusa, Transparent years (a poem of UCD)

For Ronan, for 25 years.



Transparent Years

25 years ago
On the concourse of UCD
Or hanging in the students union
We were arrogant and lost
In impossible measures

Transparent in our voices
Ideals worn with cynical pride
Titling at dragons and chasing dreams
Angst and alcohol, side by side

25 years ago,
you became a sentinel in my life
prompting me when I stumbled
one of the foundations
of who I am.

We have both made our journeys
In miles, in thought, in dream or deed
Each one ending in our reunion
Friendship it seems, is our only need.

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In Search of a Lost Girl

Inspired by Immrama, and the bringing of meditation and journeying techniques into modern life

In search of a lost girl

The summer of my youth was spent
In smoky pubs; making rain
While the sun shone.
On and on, I traversed the lines
And wasted time like golden coin.

How to glimpse again the vanished day?
Travel through the shades and speak
To my younger, lost self? And take
her by the hand and reinvent
the landscape of my past.

I have lit incense to the god of time
And sweated out the years
I have shed tears and offered wine
And burnt meat. They will not treat
With me, and silently disdain.

I will return to the ways of my mothers,
And sail into the western seas,
Mannanán will guide me to Hy-Brasil
And I will alight at the sacred Isles
Where all answers lie, hidden.

Among the old, I will walk with ease.
It will please me to hear the old words
And sing the old songs, among the trees.
I will make a harp of my sorrows and dance
And woo time with my lips.

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Wilderness

This is an old one; I found it recently online and thought, well if it's on other sites it should get a place on my own blog...I have mixed feelings about it, it is a poem written about the claims of old friends who are no longer friends. It was written for someone I knew in my teens and twenties, a very different place in my life.


Wilderness

We were lost for a while, despite maps
You looked into the distance and called
and your voice returned multifold.
I had told you that there was an echo but
you wouldn't believe an old friend;
I am hurt that you had no faith
and in the end we are what we believe.

The trek to the summit was hard
and I longed to be back in the valleys;
I wouldn't say so to you,
and you knew I was being forbearing
how deeply you hate me, my old friend.

I am submerged in the cool lake, swimming
and the sound of your voice is muffled;
I am free of the claims of the past, even
as you climb into my present.

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Robert Lee Brewer "Escape" (Second Volume of Poetry) Preoder!

Just ordered a new book of poetry from Robert Lee Brewer, the second of his collections. "Escape" should be good, if it's half as good as "Enter" I'll be happy. Anyone looking for a good book of modern poetry, check out his blog (click on the title above) or twitter @robertleebrewer. It's only $10 plus postage. Enter was an excellent, well selected, cohesive collection and a thoroughly enjoyable read.

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Fame at Last...Charlie on Italian TV this summer

Well Charlie himself will be interviewed on Italian TV soon; he's no stranger to print and radio interviews although this may be his first TV one. Some favourite interviews over the years have included one he did for the students in Rathmines College of Commerce, a radio documentary for Lyric FM on buying a first violin and a wonderful print interview (later part of a book) by Rose DOyle for the Irish Times.

We are looking forward now to seeing what the Italian interview is like and what they are looking for! Details will be shared as we find them out.

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Doctors in Bahrain: Update

There is an excellent segment on the Joe Duffy LIVELINE show on RTE radio one (today Thursday 23rd June 2011)about the Doctors and medics being held, tortured and falsely accused in Bahrain.
You can listen to the podcast if you miss the show: just visit rte.ie and look for Liveline and then for Thursday 23rd June show. If I have time I will post a direct link later.http://www.rte.ie/radio1/liveline/

The plight of these poor medics has to be brought to the attention of the world. many were trained in the Royal College of Surgeons Ireland and all are innocent of terrible charges. It is a tragedy and the RCSI refuses to help them, for financial reasons. Overseas Students are a lucrative business for them.
Please listen, and if you can join in the campaign to help them. Doctors especially are needed to sign petitions and force the RSCI to act.
Let's make a difference. Retweet this, facebook it, write to the newspapers, write to the Bahrainian Embassy London

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Beaker Folk of Husborne Crawley: Oppress Stonehenge's Neo-Pagan Hippies: Guardian

Beaker Folk of Husborne Crawley: Oppress Stonehenge's Neo-Pagan Hippies: Guardian

This is an excellent blog post from
"Archdruid" Eileen - while I personally hold no brief for the modern "Druid" and some of the antics surrounding sacred sites by the tree hugging hippy neo-Druidic movement I think this sums up why we all have to make room for other people's beliefs and practices.
Well written and well argued.

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Pagan Writers Community

Anyone who writes with an eye to alternative spirituality should check out Pagan Writer's Community on Facebook and also the new website on http://grou.ps/paganwriterscommunity/

An excellent resource for esoteric writings, pagan poetry and fiction and to connect and interact with other writers.

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Listowel Writers Week June 1st-5th 2011

Listowel Writers Week start June 1st and runs to June 5th inclusive; it boasts a great programme of events and lots of variety - theatre, poetry, novels - with readings from great authors including Neil Jordan. Ronan Wilson and more!

check out http://writersweek.ie/ and consider a different Bank Holiday Weekend !

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Aisling (competition poem)

To read the poem from the John Murray poetry competition, check out HERE

To listen to it being read by Pat Boran, and hear the other excellent entries and the winners check out HERE (the poetry competition is 6th down the page)

Many thanks to everyone who emailed or twittered how much they enjoyed the poem and thanks for all the extremely kind comments. I think you'll really enjoy the standard of poems read out on air; from junior level upwards the winners are so impressive. Please listen and let the show know how much you enjoyed the poetry competition. Poetry needs your support. Don't forget to twitter using the hash key #writingcommunity

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I got a highly commended on the John Murray Poetry comp

Well, I am very pleased with myself this morning. I tuned in to listen to the results of the poetry competition, hoping that someone I knew might have done well. They read out about four or five poems, including the category winners and a sample of commended poems. Imagine my utter delight when the judge read out my poem Aisling and commented on it. The standard of entries was so high, it was a compliment to be included.
What completely impressed me was the standard of the junior and senior school entries - there's a lot right with our country when our youth has such a passionate and literate voice.

If you visit http://www.rte.ie/radio1/thejohnmurrayshow/ by tomorrow there should be a podcast to listen to of today's show. My poem "Aisling" is read just before the overall Adult winner is announced.

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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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Last day to enter RTE poetry competition!

Tomorrow is the closing date for entries to the John Murray Poetry Competition on RTE radion one in association with Listowel Writers' Week.
The theme is Ireland 2011 and the poem must be 20 lines or less. There are three categories, two for school goers and one for adults. Read the submission guidelines at the link above.

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Ladies' Day

Just heard of the death of a friend; she hadn't been around in the last few years but I have very fond memories of her charm and elegance. This is for her.

Ladies' day

August in Dublin
For her was hats
Shoes and other
Sartorial excesses
But mainly hats

Ladies day at the RDS
Sore shoes on inexperienced feet
I complained but she laughed
Suffer for fashion, ladies

The rituals of ladyship
She took seriously
Played by the rules.
Once she made
a lime green hat

She was Hitchcock cool
With a passionate eye
I remember most
How she enjoyed it all

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John Murray Show poetry comp RTE

Just a reminder that there are still a few days left in which to enter the inaugural John Murray Show Poetry Competition.

Full details here at http://writersweek.ie/uncategorized/rte-john-murray-show-poetry-competition

The theme is Ireland 2011 and it is held in conjunction with Listowel Writers Week.

1.

Untitled Landscape

How do you see me? he asked
I paused. At nineteen how do you answer that?
How do you say, I cannot describe you?

He was, we were,
wild beauty rocks and mountains and waterfalls
or we were urban decay wasteland and wire fence

I remember those days through a haze of nostalgia
the least of them pulsates like a beating heart
lifeblood of experience

I was unknown. You were unspoken
He was unformed. She was unbroken.
We were untitled landscapes.

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The edge of rain

I stood with you on the edge of rain
Deep In a forest in a foreign land
We danced between two states of mind
Sun to storm, hand in hand
Leaves made dappled patterns on the path
Rivers formed beneath our glancing feet
We circled stately like twin stars
Cheek to cheek, the twain did meet

1.

She Dances Like a Wave

She dances like a wave
Undulations leaving ridges
In the sands of time
She dances like long grass
Sighing before the wind
Bending low to kiss the earth
She dances to the song
Of larks on the wing
Wheeling free against the sun
She dances
And the world stands still

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Storm

Invisible hands
Move branches
Lift fallen leaves
Throw handfuls
against my window
Counterpoint
To rain hitting glass
Hitting slate
Dancing on metal
Wind howls
Wild joyful screams
Low moans of pain
Finding hidden passages
Creeping through gaps
To place cold fingers
On your cheek
You stir
You sigh
You shiver
Safe indoors

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Baby's Song

For obvious reasons I have had no time to write in the last 4 months; but there's one piece of rhyme I have composed ! This is what I sing to my 4 month old baby boy. I doubt it'll stand as my greatest poetic work but he seems to like it.

I have the best baby in the whole wide world
his name is darabean
he's the best baby
that you've ever seen
I love my baby
and my baby, he loves me
We both love Daddy
that's a family of three!

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