The Hidden Jester

Hidden Jester

Grief comes,
in glancing blows
stealing up at tangents -
shards of promise, taut with loss,
might have been, should have been.
Nothing direct or clean;
but sharp cuts and sudden hurts
from shadowed corners.

Strange friend,
thief, despoiler
relying on one saving grace,
one charity of memory, doled out.
Taking more than giving;
a parasite of living;
poisonous flower, spreading
like a weed.

Hidden Jester
laying small traps
that catch you unawares -
the detritus of life, turned enemy
banal weapons that shard the heart
and once you start
you cannot stem the flow
and he has won.

1.

That Bizarre Moment When....

....you click on Amazon to update your Author page and you find your poetry collection is listed on N0 1 new released in "British Poetry"

The cognitive dissonance as you go:
"YAY" and also at the same time "BRITISH? WTAF?"

In the end though, cos I'm as vain as the next poet, Yay won :)

(I'm under no illusion, I'd say I'll be No 1 for apx 24 hours but hey, thanks Amazon any way :)

In other news, thanks so much to kind people buying it and reading it on Kindles Select, and please do leave a review! A review is so important to Authors on Amazon especially, it means a huge boost to visibility. Click those stars :)

AMAZON.COM
AMAZON.CO.UK

1.

I have been neglecting you my pretties....#blog #update #poetry #amwriting #poems #ireland

Yes my loves I have been neglecting you all but there's been a reason for that - life. Busy life, gods help us. Since I last posted I have - in no particular order - been working on my first collection; had a poem published in Gods and Radicals; hosted the Creative Workshop evening at the Harold's Cross Festival and signed up to contribute to an exciting new project or three. Three, in fact.
And that's on top of my usual life.
But with a bit of hard work and luck I might be ready for publication this year; I shall definitely be writing with the incredibly talented Gina Bass; and I'll be in a few bits and pieces coming up over the next few months, I'll keep ye posted.

Deciding on poems for inclusion and publication has been a long slow process - there's also a lot of editorial decisions to be made about the tone and direction of the collection and these are hard choices. I think the end result will be worth it though, I hope so :)

And I won't be so neglectful in future I promise. Thanks for the comments, PMs and emails - it' makes the lonely slog more worthwhile!

1.

The Host of Morrigan Marches Again #poetry#ireland #pagan #deity #humour

For Lora O'Brien - mostly in jest....


The Host of Morrigan Marches Again


The recruitment drive was quietly done;
stealthy (by design)
signs were set, and entrails yielded omens.

Some of those conscripted in
didn't even know they were
til orders came and uniforms were donned.

"Onwards!" cried their leader
sword drawn, and battle eye a-gleam.
"Um, what's the plan?" one Private asked.

"I have a dream, " the curt reply. And
no one asked again, for who can argue
with the power of a well placed aisling?

She will be pleased, when She sees
the standards flying and the cauldrons
set again over flames -

the felling of great trees no longer
acceptable, the ranks improvised 
with government papers and utility bills -

and the red gold of the setting sun
over the smooth undulations of the land
sets fire to visions of a Nation's pride.

The Host of An Morrigu marches once again
though wanders might better describe
some of its progress towards the field of carnage

while some dance and sing and others still
sharpen pens and draw ink like blood
from their own veins.

Still they are a war-band, and they will fight
whatever weapons they choose
in this world or the others.

Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

1.

Spaces

Deep in the night
Between last orders
And first light
Gods wander the city
Stealing dreams.
Pass them by,
If you see them
Do not stop or stare
Do not dare them
They are not at play.
They own this ground
From slick kerb
to guttered edge and
In between.
All the spaces.

1.

Twitter Fragment January 2010

i
Girl on city street, heels clicking
shiny hair, gleaming lips
eyes glinting in the smokey light
siren song in her stride

ii
Boy on corner smoking
haloed under streetlight's glow
watches the lilt of a girl's walk
breathes her in like air
forgets to exhale

iii
Cold grey sky can lie
the tell tale signs
one green shoot, rooted in dark soil
one new blade turned toward a wintry sun
Bridget comes

iv
hope - uncertain friend
promising much yet in the end
what happens next, all depends
on things Hope can't control

v
Dark rain, vanquishing spirit
overpowers the pristine cloak of snow
revealing colours, angles, edges

1.

Snow in Dublin II

Snow in Dublin II

At midnight
We found ourselves
walking a borrowed dog,
in a world
of white, frosted
under a diamond sky.

We were silent;
overawed by
that still cliché of snow ,
not a sound
except the crisp
break of sparkling cold.

There is ice,
buried under
the soft clean white.
No step
is quite sure,
so you take my arm.

We are
alone, intrepid
you, me and the borrowed dog.
We are safe
in this world,
under jewelled skies.

1.

I hear ya

For the November Pad challenge

A poem filled with noise


I hear ya.

Hiss of fire, (gas, so no crackle
no shift of turf or coal, but still,
warm and comforting)
Hum of dryer, the kitchen
filled with moist damp air
whirl of washing in machine
(old machine, with choas
in its spin cycle.)
Nextdoor neighbours
shouting kids and loud
Rumanian curse words
and baby screams.
(Miss
the quiet of our Polish and French
couple, moved away home)
TV tells me "It's going to trial"
(Law and Order on a wet afternoon)
and I clickity clack on my keyboard.
The wind chases demons down
the chimney, rain pelts against
my window, the heating kicks in
with a boiler-busting bang.
My iphone beeps, text message
insistantly calling, read me read me.

What are you doing?
Having a quiet day off, I say.
I hear ya, you reply.

1.

What Is It?

My "Plant" poem for the November poetic challenge


What Is It?

"What is it?" my husband asked.
His faith in my knowledge was touching;
I can grow herbs and tomatoes
but am a mass murderer of houseplants.
"I don't know." We both stared -
it was a weed, or a baby tree or a flower.
That much at least was clear.
"Should we dig it up?" he mused.
It has reddish leaves and a long thin stem
and looks innocent, exposed
by our weeding and ruthless culling of hedges;
its secret life and gentle growth
gone forever, like childhood; I cannot cut it.
He looks at me, hopfully
"It could be a tree. I bet it's a tree."
It could be; some bird may have dropped seed
in the undergrowth of our garden
and from this tiny source, a trunk and branch
and deciduous colours in Autumn
and shade and root may yet grow, and tower.
Why not? Why not a tree as easily as a weed?
"It looks like a tree to me."

1.

Twitter Fragments II

Twitter Fragments II

Or
how I feel on certain days....

i
The city moves, a slow grumbling yawn
shoppers drifting in lazy knots
high heels and blowdried hair
rituals of consumer glee

ii
Dublin awash with
post Arthurian hangovers;
spotted - more than one walking wounded
with Guinness pallor.
People with very shaky hands.

iii
Autumn encroaches on the last days of Summer
Fat old woman, ripe in gaudy colour
pushing aside the frail and ailing belle

iv
September sun
the cool balm of Indian summer
across the city like a gentle hand
a gift before ripe Autumn falls

v
Dublin is grey today windswept & autumnal
back to school blues & sad little doldrums
the first fallen leaves lie forlorn on the pavement

vi
Early Sat evening in Dublin;
the everday life of the city
abandoned for the tinsel glamour of its night life.
Mad, wild, woolly...

vii
hard seat, numbing both body and mind
I find myself dreaming of another future
reaching out for things no longer real

viii
Light steals darkness from my room
gentle thief, fracturing dreams
emptying memories to lay bare jewels of time

1.