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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Bedside Manners ~ #Alzheimers and the #FamilyCarer a new #poemseries

Bedside Manners:Alzheimers and the Family Carer is a poem series exploring the relationship the Family Carer has with Alzheimer's - both the person for whom they care and the larger issue of the disease itself and how it affects every aspect of life.

The role of the carer is often interpreted by outsiders, framed in martyrdom or judged for any perceived heresy to the doctrine of self sacrifice. What carers find most difficult is often the refusal of others to acknowledge their loss, pain, frustration, stress and responsibility.

When we complain, the reaction is often one of denial - a rush to tell us how it's the disease, not the person or how privileged we are to be able to provide home care, how awful it would be if we were to put them in a home and so forth. Spoiler Alert - we KNOW it's the disease. Also we are the ones giving up our lives to care for the person, please don't tell us how it's a privilege.

These poems are based on personal experience and that of other family carers of loved ones with dementia.

They cover a range of experiences from heartbreak to hilarity, moments where we are lost and ones where we find profound meaning.

Each is accompanied on Insta by a fuller explanation, again directly taken from discussion with other family carers. Every poem is based on lived experience of caring for a relative, rather than professionals in the field, or advocacy groups.

BESIDE MANNERS is a series on twitter @gercelt with fuller exploration of each theme on Instagram @gercelt. If you want to add to anything said please do, 

Feel free to share (credit either Geraldine Moorkens Byrne or link to @gercelt) if you have writing to add (from personal experience only please) I'll happily link to it or you can guest post on Insta or Twitter. There is a hope that the full series may make a book to raise funds for Alzheimer's Research.

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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

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#poetry #collection now available on #Kindle "Dreams of Reality"

The Kindle edition of my Poetry collection is now available on Kindle, published by PPP Publishing Dublin.

 https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07STNJCYH

This collection is divided into several parts, reflecting the wide interest of the poet. At the Gate (a reference to the ancient Irish tradition of fasting against an injustice) deals with the poetry of politics and justice. In the Grove contains the poetry of spirit and philosophy. By the Fireside showcases the poetry of love and personal life.
Spanning over 40 years of writing, and with new unpublished poetry, this has been a labour of love. Grateful thanks to all who have helped, cajoled, formatted, critiqued and generally laboured with me. 

With a foreword by GIna Bass and kind words by Lora O'Brien. 

Paperback Edition inc special signed copies, will be launched later in the year

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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!

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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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The Murder of Cliona

The Murder of Cliona

Cliona sits by the shore
Singing songs of love and loss
Like any underdressed lady of the sea;
passing as one of them, the myths and nymphs
Brushing hair with comb and bone
While all the time, counting waves.

The Ninth one is still hers. She yet
rides the horses of the surf
And Mannanán calls her from the west;
It would be best to return
not wait and hide and hope
for cornucopias of adoration

But she clings on still, a languid
survivor on a rock.
Connla calls by, Sinnan at his side;
they have long ago given up on us,
our ways beyond the
comprehension of mere gods.

They beg her, leave. Come with us
Into the glittering sunsets, into the
Land of Promises. Leave behind
the heartbreak of rejection. Sing with us
once more, don’t let them
poison you here, where you sit.

It’s true her hair is dull
her eyes are swollen and her lips
chaffed. O! mortals, you are killing
Her, killing Cliona of the Ninth Wave.
And yet she sits and waits,
Refusing to drown her hope.

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And now for something completely different. This is a poetic challenge from Robert Lee Brewer - essentially to write a sestina using 6 favourite obscure or at least less common words. Now being a total dunce at this and never having attempted a sestina before I made a fundemental error - I thought the end words of the lines had to be rotated in order. I didn't realise they had to be rotated in a different order, despite rather clear instructions :) So having finished it I realised I had done it wrong however, I have grown rather fond of my Monster and Gargoyle so I've left it as it is. I will however have another go tomorrow using different words and the correct rotation order!


Chortle , Gargoyle , Hullabaloo, Portmanteau, pomegranate, countenance

Stanza 1
You know what makes me chortle?
Said the monster to the Gargoyle
when I jump out of a portmanteau
and my victims make a hullabaloo
One swallowed whole, a pomegranate
Turning puce in her fair countenance.

Stanza 2
The other would not countenance
this; cruelty did not make him chortle
- his was a noble race, The Gargoyle
lofty towers, not cheap portmanteau
Silent watching, not raucous hullabaloo
And no choking on pomegranate.


Stanza 3
She could have choked on that pomegranate
He said with a stern countenance.
While you indulged in your chortle
Why can’t you be more like a gargoyle?
As it is she packed your portmanteau
You’ve lost your place for that hullabaloo!

Stanza 4
The Monster sniggered. That Hullabaloo
Was worth a dozen strangled pomegranate
eating women, however fair her countenance.
Your problem is you never have a chortle.
You don’t know how to live, Gargoyle.
So what if all I have is my portmanteau?

Stanza 5
If you are happy living out of a portmanteau
Then by all means, enjoy the result of your hullabaloo
You’ll never find another girl to feed you pomegranates
Or who will love your ugly countenance
But you’ll have had a good old chortle.
Thus spake the wise old, cool headed Gargoyle

Stanza 6
The monster looked at his friend, the Gargoyle.
He scratched the worn leather of his portmanteau
He was a monster, his business was hullabaloos
It seemed hard that his nature lost him pomegranates
And soft words and kind hands and pretty countenance.
And yet, he could not have stifled that fateful chortle.

Stanza 7
Monster sighed -Gargoyle, I did not mean to chortle
. but jumping out of portmanteau and causing a hullabaloo
Is more to me than sweet pomegranates and fair countenance.

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In the Gaps

In the Gaps

In the gaps
between notes, he plays
a different tune,
changes the key
and makes us dance.

In the silence
he creates shapes;
a space for dreams
that hits us like waves
and makes us sing.

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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

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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.

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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

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Lugh

In honour of the day - Happy Lughnasadh


Lugh
sitting in golden splendour
belly full and mead sweetened
Look down on these my friends,
my clan, my people
my tuatha and my Tir
Lugh, let sweet mellow days
be their fill, and all the ripe
beauty of your season
leaven the approach of winter
with cider-apple and harvest
and plenty
and love.

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Twitter Fragments

I'm doing a thing on twitter where we post a small poem (under 140 characters) Some people do haiku, but I tend towards fragmentary three line verse
twitter @gercelt

also check out @twitlaureate, or search #poetry for more on poetry on twitter

Twitter Fragments


i
Silent house, paused between sleep and wake
and I the ghost, that passes in that space
part guardian, part spectre at the feast.


ii
Cold morning grey competes with duvet warmth
sounds of stirring city siren-calling me to work
summer, in the town beside the sea

iii
Dublin is back in the bosom of winter,
grey skies reflected in slick pavement puddles,
grimly chilled by driving rain

iv
Dead weight of afternoon, pressing down,
keeping me at my desk
oh for the freedom that came with summers past!

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PPP - Summer Solstice Edition taking submissions

For details on how to submit
read here

Non Members - submit to editors@paganpoetrypages.com


Themes: Well it's the summer solstice so that's one :) Summer, heat, the Sidhe, observing religious events, what astrological events mean to us....
Poems, articles, journals, prose all welcome!!

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Suburban Summer

The city lying in a daze
quieter than at midnight
rocked gently in a haze
of shimmering on black tarmac -
pavement hot to barefoot touch.

Sun glinting on shining glass
in spiralling reflection,
casting prisms on the grass
of gardens lulled by bee and mower
the infinity of suburban summer.

pottering in the garden shed
Tiny stirrings of family life
children still have to be fed -
the alluring sound of icecream van
the counterpoint to kitchen smells

Days too perfect in memory
and endless enigma of nostalgia
painful in unattainability;
yet there have been skies this blue
and hours of dreaming peace.

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