IN PRAISE OF IRISH THEATRES

IN PRAISE OF IRISH THEATRES

For more than twenty years

I have emptied pens on virgin pages;

A million words at least

And many more chewed in frustration

Then spat into the dustbin of the ages.

Words are cheap and wordsmiths cheaper still

But we like our efforts to be appreciated

And performed  ( better still)

Yet to Irish Theatres great and small,

I do not write plays at all;

You have ignored my work

Yet the English do not shirk

To place my plays centre-stage

And Americans too have premiered a few

Which makes me ask you nicely

Irish Theatres, what the FUCK

Is the matter with you?

 

MORE TALES FROM THE BLACK LION

MORE TALES FROM THE BLACK LION

We had a party the other night. A kind of fancy-dress do, where everybody came dressed as a pub. There were several Red Cows, three Spotted Dogs, a Lord Nelson, a Duke Of Wellington, several Queen Victorias and a Pig And Whistle. And of course a Black Lion. This, naturally, being the guvner himself.
Then John The Butcher arrived. He was carrying a placard which read, ‘repent all ye who enter here for the end of the world is neigh’. He was also carrying a bloodied parcel, which he slapped on the counter in front of the guvner.
‘There you are. Five pound of the best tee-bone.. Tender as a baby’s bottom’.
‘What would you know about babies?’, someone in the crowd piped up. John was a confirmed bachelor.
‘Plenty’, he said, without averting his eyes from the pint that was being poured by one of the Red Cows. ‘I was one once’.
The guvner, meantime ,was dividing his time between sniffing at the parcel and studying the placard. Eventually, satisfied with the meat, he shoved it out of sight and rescued a tenner from the till. This he shoved grudgingly in John’s direction, indicating the placard as he did so.
‘Am I missing something?’
John waited until he had lowered the froth on his pint to below the half-way line before answering. ‘Ha, ha. Got ya there, haven’t I?’ He flicked a hand at the sign. ‘It’s the world’s end’.
‘Is it? Not right this minute I trust? Not in the middle of my busy time’. He looked closely at John. ‘You gone religious or sumthin’?’
‘You berk. The World’s End. It’s a pub.’
‘Never heard of it’
‘It’s a pub I tell ya. Down the Kings Road’.
‘He is right. I myself have been there many times’. This was Artic Alice. ‘I can vouch for its existence’.
Alice always spoke in a clipped, formal way. A legacy of her upbringing undoubtably, which, it was rumoured, included some of the best finishing schools in the land. Alice herself never confirmed (or denied) these stories, but there was no doubt she was well-educated, and, from the way she conducted herself in company, well-bred.
Alice never got drunk. She was content to sip Martinis in her favourite corner, poring over a crossword or a book, being polite to everyone, never opening her heart to a soul. She participated in the occasional pub quiz ( at which she excelled), but she was still as much a mystery woman as the day she first appeared about five years ago. Hence her nickname.
‘There. If Alice says it exists that should be good enough for you’. John finished his pint and signalled for another.
‘Not so fast’. The guvner wasn’t going to concede as easily as that. ‘Anyone can invent a pub. How do I know it exists?’
I forgot to mention that the reason for dressing up is this competition the guvner dreamed up, in which the winner can drink as much as he or she is capable of over the weekend. It occurs to me he might have a good reason for not wanting John to participate. With his capacity for unlimited guzzling he might easily drink the place dry.
Alice, who was to be the judge, wouldn’t be denied. ‘Of course it exists.’
‘That may well be. But it still isn’t proof’.
‘Proof you want, is it?’ It was the first time I had heard Alice raise her voice. ‘I’ll give you proof’. She snatched her handbag from the counter and rummaged through it for a few moments. Eventually, she produced a cutting, dog-eared, and yellowing ,and spread it out before us on the counter.
‘Hey, that’s Georgie Best’. The guvner poked a finger at the picture staring up at us. A look of something approaching awe appeared on his face. ‘Is that you pulling him a pint?’
‘It certainly is me. I was much younger then of course. What does it say on that banner behind me?’
We could all see it now, in letters that must have been a foot high. WORLDS END PUB …GRAND OPENING BY GEORGE BEST…FREE BEER ALL DAY
‘I knew I could rely on you Alice’. John clapped her on the shoulder. ‘You deserve a large drink after all that’.
‘Thank you John. My usual will suffice’. Alice carefully folded her cutting and placed it in her bag between the pages of a loose-leaf note-book that looked filled with notes. ‘By the way, the word is nigh’.
‘Eh?’
‘The end of the world is nigh, John, not neigh’.

More tales from the Black Lion soon…

POEM FOR THE PECKER DUNNE

Picture of Pecker Dunne

Poem For The Pecker Dunne

Gather round this cold night by the campfire,and i’ll tell you a Tinkermans’ tale,
All about a great singer of Ireland,who triumphed where many have failed.
Born into a nomadic lifestyle,a horse drawn trailer it was his abode,
And he travelled the lanes of ould Ireland,and he travelled the dusty old roads.

“Sullivans John” to the road you have gone,Pecker Dunne wrote at eleven years young
And that was the dawn of his music career,and his wonderful story begun.
For he travelled the byways and highways,and could be found on a bright sunny day,
Playing songs down at Croke of the travelling folk,at the games of the old G.A.A

Well he sang of the Myxomatosis and he told of the ould Morris van,
And the tale of the Thirty foot trailer,and the songs of the travelling man.
And he gave us the songs of his people,where others had feared for to speak,
And he spoke out ‘gainst discrimination,and equal rights for his people did seek.

Well you’d find him not far from O’Callaghans Mills,in the famed banner county of Clare,
Down among all the horses and trailers at the world famous Spancil Hill fair.
And you’d find him out west into Galway and on the road up to Ballinasloe,
With his banjo and fiddle always close by at hand,for he always would put on a show.

Pecker drank with the great Richard Harris,a world renowned actor and drinker,
And starred in “The Good,Bad & Ugly”,not bad for an old Wexford Tinker!!
And he knew Eli Wallach and Oliver Reed,and he acted with the man Stephen Rea,
But he never denied that great traveller pride,on the open road Peckers’ heart lay.

Christy Moore never met with Bob Dylan,but he sang with the great Pecker Dunne,
So won’t you come now to me little daughter,won’t you come now to me little son.
For Pecker played with those brothers The Fureys,and Luke Kellys’ own Dubliners’ band,
With his own unique style that old banjo he played,and the greatest respect did command.

So always remember his music,and never then forget his face,
For he brought such joy unto his people,and he brought such pride unto his race.
For we are the Romany people,and in that we should suffer no shame,
Dunne,Barrett,Ward or other,travelling sister or brother,you should always take pride in your name.

So farewell to the tent and the trailer,and farewell to the old caravan,
And join me in praise of the great Pecker Dunne,of the Legend,Musician and Man.
For he shall be forever remembered,and his name it shall always live long,
Carried on by the travellers of Ireland,in their poems and in story and song.

(C)ProvoRhino. 9th June 2010.All Rights Reserved.

 

My  play PECKER DUNNE – LAST OF THE TRAVELERS, is a musical biography of one of Ireland’s last great travelling musicians.

A play with music about the travelling musicians of Ireland, mostly concentrating on Pecker Dunne and Margaret Barry. They were both from travelling families, Tinkers, and were marginalised by Irish society. Looked down on, indeed persecuted for their way of life. Both were great singers and musicians, and along with the great Johnny Doran, did more to promote Irish traditional music than almost any other person of our times. Both are dead now and the play is set in a kind of imaginary ‘halting site’, where departed souls are temporarily resident while awaiting transport to somewhere permanent.

AUTOMATIC WRITING

AUTOMATIC WRITING
by
Tom O’Brien
(written in a two-hour against-the-clock frenzy one summers morning in ….  a long time ago)

Why is me? Why is god? Bad grammar I know, but syntax isn’t everything, is it? Syntax…must look that up, not too sure what it means. It’s as if this pen has a will of its own – I am merely sitting here watching it trace outlines on a virgin, amazed at what I am reading. I wonder if Trollope employed this technique in his writing? It sure seems like it; he wrote 3000 words every morning before work. But why go on about it….everyone knows that old chestnut. Duncan McDaid, who was he? A footballler in Askeaton? No, that was the McDaid clan from Northern Ireland. Good footballers, but hard to stomach. Shits, every one. Still, one humoured them. ‘Now is the summer of fucking content.’ Something like that would have suited the Bard better. ‘Not to be at all’ sounds better than the other one. It was a dark and dangerous hour…why do I keep changing the words before I write them? Good practice for later, I guess. Scott Fitzgerald liked to try this form of writing; get all this shit down on paper and see what resulted. Nothing much ever did. However, it’s a discipline that has got to be tried – see what comes out apart from shit.
Shall I begin a new paragraph? Go on, treat yourself. Buy a few pages of crap; spout it all out here at this end-of-page feeling. This life is but a dot on a far horizon…a blank dilettante….almost faltered there… doesn’t blank dilettante almost rhyme? – and if it doesn’t does it matter? Now this plate on my table stinks; old dog-ends mashed up in rasher grease, and outside cats-nip that some should nick. The old shed at garden’s end was nicked too. Oh, not in totality; but layer upon layer, chopped down with a buzzz-saw, and then nailed to the cross that bore it. What crap you say, and of course you’re write (right), but then you always are my dear. Never known to be wrong, for long are you crucified, eh? Maybe that is right too, but you hammered in the nails yourself. No martyrs for me, but you – you – you stood there screaming – it was him – him who brought the house down – stood there ankle-deep in shit telling everyone our secret. Secret? That was no secret; it was written in italics on every cinema wall in the state. She loves you but she daren’t admit it, not even to her fairy godmother, who happens – and this is true – to be the biggest fairy in dog-land. I don’t know where dog-land is, but by God it is rough. Ha  Continue reading

SUPERMARKET IN CALIFORNIA – Alan Ginsberg

Allen Ginsberg, born in Newark, N.J., June 3, 1926, is an American poet and leading apostle of the beat generation.

Supermarket In California

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I
walked down the streets under the trees with a
headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went
into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your
enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families
shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the
avocados, babies in the tomatoes! – and you, Garcia Lorca,
what were you doing down by the watermelons?

I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,
poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing
the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans
following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary
fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy,
and never passing the cashier.

Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets?
The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we’ll both be lonely.

Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past
blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher,
what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood
watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

Alan Ginsberg

THE DANCE OF THE CRANE

THE DANCE OF THE CRANE

 Long-necked and longer-legged

They shimmer among the reeds

Crazy-dancing in the breeze

High-stepping, wing-flapping

Bouncing high in springy leaps

Then  a pause

To step lightly here,

Tread gaily there

Duets in the sun

Heads bowed.

Balletically symmetric

It ends in a crescendo

That is electric

It is love they are dancing about

This joyful abundance

Knowing no bounds

Feeling no pain

You and I, my love

Shall soon learn

To dance like the crane

DEAR MR PRESIDENT

DEAR MR PRESIDENT

The prophecies have come to pass,

The great spirit, Massau’u

Says that man should live in harmony,

Yet the government has destroyed our basic religion

In this land of the Great Spirit.

Great roads like rivers cross our land

Man talks to man

Through a cobweb of telephone lines

And travels the roads in the sky,

Man is tampering with the moon and the stars

The White Man has desecrated the face of Mother Earth

In his desire for material possessions

Blinded to the pain caused to Mother Earth

By his quest for so-called natural resources.

The sacred lands of the Hopi are desecrated

By men who seek coal and water

To create power for the white man’s cities.

The Great Spirit says not to allow this to happen

Says not to take from the earth

Not to destroy living things,

Otherwise a gourd of ashes will be dropped upon the earth,

That many men will die,

And that the end of this way of life is near at hand

RED INDIANS SPEAK

We will not have the wagons which make a noise

In the hunting grounds of the buffalo.

If the palefaces come further into our lands

There will be the scalps of your brethren in the wigwams of the Cheyennes.

I have spoken.

Accursed be the race that has seized on our country

And made women of our warriors.

Our fathers from their tombs reproach us as slaves and cowards.

I hear them now in the wailing winds;

The spirits of the mighty dead complain.

Their tears drop from the wailing skies.

Let the white race perish.

They seize your land, they corrupt your women,

They trample on the ashes of your dead!

Back whence they came, upon a trail of blood, they must be driven.

FUCK THE DANES

FUCK THE DANES.

Fuck the Irish

Fuck the Danes

Fuck Copenhagen the most

In the place that pains;

All sheep are uneducated

Nothing to do with stupidity

All down to the genes, you see;

Unless the Danes now makes theirs go to school

Doing arithmetic and algebra

Sitting quietly on a three-legged stool.

The Danes came to Ireland once before

And Brian Boru showed the Viking hordes

The way to San Jose –

And Amarillo for good measure

Go! Take your fucking sheep with you

And don’t come back whatever the weather.

THE MANAGER SPEAKS

THE MANAGER SPEAKS
The best player on the planet.
When he plays on snow
He doesn’t leave any marks
He can’t walk on water – yet
Though when he farts there’s always sparks

I am like God
I never get ill
I am always right.
Football is a game of two halves
And is mostly a right load of shite

I wouldn’t say I’m the best there is
But I am in the top one
And that’s the only group to be in
If I walked on water
Some would say it’s because I can’t swim

Some believe football is a matter of life and death
But it is much more important than that
In football as in life
You won’t get far
If you don’t know where the goalposts are

The best way to relax
Is to drink pink champagne
Before the match and after
Then losing five nil
Won’t seem a total disaster.