THE SILVER TASSIE

I Finally saw THE SILVER TASSIE at The National Theatre last night. What a play, and what a performance! O’Casey’s great war play – or should that be anti-war play – has finally found its natural home.
review:
Act one is set in a Dublin pub, where the victorious football team is celebrating their victory in the cup – the Silver Tassie of the title. Most of them are home on leave from the trenches and are having one last celebration before heading back to France.
Act two, which is set in what appears to be a bombed-out Monastery, drips with symbolism, and the realism of act one has been replaced by a fantastical second one. The soldiers, battered and beaten by their experiences, cower among the ruins,trying to make sense of all the madness, seeming at times to be worshipping the huge gun which pokes its nose out at one corner of the stage. Whether the inference is that religion is as bad as war,or that it causes war, I couldn’t make my mind up,but that there is a clear link between them is certainly implied. The booming and flashing was quite alarming at times, never moreso than at the end of the act, when the huge gun is trundled centre stage, loaded and then pointed directly at the audience, resulting in another almighty bang and a flash that had me seeing stars momentarily.
Acts three and four deal with the aftermath; act three with with the gassed, the shell-shocked, the maimed and the blind trying to recover some kind of normality in hospital; act four at the celebratory dance at the football club where the story began. Here the wheelchair-bound footballer who had won The silver Tassie for the team and his blinded friend finally realise that for them life will never be the same. The ending is surreal, several girls dancing with their ‘scarecrow’ partners, falling down and picking them up,falling down and picking them up…

Brilliantly done and great writing. 5*****


 

BOOK REVIEWS ON THE STREET

Homeless Bookworm

Philani is a homeless man in his mid-twenties in Johannesburg, South Africa. Many people in his situation simply stand at corners begging. And that can sometimes meet basic needs…but it certainly doesn’t set a person apart or motivate people walking or driving by to donate.

But Philani does it differently. Every day he takes his ever-changing library to a different corner and sets up a sort of impromptu literary discussion group and bookshop.

For anyone interested, he will review his books and then you can buy one from him. In this way, he raises money for himself and his homeless friends as well as spreading happiness.
Philani says;

‘Reading is not harmful. There’s no such thing as harmful knowledge. This thing is only going to make you a better person.’

And if he has a kids book you’re interested in, it’s free, so that you can give it to a child.

Ride on ,Philani my friend!

See all my books for sale on amazon @ http://www.amazon.co.uk/Tom-OBrien/e/B0034OIGOQ/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1388083522&sr=1-2-ent

 

GILDED BIRDS

GILDED BIRDS

 The only beauty left

Is the struggle for perfection

Beauty is asking to be used

Real beauty endures

Like a rhythm or a cadence

Or a sphere

 

Beauty is an unknown face

Somewhere, in that place

Where something has happened,

Or will soon.

 

DAWNING

DAWNING

 ‘Silly old fool’, someone

Shouts in your wake

And in the brilliantly-lit

Cube of time ‘old’ is dangled

Before your eyes

 

And won’t go away

 

She called you old! And

In the instant it takes you

To turn around and see

The solitary young woman

Bend down to retrieve her parcel

It dawns on you that you are

Nearer the end than the beginning

 

Much nearer

 

It comes, not creeping in the dark,

But galloping unstoppably

Over the horizon

And you never see it

 

Silly old fool

 

 

JESUS SAVES

 

I wrote this piece of doggerel whilst watching a boring football game last night

 

JESUS SAVES

 There is no doubt it is a penalty

A trailing leg caught the number nine

And upended him right on the spot.

Jesus shakes his head;

So stupido, our centre half

So bloody stupido.

Jose de Jesus will be our saviour

He tells himself

Blessing himself three times

Calling on his grandmother, his grandfather,

The Holy Ghost, Castro, Pancho Villa

And all the saints in Christendom.

 

The penalty taker glares at him

If looks were bullets he would be finito

He is stupido too, he thinks

Smiling his little smile.

He sways this way on jelly legs

Feints that way and flops his arms

The ball is struck, the aim is fine

But Jesus has read the striker’s line

And….oh yes….

Jesus saves – this time

UNTITLED

        

UNTITLED

 An unmanned comet passed

By my window last night

Steering by our moon

Stealing love

 

Its journey will be long

 

 from my new collection of poetry ’67’ – http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/67/

 

THE SONGLINES

SONGLINES

 

Labyrinth of impossible pathways

Meandering across Australia

Singing the Aborigines home

Singing out the names of every

Bird, bee and tree

Singing rook and river

Singing you and me

Singing all the world

Into being.

 

A dreaming track

A path across the land

Or sometimes the sky

Creator-Beings dreaming

Songs, stories, dances, paintings

Petrosomatoglyphs on the land

Leaving huge footprints behind

Navigating vast distances

Through the parched interior

Language no barrier

Melodic contours in song

Passing over the land

Rhythmically beating out the jives

Where the spirits of unborn children

Sing to keep the land alive

 

Chatwin tells us how it was

The songlines stretching across the eons

People singing their lives into existence

Following signs their ancestors

Had tuned to perfection.

Their roads invisible to us

No traces we could follow

No marks we could discern

No bulldozer dented this terrain

No tarmac spread for others gain

 No buildings stacked with pure disdain

To leave wrecked nature in their wake

The lines were left to all for free

If our blinkered eyes could only see.

 

Yarralin, Walujapi

Black-Headed Python

Rainbow Serpent

Native Cat Dreaming

Arranda, Kaititja, Kukaja

Unmatjera, Ilpara

Ley-di-ley-di-ley

Long lines

Ley-di-ley-di-ley

Songlines

 

 

 

BAD POETS SOCIETY

 

Wordsworth wrote The Prelude

And it was all right

But it was a prelude

To a load of s***e

(Kingsley Amis)

Amis clearly wasn’t a fan of Wordsworth! Is writing bad poetry easier than writing good poetry? Probably not – and it’s just as time-consuming. William McGonagall could probably confirm that!

William Topaz McGonagall  was a Scottish weaver, poet and actor. He won notoriety as an extremely bad poet who seemingly couldn’t care less of his peers’ opinions of his work.

He wrote about 200 poems, including his notorious “The Tay Bridge Disaster”, which are widely regarded as some of the worst in English literature. Groups throughout Scotland engaged him to make recitations from his work and contemporary descriptions of these performances indicate that many listeners were appreciating McGonagall’s skill as a comic music hall character. Collections of his verse remain popular, with several volumes available today.

McGonagall has been acclaimed as the worst poet in British history. The chief criticisms are that he is deaf to poetic metaphor and unable to scan correctly. In the hands of lesser artists, this might generate dull, uninspiring verse. McGonagall’s fame stems from the humorous effects these shortcomings generate. The inappropriate rhythms, weak vocabulary and imagery combine to make his work amongst the most unintentionally amusing poetry in the English language. His work is in a long tradition of narrative ballads and verse written and published about great events and tragedies, and widely circulated among the local population as handbills. In an age before radio and television, their voice was one way of communicating important news to an avid public.

He died penniless in 1902 and was buried in an unmarked grave in Greyfriars Kirkyard in Edinburgh.

The Tay Bridge Disaster

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay!/ Alas! I am very sorry to say /That ninety lives have been taken away/ On the last Sabbath day/ of 1879/, Which will be remember’d for a very long time/.’Twas about seven o’clock at night,/And the wind it blew with all its might,/ And the rain came pouring down/, And the dark clouds seem’d to frown/, And the Demon of the air seem’d to say-“/I’ll blow down the Bridge of Tay /-

There’s more – a lot more – unfortunately!

William McGonagall.jpg 

FRIGHTENING THE CROWS

 

            FRIGHTENING THE CROWS

            I once knew a man

            Who frightened crows for a living.

            In between, he brewed cheap beer

            And stole old books.

            He cycled the universe

            Looking for answers;

            All he found was a cold grave

            When he was thirty nine.

         

my new collection of poetry is now available @  http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/67/

 

JACK REACHER IS NUMBER ONE!

 

I love serial character in books; you know, Inspector Wexford, Rebus, George Smiley, Kay Scarpetta etc

My favourite though has to be JACK REACHER, the eponymous hero – or is it anti-hero – of the books written by LEE CHILD,

Jack is a drifter, a loner, travelling across the USA, finding trouble without looking for it wherever he goes. I don’t know how many books there are to date – probably around 20 –  but I have read most of them; ECHO BURNING, PERSUADER, THE ENEMY, ONE SHOT, GONE TOMORROW, 61 HOURS to name a few, and I am always amazed at how gripping  and addictive they are.

A former Major in the United States Army Military Police Corps, JACK quit at age 36, and roams the United States taking odd jobs and investigating suspicious and frequently dangerous situations. The paradox of JACK is that he is both a big bear of a fighter , and a thinker, whose mission appears to be to right wrongs and defend the weak.

JACK always uses an alias when checking into a hotel. In earlier stories, this was usually the name of a lesser known ex-president. In later stories, he more often used baseball players’ names.

Since leaving the Army, JACK has been a drifter. He wanders throughout the US because he was accustomed to being told where to go, when to go and what to do for every day of his life from military childhood to military adulthood. He also felt he never got to know his own country, having spent much of his youth living overseas on military bases and at West Point. He usually travels by hitchiking or bus. As a drifter, the only possessions he carries are money, a foldable toothbrush and, after 9/11, an expired passport and an ATM debit card

JACK has the uncanny ability to know what time it is, at any time of the day, without referring to a clock. He often uses his internal clock as an alarm, enabling him to wake up at any time he chooses. He is a skilled marksman, and is highly skilled at fighting, enhanced by in-depth technical and military knowledge.

All in all JACK REACHER is the perfect all-round hero