LOOK, NO HANDS!

 

LOOK, NO HANDS!

 Even if I had no hands

I would be ambidextrous

Ac-dc in a strange sort of way

Though women would still be kings

Or should that be queens?

 

Even if I had no legs

I would still walk tall

Play legless football

If the fancy took me,

Roller-skate differently, that’s all

 

Even if I had no mouth

I would still speak out

Words would continue to pour forth

I would not be silenced

I would speak from the heart

 

Even if I had no eyes

I would still see plenty

Believing would be seeing

And if only in my mind’s eye

My vision would still be twenty-twenty

 

 

 

SAVING THE BEST FOR LAST.

NO BLACKS, NO DOGS, NO POLES – Pentameters Theatre, London.

The quaint Pentameters Theatre of Hampstead is an ideal setting for director Jesse Cooper’s charming and intimate production of Tom O Brien’s No Blacks, No Dogs, No Poles. The play weaves a rich tapestry of cultural perspectives on the Irish diaspora, racism and immigration using the central storyline of the Kennedy family and their social dilemmas as a conduit. The use of space vividly reflects the claustrophobia of both the small minded views frequently depicted within the play as well as the closeness of the complicated relationships which play out on stage.

Having said this, despite the underlying tensions seen both in the tense relationships and strong socio-political opinions; there is great warmth in all of the actor’s performances. The combination of a very funny script and some larger than life performances allow the audience to feel like we have been invited into this Irish household free of airs and graces. The result is a lively and homely political dialogue full of both cliche and insight depending on which character is speaking. A script laden with Irish in jokes, music and family banter is thoroughly entertaining. Meanwhile, clever direction allows the audience to see through the comedic defence mechanisms key characters husband and wife Con and Marion Kennedy employ throughout to disguise their true feelings of despondency in an unhappy marriage.

The theme of home is juxtaposed throughout the plot as despite the deep rooted hatred Con (played by Matthew Ward) expresses about the English oppression of the Irish, his wife Marion ultimately feels that England is her true home. Similarly, the return of son Michael to this household where he no longer feels at home having lived abroad reveals the small minded opinions of his father. As Con shows prejudice towards Michael’s Australian black wife (beautifully played by Rachel Summers), the irony in his previous arguments about the English prejudices towards the Irish is exposed. Sam Turrell gives a brilliant performance as Michael; adopting with ease the measured diplomatic liberalism his character needed to show throughout to contrast the seemingly old fashioned views of his family and their friends. His apparent disgust and embarrassment at his Father’s prejudice and Jimmy’s aggression as well as his genuine attempts to protect his wife from it, seemingly represent a more modern take on ethnicity and immigration.

As well as the catalysts of Michael’s return, and the revealing of an ex-marital affair on the part of Marion, we then have the plot turn full circle as Con’s bisexuality is exposed by Jimmy. The fact that Con finally seeks emotional refuge in his homosexual relationship with a local black construction worker is the ironic icing on the cake so to speak! All in all, the play emphasizes some very relevant disputes about immigration today in a carefully crafted display of love and hate at their most extreme.

– – – – – – – – – –

Reviewed 07/06/14

By Emily Mae Winters
@emilymaewinters

20th May- 7th June 2014
Pentameters Theatre, London, NW3.

BUT THERE’S MORE!  MY NEXT PLAY – BRENDAN BEHAN’S WOMEN – ALSO OPENS AT PENTAMETERS NEXT MONTH. 1st – 20th JULY.  DON’T MISS IT!

ACCOSTED BY JESUS

 

 

ACCOSTED BY JESUS

They form a fluid line

Near the entrance to Specsavers

Suited, polished, hair slicked to neatness

Smiling gravely as I approach.

One is proselytising,

Before alternating with another

Who steps smartly to the fore.

Yet another, partially hidden,

Goose-steps almost jauntily

Into my space

And proffers me an offering of words,

Printed of course,

Trying to catch my eye.

Avoiding him is momentarily difficult,

His hand hovering hopefully.

Then I swerve deftly by him

Leaving Jesus still firmly in his grasp.

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

 

WORMWOOD

WORMWOOD

Wormwood isn’t here

The sign said, rather waspishly.

It wasn’t the Wormwood I remembered;

Scrubs Lane on a wet Sunday

The outback in West London

No buses, no cars, no people

Just limp grass, acres of the stuff

And, oh yes, the finest redbrick edifice

Victoria’s henchmen could construct.

No rotting bodies in here, my friend.

Not Newgate, not by a long shot

Though debts must still be paid

And some may still get laid

 

Lord Alfred Douglas lay here,

As did Charles Bronson,

Keith Richards, Leslie Grantham

And  George Blake

Scurrying along in his traitor’s gait

Till the day he pole-vaulted to freedom

More or less

Before waving goodbye

To his English life,

 His liberty and his wife

And all those Wormwood scrubbers.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Tom-OBrien/e/B0034OIGOQ/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1388083522&sr=1-2-ent

 

 

 

BLOODY SUNDAY

SOLDIERS                                                       

 BLOODY JOB

BLOODY SWINE                                                                          

BLOODY HARD WORK                              

BLOODY COUNTRY

BLOODY IRISH BASTARDS

BLOODY SUNDAY

BLOODY MONDAY AGAIN

    

 

I WILL KILL YOU AND GO

‘I do not have a mill with willow trees

I have a horse and a whip

I will kill you and go’

           Yamut tribesmen

    

 

 

 

MY SMASHWORDS INTERVIEW

   

Smashwords Interview with Tom O’Brien

What inspires you to get out of bed each day?
Today just might be the day the postman doesn’t ring twice! In other words, no rejections today. (THE POSTMAN ALWAYS RINGS TWICE was Jame’s Cain’s best seller and its title was inspired by the fact that his postman always rang twice if he was delivering a rejected manuscript!)
When you’re not writing, how do you spend your time?
Reading mostly. To be a good writer you have to be an even better reader. Other writers fascinate me; how they put a book or play together;what it is about their work that makes it great; what I can learn from them. I am often in awe of how good some writers are.
How do you discover the ebooks you read?
I am an avid reader of reviews, be they in newspapers or online. They don’t necessarily have to be good reviews, just interesting. With certain writers I don’t even bother with the reviews; when a new book comes out I just know I will like it.
Do you remember the first story you ever wrote?
Yes, I do. It was a story about a security guard planning a robbery at a holiday camp ( I worked as a security guard at Pontin’s holiday Camp in Bracklesham Bay in Sussex at the time) and it was terrible. Complete rubbish! Needless to say it never saw the light of day.
 

Continue reading

BUNKER ON PORTLAND BILL

 

BUNKER ON PORTLAND BILL

 This windowed concrete slab

Touching the hedgerows

Bunkered in leaf-strewn soil

Chivvies me

 

Muskets were reddened here

By shorter men than I

Defenders of a long-gone realm

Stooped between fissured ceiling and creviced floor

 

What mayhem bedlamed this rocky causeway?

Its cannons foddering the deep

The stun of steel slamming granite

The stench of gunfire turning stomachs

Loose limbs cluttering pathways

Death hovering

 

All quiet now on this promontory;

Sheep nibbling, tea and scones in the old armoury

Picture postcards of battles fought and won

Day-trippers picnicking

In the shadows cast by the big guns

 

 

JOINT ACCOUNT

 

JOINT ACCOUNT

Of all the joints in all the world

I had to wind up with this one.

Creaking and croaking

It pains when I am smoking

It pains when I am walking

It pains when I am talking.

I wonder if I should use some WD-40.

 

I bet Bogey never had this problem.

 

THE DEAFENING SILENCE

 

THE DEAFENING SILENCE

The silence is deafening

But then it always has been;

Deafening all my life, I mean.

It’s as if I’m not really there,

Although I am sure that’s not true.

Perhaps I am invisible to all

But a few true believers.

Are they possibly seeing what isn’t there,

And  also hearing the deafening silence?

read more of my poems in my new collection ’67’ – http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/67/