THE GREEN FORGOTTEN VALLEYS
Those green forgotten valleys,
No longer can be seen
Lying hidden behind the tall fir and larch
That have made these brown hills green
Relentlessly marching down the hills
Burying everything in their wake
The dead are long gone from this place
The pike no longer in the lake
The houses just hollow shells now
Where the past ghosts eerily through
The vacant windows and doors
With rotted frames and jambs that once were new.
Back then there was no silence, only the sound
Of human laughter, and bird-calls to each other
The dogs growling at a wayward sheep.
And children’s scrapes kissed better by their mother
Nature is having the last laugh now
Soon there will be no trace of us at all
As the trees come marching down the hillside
No one hears the lonesome curlew’s call.
BOOKS
DUNGENESS
Boats that belong to better days
Mingle with iron flotsam
Washed ashore on a sea of shingle
Fishermen’s shacks sit like pygmies
In the shadow of the power station
Their colourful facades
Browbeaten by nature’s extremes
A stone garden sprouts incongruously
Beside one such dwelling;
It does not bloom in spring
But neither will it die when winter comes
DEPARTURES
BEING HERE
I may never be a poet
I may never rhyme;
(having no time for all that crap)
But one thing I do know;
People don’t stay, they go;
And they never come back
Oh, they are there – empty;
Looking like they once were
But deep down you know it’s not really them;
Just effigies
Waiting for you to go too
She loved you once you know;
She would admit it
Now fire has seared her mind
Cleansing the important bits;
It’s not love that sparkles now,
Just tolerance
And not a lot of that
So where do you go
When the fire has burnt itself
But into it;
Ashes to ashes
Dust to December
And no better for it;
Complacency –
And no end to the pain of it
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ABOUT SINGING



ABOUT SINGING
An unsung land is a dead land
Forget the song
And the land will surely die.
Our forebears, though mostly illiterate,
Made music that can still make us cry
Musical phrases, like a map reference,
And the land read as a musical score
Where singing the land
Has the crowd calling out for more.
The song couplets stretch across tectonic plates
Just like mountains stretch across continents
And someone waving as we pass through endless gates.
*
Pale sand, red rock, burning fire
Everything your heart may desire
Mapping the music
to which everything transcends
This is where the story begins not ends.
Religion, pagan or Christian
Permeating everything, blending,
People sympathetic and synthetic,
Careless and unknowing of secular beginning
Or religious ending.
All the colours of the rainbow
Dressed in human clothing
Aisling, dreang, radharc
And the gift of seeing what isn’t there
When the songs are left unsung
Who is then left to care?
THE SHINY RED HONDA…read first chapter
THE SHINY RED HONDA
Chapter one
I was thirteen tall and gangly when I first pulled on long trousers. What a relief that was; I was the longest streak of misery you were ever likely to see in the short ones. It was my last year at the National school in Newtown and the Master used every opportunity to drag me around the classroom shouting “just because you wear long trousers now O’ Brien, don’t think it makes you any smarter”. I wasn’t and it didn’t, but the Master was a law unto himself so I just kept my gob shut. There were discussions about what, if any, further education I was to get. Dungarvan was out I heard my father say; it was too far away and the fares were too expensive. That only left the ‘Tech in Portlaw – and that seemed to totter from one financial crisis to the next.
We were poor I guess; no running water, no toilets, to TV, no car…you name it we didn’t have it. But then, money wasn’t as important as it is nowadays. If you had enough to live on you were doing well. If you didn’t you wouldn’t starve because the countryside was abundant in most of the things needed to survive. Even the poorest cottage had half an acre of land attached, and enough spuds, cabbage and other vegetables could be grown to keep a family from the poorhouse. Hens provided eggs every day, a pig could be fattened and killed; and if you couldn’t afford turf or coal, well, there was plenty of wood scattered about… Continue reading
A CONFEDERACY OF DUNCES


A CONFEDERACY OF DUNCES
Re-reading this book after many years I had forgotten that its author, John Kennedy Toole, had committed suicide at the age of 31 in 1969. He had been trying unsuccessfuly to get it published for about six years, and became so depressed after many rejections that he took his own life. It was only through the tenacity of his own mother that the book was eventually published in 1980 and found the audience it deserved. It has since been recognised as one of the great American novels and deservedly won the Pullitzer Prize in 1981
It’s hero – or should that be anti-hero – Ignatius Reilly, is one of the great characters of English literature, a slob extroardinaire, a mad Oliver Hardy, a fat Don Quixote, a perverse Thomas Aquinas rolled into one, who is in violent revolt against the entire modern world, lying in his flannel nightshirt, in a back bedroom on Constantinople Street in New Orleans, who in between gigantic seizures of flatulence is filling dozens of notebooks with invective.
His mother thinks he needs a job; he does a succession of jobs, each rapidly escalating into a lunatic adventure, a full-blown disaster, yet each one has its own eerie logic. Ignatius is an intellectual,idealogue,deadbeat, goof-off, glutton, with thunderous contempt for for almost everybody; homosexuals, heterosexuals, Freud, Protestants, workers, bosses and the assorted excesses of modern times. A great rumbling Falstaffian farce of a book is the only way I can describe it and the shame is that Toole never lived to see the fruits of his labours. Read it and weep – with laughter!
LETTERS TO MOTHER AND OTHER DEAD RELATIVES


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MY FIRST DRAFT IS IT
Books write authors as much as authors write books. So says Dick Francis, top-selling writer of horse-racing thrillers. The process of producing fiction is a mystery which I still do not understand. Indeed,as the years go by I understand it less and less, and I am constantly afraid that one day I will lose the knack and produce discord, like a pianist forgetting where to find middle C.
Francis, a top- class jockey before turning to writing is best remembered as the rider of the Queen Mother’s Devon Loch, who collapsed less than one hundred yards from the post in the Grand National, with the race at it’s mercy. People often ask me where I get my ideas from, and the true answer is that I really don’t know. They ask me how or why I write the way I do, and I don’t know that either. It seems to me now that one can’t choose these things and that one has very little control over them.
The author of such books as Whip Hand, For Kicks, Bonecrack,and Dead Cert – which was the first of his books to be filmed – says this about the technique of writing; I listen in a slight daze to people talking knowledgeably of ‘first drafts’ and ‘second drafts’, because when I first began to write I didn’t know such things existed. I also didn’t know that book authors commonly have ‘editors’, publishers assistants who tidy the prose and suggest changes of content. I thought that a book as first written was what got (or didn’t get) published. I still write that way. My first draft is IT. I can’t rewrite to any extent. I haven’t the mental stamina, and I feel all the time that although what I’m attempting may be different, it won’t be any better, and may well be worse because my heart isn’t in it. My publishers have mournfully bowed to this state of affairs.
He describes his method thus; When I write any one sentence, I think first of all of what I want it to say. Then I think of a way of saying it. At this point I usually write it down in pencil in an exercise book, then wait to see if a new shape of words drift into my head. Sometimes I rub bits out and change it, but once the sentence looks all right on paper I go on to the next one and repeat the process. It’s all pretty slow as sometimes one sentence can take half an hour. On the following morning I read what I’ve written and if it still looks alright I go on from there. When I have done a couple of chapters I type them out and it is this typescript that goes to the printers.
In January, he sits down to write, staring down the barrel of a deadline. “My publisher comes over in mid-May to collect the manuscript, and it’s got to be done. Each one, you think to yourself, ‘This is the last one,’ but then, by September, you’re starting again. If you’ve got money, and you’re just having fun, people think you’re a useless character.”
Dick Francis wrote more than 40 novels in this manner and they all became international best-sellers. He was one of my favourite writers and I have read most of his books over the years. He struggled with writing his books for most of his writing life, but he managed at least one a year for over forty years. That says something about his dedication to his craft. No one ever said it would be easy!
Dick Francis died in 2010, aged 89
TIME ON MY HANDS
TIME ON MY HANDS
Time, so they tell me,
Is a precious commodity;
Nowadays I own lots of it
(ever since the steelyard gates clanged shut)
I wonder how much a few weeks of it
Would fetch at Christies?
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