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?
poems
GOING ROUND THE SUN AGAIN

GOING ROUND THE SUN AGAIN
Going round the sun sixty eight times
Takes some doing
Even if you are merely a passenger.
The first time round was really a blur
No sense at all that we were
Doing almost seventy thousand miles an hour.
Mother said I screeched most of the way
And that the snow piled high
For months every day.
Even the tenth spin
I don’t recall a lot of that
Except that it was the year mother got fat
For a while, anyway
And then she was thin again.
The years stretched to decades
Still round and round we went
Sometimes I travelled in the company of steel bars
And sometimes I journeyed with the stars.
And there were times when writers came to stay
Becket, Behan, Millar, Hemingway
Of course the children came too
But for many years I have tripped with you.
My father got to number sixty nine;
I wonder how many rounds will be mine?
GRASS
GRASS
Woke up this morning
Barbered the lawn
And bathed in the scent
Of new-mown grass
There, said the sun
Smiling on my efforts
Isn’t that better
Than sitting on your arse.
BOOK-ENDS
BOOK-ENDS
Ending up is what we all do.
Burnt-out cases, like our man in Havana.
How green was my valley, you may well ask.
Up the singing mountain, where eagles dare…
And the postman always rings twice.
There is no catcher in the rye,
But be careful
Not to kill a mockingbird.
I WONDER WHAT THEY WILL SAY
I WONDER WHAT THEY WILL SAY
I wonder what they will say of me when I am gone?
It was him that penned those lines, you know
The ones about choking the chicken.
Ah, poor Katie Doyle never lived that one down!
And the lies he told in that Altar Boy book he wrote
Just as well his poor mother wasn’t still around…
Then there was that tale about the Kray Twins
How he walked and smoked with them
On remand in Wormwood Scrubs if you don’t mind!
How they didn’t seem nearly as bad as they were painted
In fact he almost said they were kind!
I wonder what they will say of me when I am gone?
Perhaps they will say nothing
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!
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/
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/
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





