IN PRAISE OF IRISH THEATRES

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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?

GOING ROUND THE SUN AGAIN

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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!

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/

 

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

 

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