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
THE DINOSAUR DEBATE
Malkey, have you got a chink in your armour?
I wouldn’t be surprised, Dave
The little blighters get everywhere
How many dogs did you keep in Cardiff, Malkey?
More than enough to fill the team when I was there.
Did you hear the one about the Brit, Malkey? And the Paddy,
The Jock, the Taffy, the Jew and the Paki…
That’s racist, Dave!
Cor blimey!
Are you sure you’re a Limey?
PADDINGTON BEAR ON AIR
Paddington Bear
Appeared on the air
Looking a lot like Hugh Bonneville
He said oh dear
This place looks queer
I much prefer Maida Vale or Notting Hill
BAD PENNY
This bad penny will not conform
Because my minds a blank
But then so is the penny –
At least on the reverse side.
It may not be a bad penny at all;
It’s edges are serrated
And it twirls when I spin it.
Ten times out of ten it lands
Fancy side up;
Perhaps there is a good side
To this bad penny
Upcoming review:
SHORT STORIES REVIEW The Missing Postman and Other Stories
The Co Waterford-born novelist and playwright, Tom O’Brien is still on a very productive streak, and not only has he had two plays produced in London this year, but he has brought out another novel, a book of three Waterford plays, and now a new book of short stories – The Missing Postman and Other Stories. His output is impressive and the work paints a wonderful picture of an Ireland that is quirky and malevolent, as well as giving a wonderful sense of place and time. I am surprised he is not a tourist attraction, and that no Waterford theatre company has scheduled a production of his. What is it about a prophet and his home place?
These stories read like notes to plays, and some are charged with characters and menace, as in the novella-length, The Missing Postman, that looks at the crazy world of Zeb and Zoe, who come to Ireland (Co Waterford) to avenge, separate, unhappy childhoods, and go on a ‘Bonnie and Clyde’ robbery spree. They hide out in a curious cottage of Martin Og, who has surprises in the house of a high-tech nature.
In a chilling exploration that is full of tension and foreboding, the mysterious disappearance of Martin Og’s brother – The Postman of the title is remembered.
In Johnjo’s Tale, we get the sense of emigration and isolation, laced with the sickly nostalgia, for songs of an era of regret, heartache, and rights to property, keeping emigrants forever looking back to the old homestead. This notion of family possessions is forcefully brought home in a very short -The Dispossessed – where the message is driven home (pardon the pun) – you can never go back. Home is not and perhaps, never was, what you desperately wanted it to be.
The Homecoming, is another pithy story where the landscape of memory and the physical landscape of a Hill was quarried away to create a sense of false prosperity. For those who will come to know (and I sincerely hope so) Tom O’Brien as a fine playwright (which he is), these short stories will be viewed as source material into his themes and motivations. But they read as stories in their own right, full of human and bitter honesty, and full of dramatic tension and excitement.
THE PLASTERER
He had a way with walls;
His arms windscreen-wiping over the surface
His float arcing like a skater’s blade on ice
Wiping the lines that had gone before.
In between times he kneaded a bucket of pink dough
Or sprinkled the walls with cloudy water
IN NOMINEE PATREE, ET FILE, ET SPIRITU SANCTUS
His shiny head speckled like a giant plover’s egg.
His good eye was his spirit level
Unblinking until every line was true
All corners trim and proper
Reminding me, for some reason, of you.
CITY OF GOLD
I walk this city of twenty-six year olds
With their narrow suits and three-o-clock faces
Their heads full of twitter-speak
And their pockets full of aces.
Cast die to self and follow number seven;
If I say a prayer for redemption
Will I get a free bus ride to heaven?
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Tom-OBrien/e/B0034OIGOQ/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1388083522&sr=1-2-ent
THIS ALSO BE THE CODE
Aflunters,babyshed,churching
Drizzen, exflunct, faffle, geo-graffy,
Hoined, infradig, jampher, knoop
Liversick, mafle, natkin, oblat
Penfellow, quackle, raddlings
Scalch, tazzled, umbeer, vagitus
Welwilly, xyster, yafle, zuggers
ACHTUNG BABY!
This refreshingly quiet street
Round the corner from Checkpoint Charlie
A miasma of tourists
Taking selfies
Next to two fake American soldiers
Dressed in full cold war regalia
Beethoven’s Moonlight sonata
Keyed by unseen hands
Drifting through the lazy afternoon sunshine.
And you framed in the cafe window
Waiting for me.
.
All quiet on the western front these days
The almost musical sound of jackboots
No longer linger
No Stasi lurking
Berlin is no longer east or west
Just plain Berlin will do
.
Twenty five years ago
This was no mans land
Then the walls came tumbling down
Almost by accident
A flurry of missed communications
Garbled orders; fearful guards;
People shouting
Let us out, let us out
And we on the west side shouting back
Let them out, let them out
And you shouting
Let me out, let me out
And it happened
.
Today a row of plastic flowers
Mark the line where the wall stood
Mark the spot where we met.
Someone is watering them I see
Making it more difficult for me
To come and tell you
That the cold war has returned –
For us anyway.
GUT FEELING ON THE DUCK THEORY OF EVOLUTION
In the beginning there was silence
Slow symmetry break-dancing in the bleakness
Time’s arrows curving beyond comprehension
Soon, the dance of geometry commenced;
Atom, electron, proton, neutron,
Wave upon wave
Spin particle, spin!
Then into the melting pot
The first sounds of all our futures;
Quark, quark, quark, quark, quark, quark…
My Writing Life 