HAMPSTEAD GIRLS

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I have posted this poem before but I think it is worth another reading

HAMPSTEAD GIRLS

A better class of person
Adorns the Hampstead
Red-bricks and glass
Whether lounging in the chic-lit bars
Or just lolling in the grass
Hampstead ladies in particular
Ride their bikes with elegance
And sip their foamy cappuccinos
With practised nonchalance.
On the pavements and in the cafes
There are no sightings
Of the culturally bereft
Even down-and-outs
Lean quite boldly to the left.
John Betjeman could not complain
Or call on Hampstead Heath
For bombs to rain
Nor suffer scorn like poor old Slough
Who he had deemed
Not fit for any humans now
Those air-conditioned bright canteens
In Hampstead’s glades will not be seen
And there’s plenty grass to graze his cow
Hampstead Heath’s as green as Ireland now!

XKCD?

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XKCD?

What does XKCD mean?
Sounds like a disease
Or a secret organisation
But perhaps it’s an acronym
Or is it just a word
With no phonetic pronounciation?

Maybe it’s just a stupid comic.

DAWNING

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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

CITY OF LIGHT

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CITY OF LIGHT
A disused rail track in south Paris;
A dark tunnel;
Crawling, wading, through water
To a dank chamber with vaulted ceilings.
This is where the cataphiles meet;
Lovers of catacombs
And all things underneath.
The walls are covered with art
Awash with glow-in-the-dark paint,
Egyptian black-and-orange devil faces,
A multi coloured parrot image.
One wall is encrusted with mirror shards
The centerpiece a glittering disco ball
The ghostly faces leering
Down the long subterranean hall
This is the City of Light
Where nobody sleeps at night
And the remains of six million Parisians,
Transferred from Paris’ overflowing cemeteries
More than one hundred years ago,
Dwell.
Now artists prowl these same catacombs
Sometimes unseen
Ghostly in their movements
The spectre of real ghosts always in their slipstream.

THE DINOSAUR DEBATE

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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?

TRUE ENEMY

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TRUE ENEMY

Those whom the Gods love mostly die young
For time is the true enemy of everyone
The beauty that time cherishes
Is the beauty that soon perishes
And when time and beauty meet
It is always high noon on the street
Something has got to give;
Beauty dies so that others may live
But all dawns prove false dawns
And the payback is still to come
For time catches up with us all eventually
And not just the unlucky some.

PADDINGTON BEAR ON AIR

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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

THE MISSING POSTMAN AND OTHER STORIES

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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.

ACHTUNG BABY!

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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.

THE BEAR NECESSITIES

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THE BEAR NECESSITIES
‘What kind of animal are you then?’, she asked me.
‘Well’, I replied
‘I do not growl like a bear, I roar like a lion’.
‘Ah, one of them, are you?’
‘No actually, I’m more of a bear to be honest’.
‘Oh, they’re fearsome creatures, they are’.
‘Not really’, I said ‘once you get to know them.
For instance, take me
The other day, whilst in my bear mode –
Brown bear, I might add –
I took a notion to frighten some motorists.
I spotted a likely candidate and stepped from
Behind my tree hiding-place
And plonked myself in the middle of the road.
Then a motorist stopped and began berating me’,
You’re an ugly brown bear, you should be ashamed;
Trying to frighten people

Get out of my way. Don’t you know who I am?
I didn’t, but he told me anyway.
I am Ernest Hemingway.