They say ‘one a Catholic…’
That may be true but you don’t have to like it…
29 Tuesday Oct 2019
Posted Poetry
inThey say ‘one a Catholic…’
That may be true but you don’t have to like it…
22 Tuesday Oct 2019
Posted Poetry
inTags
This is a poem about that very slippery fellow- identity. I took the title from my own attempt at translating a line in a song by Einstürzende Neubauten.
15 Tuesday Oct 2019
Posted Children's, Poetry
in08 Tuesday Oct 2019
Posted Children's, Poetry
inThis is a poem for my nephew. It was also found in the mountains of Italy. It was very high up; almost at the very top of the world.
Words (because frankly I didn’t speak clearly enough)-
Monty’s Poem-
Fitter than a flea
Monty
He can climb a tree
Monty
From which he can see
Monty
More than you and me
Monty
He can see the coast
Monty
He can see a boat
Monty
On which he’ll wear the captain’s coat
Monty
on an explorer’s path to float
Monty
OR-
He can see the sky
Monty
In it he will fly
Monty
See the world speed by
Monty
Wave the ground goodbye
Monty
OR-
He can see the mountains
Monty
Waterfalls and fountains
Monty
Free ways for him to count on
Monty
Through the up and down-ties
Monty
AND-
The world is just a ball
Monty
That tree is oh so tall
Monty
Though you still be small
Monty
You can be it all
MONTY!
01 Tuesday Oct 2019
Posted Children's, Poetry
in23 Monday Sep 2019
Posted Poetry
inIt is good to hear poetry spoken aloud. So I am recording some of my poems and putting them on YouTube. You will only be able to access them through through a link here on the blog. I hope you enjoy them and please share them and comment if you feel moved to.
This poem is published in Issue 37 of Dream Catcher Magazine, published by Stairwell Books. http://www.dreamcatchermagazine.co.uk
Here is the link to the poem on Youtube-
15 Thursday Sep 2016
Posted Poetry, Uncategorized
inTags
Da, Dad, Irish poetry, Irish writing, New Writing, Poem, Poem for my Da, Poetry, writing
Poem for my Da-
My father is old
And noise has started to bother him
He is in good health generally
Not just for a man in his late 70s
His knee gives him a little pain
Now and then
But noise is what has started to bother him
He sleeps very well
He has always been able to do that
But noise now
Has started to bother him
He walked the beat for years
He rode around in a Garda car
The smelliest place on earth
He spent an age in the underground
holding cells of the Bridewell police station in the North inner city of Dublin
So he has been called everything under the sun
He has heard it all
Shouted and angry and desperate and afraid
And Insane
He has heard it all
And he could always sleep and forget
But noise now has started to bother him.
Someone fired a gun near his ear
And noise bothers him now
It makes him angry and short tempered
I don’t think he has much religion left
We don’t talk about that
Noise bothers him though
He tells me that
We walk his old beats
Sometimes
Separately or together
But noise bothers him
He doesn’t trust politicians
“When you
See killers come to power
How can you?”
He turns off the radio when the news is on
Noise bothers him
He still listens to music
The classical kind
But less and less these days
Because noise bothers him
It’s not much
Not much of a problem
For a man his age
It’s just that the world is so noisy these days
And noise bothers him
29 Monday Aug 2016
Posted Poetry, Uncategorized
in
I like to watch the ones who work
When I drink alone
in public;
I like to see their industry and purpose
and that little bit of distain for the Saturday night crowds
I like to see in their posture,
their movement,
their eyes,
the stories they tell themselves;
Of striving,
of who they are
and are becoming
Do they still use terms like
‘The skulls’, ‘The meat’, ‘The prey’;
Do they think that way at all?
Was that just me?
14 Saturday May 2016
Posted Poetry, Uncategorized
in23 Saturday Apr 2016
Posted Poetry, Uncategorized
inTags
Fiction, James Lynch, Mike Watts, Pig, Pilgrim, Pilgrimage, Prose Poetry
There comes a day.. it comes to us all in the end.. when you realise you have written.. a..prose poem. I’m not sure what a prose poem is but like pornography, art, political speech- you know it when you see it. Or in my case, write it. So here it is.
A Pilgrim at ‘The Pig’-
“The only thing that’s new is you finding out about it” Mike Watts
There is a place called The Blind Pig
In Ann Arbour. It’s a bar
Or a club or venue
Whatever
It’s a place where The Stooges played
Where the Ashton’s played and the Minutemen
I think
Whatever
I’d like to go there some time to visit
Like I went near to Hansa one time
That’s in Berlin
By the way
I’d like to drive there
Maybe ride on up on a big old bike
A motorbike I mean
It would be great to see a band there
Get all liquored up
Dance a little
Walk outside late in the moonlight
To maybe take a piss
Though in truth I only have other people’s word for any of this. These are just stories I have heard older men tell each other – not even directly meant for me to hear.
For all I know this is all just a novel
a great big novel I’ve overheard other men reading clips of aloud.
It might just be some old punk mythology.
Iggy might be some type of trickster god. If you’re looking for an Odin figure, that’s Ron Ashton.
Maybe I am just feeling the need to go on pilgrimage
Like I went once to Berlin
(Did I mention that already)
Maybe every ten years or so I need to go to Mecca
I just need to create the place in my head first
But create it from a real place
Because there’s no such thing as non-fiction.
And everything is real if you understand it properly
Everything is REAL if you understand it properly
Because I’m forty three and in some pain
But I’m not going to curl up and die
I’m choosing not to die
Cos that’s an option
So I’ve got to focus on something
Inject it with meaning
Make it a destination and set my gaze upon it.
So I want to make it to the Pig
The famous Blind Pig
That probably exists
And I’m going there.