Porcelain, Puppy Chow and Prince Harry (or The Ginger Vision)
You’re walking through your kitchen
looking for some granol’
when you do a Prince Harry
and land on your dog’s feeding bowl.
You’re lying there in the porcelain and the Puppy Chow
bruised, confused and cursing your luck
when Prince Harry appears and says:
Hey, you could put this in a book.
2023 and the Second Person Singular
2023 dawns
and you’re still writing
in the second person singular
you think of the Ukraine war
and you think
satire is the first casualty of war
then you think
maybe you should throw out glibness too
you think of evil
and you see Putin’s face
you think of heroism
and you see Zelensky’s face
you think of Ukraine
and you see
headscarves and overcoats hunched around a guttering candle
and you think
this second person singular thing
is not providing the distance
you expected.
Taking part in Open Link weekend over at earthweal,
Just Before Christmas……
an Arctic cold front
Amazon trucks stuck
down snow-packed side roads.
Christmas
Between Christmas and New Year
You review your blog stats, as one does, and you wonder why you you are using phrases like “as one does”, have you been watching too much Britbox?
Back to the blog stats, number of views is down from last year which was down from the year before. Your viewing numbers appear to have peaked in 2019. Why? In 2019 you had the pandemic of course and a perfect storm of subject matter – the pandemic, the Trump presidency, and climate change. Now you have said pretty much all you have to say about these subjects for the moment. But isn’t that the way of some blogs, they fade because they need a fresh angle. Also, you have gone back to letting poems marinate for a while to see where they are going, giving them some quiet time.
In the meantime you have been reading, and your top read for 2022 was “Our Country Friends” by Gary Shteyngart. You read the novel one chapter at a time, each chapter accompanied by a can of Yellow Dog Play Dead IPA. Why, because Gary’s prose is too good to rush. You also enjoyed “The Nineties” by Chuck Closterman and “April in Spain” by John Banville.
You listened to “Stolen Car” by Beth Orton, because of the lyric and the guitar figure that slithers through the song like a poisonous snake. You listened to El Camino by Elizabeth Cook because who else would rhyme “annull it” with “mullet”. You listened to “Under The Milky Way” by Church because of the expanse it conjures. You listened to “Jesus etc” by Puss N’Boots because it’s Norah Jones doing a Jeff Tweedy song.
You thought “Licorice Pizza” was the best movie of the year because of Bradley Cooper and everyone else in the movie.
And now as 2022 draws to a close, you are wondering why the hell you are writing in the second person singular.
Happy New Year everyone!
JIM
Stepping Out
inside the mask
a faint whiff of grease
from this morning’s eggs
I find the outdoors
secure in its greatness
the sea still open
the sky limitless
the sky, the limit.
The challenge from Grace over at dverse is this:
“The challenge for today is to write zen poetry, with a focus on attaining moments of enlightment – or true clarity of mind — by emphasizing singular experiences.“
(This is an edit of a previous poem.)
The Stolen Reindeer
Last year, just before Christmas
someone stole a reindeer from our front yard
we took it hard
we took it hard.
We checked our neighbors’ security cameras
we drove around in our car
we shook our fists at random strangers
we took it hard
we took it hard.
Then Christmas morning dawned bright and clear
and when we looked out on our snow-blessed lawn
the reindeer it was there!
Naw, just kidding
this is not that kind of poem.
Lionel Messi
I saw him once at Camp Nou
playing for Barcelona against Girona
he looked..what’s the word…unprepossessing
like a clerk in a 1950’s black and white movie
with an office in the basement of a New York skyscraper
the one who tells the hero that the books don’t balance.
On the other hand
there was something otherworldly about him
it occurred to me
that he might be an extraterrestrial
a bit far-fetched I know
but for the first 15 minutes
he seemed detached
in the game but not in the game
the full back passed the ball to him
he passed it back
the full back passed the ball to him
he passed it back
then suddenly as if receiving a signal from somewhere
he passed the ball inside to the midfielder Busquets
took off on a diagonal run
took the return pass
laid the ball off to the striker, Suarez
took the return pass from Suarez
and then passed the ball with the inside of his foot into Girona’s goal.
It took a matter of seconds
It was poetry in motion
and ever since I’ve wondered
what signal did he get
what made him take off
did he sense some structural misalignment
in the opposing team’s defense
some lack of attention
was it a message from the mother ship
or was it just pure instinct
like a migratory bird
sensing the headwinds are just right
to start that journey south?
Game Day
the soccer dads
bark and pace
like chain-linked hounds
like dogs locked
in parked cars
on a sunny day,
while in the bushes,
Thwarted Ambition
waits to join them
on the long journey
home.
The English Midfield
Without being asked
I have just taken ten minutes
to explain to my wife
the problem with the English midfield
I used a salt shaker
a pepper grinder
and a fresh lemon
she will never get those ten minutes back.
Punam over at dverse asks us to “Write about your favourite drink (alcoholic/non-alcoholic), write about getting drunk, use drinking as a metaphor, in short: write a poem in a form of your choice with a drinking connection”. (Update: I omitted to link this to Punam’s prompt, so I am now linking it to Open Link Night at dverse)
Willie’s Oasis
Houses hunker in the heat
Out on highway 82
The landscape sweats and saunters
Billboards block the view
And this is not New York City
This is not Saginaw
This a dry county, son
This is Arkansas
And I need a pack of Pauli Girl
I need a bottle of wine
I’m heading for Willie’s Oasis
Outside the county line
There’s a woman in line waiting
Someone’s girlfriend, someone’s wife
Says she wakes up every morning
And asks:”Is this my life?”
Beef jerky on the counter
Pickles in a jar
This is a dry county, son
This is Arkansas
And I need a pack of Pauli Girl
I need a bottle of wine
I’m heading for Willie’s Oasis
Outside the county line
Good ol’ boys are chugging out
Storm clouds on the horizon
The water looks like iced tea
Birds are improvising
And this is far from New York city
Far from Saginaw
This is Ashley County, son
This is Arkansas
My friend John Mitchell turned the lyrics into the song above (that’s Ben Mink on violin, look him up!).
Hurricane Donald
What mighty wind blows hard out of Mar-A-Lago
up-ending facts like trailers in a trailer park
ripping the roofs off reputations
revealing the gyrations in the bedrooms below
hailing down bombast and innuendo
on the corrugated tin of truth
a wind that makes Ian and Fiona
look like that nice Scottish couple across the road
(Is she Irish?), the ones you should invite over for dinner
or is it just a storm in a tumbler
is it just Donald raving
in the cocktail hour of his years.
Taking part in Open Link Weekend over at earthweal
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
Why did Yeats choose nine bean rows? Can’t say I know for sure, but let’s give it a try….
So let’s say that any number below five would not be enough bean rows for W.B.’s bean needs, then how about ” five”:
Five bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
It works, the “five” rhymes with “hive” and half –rhymes with “live”, but to my ear, there are too many “v’s”.
So let’s discard “six” because of that “x” and “seven” because of the two syllables and “eight” because it doesn’t chime with any of the other words, except maybe the “t” picks up the “t” in “there”. How about “ten”?
Ten bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade
We’re getting there: “ TeN, beaN, hoNey, aloNe,…….that “N” sound repeating but …..
”NINE ” wins !!! It has the consonance of the “n’s” and it also has that half rhyme with “hive” and “live”.
It’s almost as if Yeats knew what he was doing.
Footnote: A friend of mine told me recently that he had no recollection of studying Yeats at school. When he said this, those opening line from The Lake Isle of Inisfree, sprang in to my head “I will arise and go now, and go to Inisfree”, which I have heard so often that it has now taken on an orotund, stage Irish plumminess.
Our English teacher, Mr Courtney, loved that “bee-loud glade”.
Autumnal Sketch (haiku)
trees leaking colour
like a paint store catalogue
et tu, chlorophyll!
This is one tedious, depressing mess of a movie with a gruesome, ludicrous, arbitrary with a capital A plot twist worthy of the third season of some schlocky Netflix series when the writers have run out of ideas.
It opens with Colin Farrell walking along a windswept cliff in the west of Ireland, in the early 1920’s. He’s dressed like he’s doing a fashion spread for GQ ( “Paddy Chic”). He has a twenty first century haircut, dyed jet black, combed forward, no parting at the side! And his eyebrows are trimmed! He plays one of the main characters, a dimwitted Irish farmer who’s in love with his donkey (the movie was written and directed by an Englishman, Martin McDonagh….I’m just sayin’). Naturally, he’s on his way to the pub even though it’s only 2 in the afternoon. He goes to the pub a lot. The pub is of course populated by the usual stock characters, Sean O’ Garrulity and Sean Mac Stereotype and yes, at one point, Una Ni Mournful sings a maudlin ballad.
As for that plot twist, it involves self mutilation. Why? Shock value? Yes. Lazy writing? Yes. McDonagh does nothing to make us believe that the character is capable of the act.
Colin Farrell and Kerry Condon, and in particular, Barry Keoghan do their best with it and there are some laughs, but rural Irish dysfunction and loneliness have been done a hundred times over and a lot better than this.
Score: Two potatoes out of Five. 🥔🥔
PUNK
Walking down Commercial
On a sunlit lunchtime
I see this guy talking to this girl –
She’s got tattoos, rings, black hair,
Blonde streaks – he is leaning forward
She is leaning back
And as I pass by, he says:” I have always thought
That punk and hip-hop have more in common
Than they have not.”
The peak of his baseball cap is flipped back
like he‘s caught in a wind tunnel.
Noise cancelling head phones circle his neck.
Is that an egg stain on his cardigan?
Did he play bass once in a band called Head Lice?
Or is he just another fan?
Who knows?
He looks disheveled, disinterred,
Pale as a Pogue*.
And I want to stop
And tell him
That I don’t know about hip hop
But I have always thought that punk
Is the sound
Of someone puking pints
Outside a pub at midnight
Without implying
That is necessarily a bad thing.
*Pale as a Pogue
I shared a plane once with The Pogues on a flight from Vancouver from Chicago . I got bumped up to business class (I was flying a lot at the time). The Pogues were also in business class, on the way to Vancouver for a gig. The year was 1991, I know this because Joe Strummer was with them and according to Wikipedia he joined the band for a short period in 1991 , Shane MacGowan had left due to drinking problems.
They were the palest, skinniest, sickest group of people I had ever seen. They looked like creatures who spent most of their time at the bottom of the ocean at a depth where the sun could not penetrate, or maybe they just got up late in the afternoon.
The only thing I remember from the trip is that Joe Strummer was ordering drinks as soon as the seat belt sign went off. Vodka and tonic was his drink of choice, I think. When the stewardess brought his first drink, she said:
“ I hope that’s not too strong for you, sir”
Joe replied: “Too strong? Too Strong?” and began to laugh hysterically and continued to laugh for quite some time. As the flight progressed he would turn every now and again to the other Pogues and shout “Too Strong?” and start laughing all over again. I guess he was taking the Shane MacGowan role seriously.
Graffiti Photo was taken in Getsemani, Cartagena, Colombia.
This poem was previously posted in Open Link Night over at dverse
Loose Thoughts About Change
doom has a harbinger
death has an angel
change has an agent;
if the winds of change are blowing,
staying inside is always an option;
to embrace change
put your hand in your pocket.
Goodbye Boris, Goodbye Liz, Hello Rishi!
I have to say
as an Irish person
how proud and honored I am
that the United Kingdom has appointed a prime minister
whose first name is an anagram of “Irish”;
I know we and the English have had our troubles in the past
Troubles with a capital T
(the Plantation of Ulster…don’t get me started)
but the English are subtle people
not given to public displays of emotion
and this gesture is quintessentially English in its subtlety
it’s as if they are saying thank you for Father Ted
it brings a tear to my eye
it takes the oatmeal biscuit
so “Hello Rishi”
as they say in Ireland
“buachaill inniu, fear amarach”
or loosely translated from the Gaelic
“I hope your politics change soon”.
Taking part in OpenLink over at dverse
Photo : statue of Oscar Wilde in Merrion Square, Dublin.
The Morning After
a forest fire haze turns the morning sun orange,
down in the Village square
dazed coffee drinkers nurse their hangovers
too many stayed too late at the Dublin Gate
here and there perky couples with dogs
take photos for their blogs,
jpegs spiral upwards into the cloud
which is not a cloud
it’s a bank of a billion hard drives
humming hard in flat roofed, air-conditioned buildings
somewhere I will always think of as Texas
no snow on the mountains
the glaciers have retreated
as if they’re afraid of something
leaving behind bare granite
over on the islands
there is talk of low water tables
and no water for the table
we fiddle while forests burn
Nero….. Nero has nothing on us.
This is a response to Lindi’s excellent challenge over at earthweal
Repartee
Slim gets off the no.3 bus
at the corner of Hastings and Main
-the corner of Desperate and Lost-
having travelled east on the 99 express,
his nose stuck in the feral stink
of some guy’s armpit,
wishing, not for the first time,
that he was six inches taller.
A country lyric twangs in his head
something about “the losing side of town”.
He surveys the wreckage all around him:
a guy with a raw scabrous face
scratches frantically;
a bundle of rags twitches in a doorway;
people are scurrying back and forth
like they’ve received a message
from an alien dispatcher
that the mother ship has landed,
and they can’t find a toothbrush;
further on in a laneway that smells of piss
a man and a woman, both dressed in black
with sweating raddled faces
sway back and forth shouting:
Fuck you! No! Fuck you!
in a profane loop.
Repartee, Slim says,
to no one in particular,
what an unexpected bonus.
This poem first appeared in The Galway Review
Taking part in OpenLink over at dverse
The Reverend George Weeble
The Reverend George Weeble
liked to visit churches
in foreign lands,
his parishioners called him:
the steeplechaser.
When I’m old and feeble,
George Weeble said,
when I retire, George Weeble said,
I want to be
where the spires conspire
to show me the way.
(this is one from mid pandemic)
I think I made a mistake
baselines, fault lines , paradigm shifts
ignorance has been weaponized
what will we do, what will we do
when all the nouns are verbed?
I think I made a mistake
how is there still doubt in that sentence?
A man goes to a party
to get infected with a virus
in order to prove
that the virus is a hoax,
the man dies.
It’s hard not to be harsh.
Is this a new baseline,
a new low?
Is it an intelligence deficit?
Is it lack of education?
No, this is something different
this is a sea change
the beast has left Bethlehem
the malware has been activated
the human race has started to self-limit.
Whatever god, assembly of gods
or conglomerate of alien scientists
malevolent or benevolent
that designed this whole shebang
that opened this can of worms
has had enough
the malware has been activated
the fix is in
it’s past midnight and the eagle has flown
Aunt Mary is hanging out the washing
the human race has started to self-limit.
A man goes to a party
to get infected with a virus
in order to prove
that the virus is a hoax,
the man dies.
Sanaa over at dverse asks us to :
“For Today’s Poetics, I want you all to write in the style of the Beat Generation. Pour out the first thought, the first thing that comes to mind and let the words take you forward.
Feel free to write about darker (more under-rated) subjects. The aim here is to explore the “human condition,” and to write spontaneously. Shall we?”
I thought the above poem might fit.
(Thanks to Brendan over at earthweal for the original challenge: Observe shifting baselines in your world, in climate change, your nation’s governance, the pandemic. )
Tracker
No sign of them for days
then a raven rising above the trees
seen from a boat on the swirling river
leads the tracker
to the bodies of the killers
mosquito whine, black flies buzzing
a homicide, then a suicide
evil turning on itself.
Taking part in the Quadrille (44 word poem) prompt over at dverse. The prompt word is “track”!
The Unbearable Lightness of Verse 8
he was a tautology
an oxymoron
a figure of speech
an agnostic
an atheist
he beggared belief
he was terminally contradictory
though he would say
he was not
he was a man for all seasonings
but not paprika
not bergamot.
Taking part in OpenLinkNight over at dverse.
After the Queen’s Funeral
after 10 days of pomp, mourning
and celebrity tears
the evening news with alarming insouciance
reverts to reality
the high cost of bananas
the prices at the pump
the war in Ukraine
another climate change catastrophe
the door slams shut on a fairy tale world
of kings, queens, princes and princesses
palaces, country estates, horses, hounds, corgis
and armor that’s always shining.
Desire – what is it good for?
tender is the night
long is the day’s journey into night
it’s easier to name a street car
than it is to name one’s desire
never attempt a ménage in a glass menagerie
there is nothing less erotic than a red wheelbarrow
a thing of beauty is a joy for a fortnight.
This poem was originally written as a response to Anmol Arora’s prompt – Poetics: Desire and Sexuality in Poetry, at dverse
photo taken in Sitges, Catalonia.
Also taking part in Open Link over at earthweal: earthweal
Summer has left the building
is already in the limo
snorting white powder
drinking champagne
dupes, fall guys
we wait for the encore
ignoring the bouncer
pointing to the door .
Taking part in OpenLink over at dverse
Stopdraggingthepanda 