Day 5 or some time..

I think probably the most difficult thing about giving up smoking, are the fears. The fear that you are going to morph into someone unrecognisible. The fear that you have been defined as a smoker for almost ever, and that you will lose your identity, or at least a large part of it. There is the fear of judging others by your own new standards of behaviour. The fear of losing the cool unexpectedly, in a situation where otherwise you would stand back to ponder while lighting a cigarette. The idea that smoking is a crutch used to get through situations, that other people would face head on, using some other more healthy psychological tool to work it through.
These are things I want to be aware of as I go through this withdrawal. It is not as simple as physically withdrawing from nicotine. There are the psychological aspects and how long a person has been smoking also has to be taken into account. For me it is a long time, and I admit to being scared of being a non-smoker. It is a different world for sure. But I need to do this. For me.

Joe the Plumber Part three.

I am beginning to think Joe's ears are burning with all this talk about him, but then if you are an entertainer I think it goes with the territory.

The elevating story of the raisins which could raise machines.

Joe's mother used to cook rice -pudding and put a few raisins in it to sweeten it up. As all children like to do he then ate the rest of the raisins from the bag. Not long after, the cooker began rising up into the air and nearly fell on top of him.
Later in life he went to work in London.
One day he was outside on the street and he had a similar experience with a car. Another time he was in a house fixing a washing machine and it began rising up and again he thought it was going to fall on him. He didn't feel well at all, so he went to the doctor. After some questioning about what he had been eating it turned out that the connection was raisins. I couldn't figure out how a simple thing like raisins could cause hallucinations, as they are meant to be a healthy snack. My children used to bring them to school as part of their packed lunch. So it turned out that it wasn't the raisins themselves that were causing the machines to rise up. You know that they can last months, even years in storage. Well, it is no accident. There is a preservative put into them to make them last, and Joe was having a reaction to it every time he ate anything containing raisins. I found it hilarious that the hallucinations came in the form of menacing machines, considering that he is a plumber.

A joke as he was walking out the door with his tool bag.

Two Kerry men were talking over the phone.
"My business isn't going well at all. I haven't sold a thing in over three months."
"Is that so?"
"T'is man. I am thinking of giving it up and opening a brothel."
"Is that so? How are you going to be able to sell soup, if you can't even run your old business properly?"

How someone could cram all these stories plus some, into an hour and simultaneously fix on some new taps is beyond me. Next time I lave a leak, I will get out my dictaphone, because he told them way better than I ever could. He even used props as illustration. Kitchen paper, junk mail, the pepper pot and other items were all introduced at selected moments when words were starting to fail him. At one point he did a kind of shuffle across the floor in his boots to illustrate how he had to walk when going through the woods in the dark at night. This was the story about the heron which he thought was a banshee. And how you had to be careful not to have your ankles bitten by the badgers who live a night-life on the forest floor. I remember my 'nanny' telling me a similar story about badgers, and how you should carry a stick and snap it in half if they sunk their teeth into your leg. They would hear the snap and let go, thinking they had broken your leg. Which obviously was their main aim. True or not, I always used to carry a stick if I found myself alone in the woods in the dark. This wasn't very often, let it be said. Although there is nothing nicer that a walk in the woods at night in the remote country-side of Ireland, especially if there is a lake nearby. We don't have to contend with snakes or bears. Badgers are the only real danger. But then if you are sure to carry a stick for snapping, all you have to worry about after that is the banshees. That is another story.

Joe the Plumber part two

The labels on the bottles of stout

As a young lad Joe's brother worked in his uncle's bar in Inch, Co.Wexford. He was only about seven years old, and had to drop out of school to work because the family needed the extra money.
The stout was delivered in big barrels and had to be transferred to bottles. Before they did this the stout was to be tested for freshness. Joe's brother had the job of tasting the beer before it went into the bottles.
He also had to wash out the bottles so they could be used again for the next time. At seven years of age this was a mighty task. There used to be a law that whenever a man got hit by a car on his way home from the bar, the pub would be held liable. However evidence was needed. It was usual for a bottle to be found in the pocket of these unfortunates which they had bought to drink when they got home.
The pub's label on the bottle was the give-away. So to get around this, one of Joe's jobs was to remove the labels off the bottles before they were sold for take-away.
Perhaps the punch-line to this story is that things have changed since the fifties. People got up to antics that they would never get away with today, and as for seven year olds working in bars, well, it simply wouldn't happen now, but it did then and it was accepted.

The story of the dead baby.

Joe and his brother slept in the room next to their parents. Late one evening they heard the mother telling her husband that she had heard of a girl who had given birth to a baby outside of wedlock and it had died. She had buried it but nobody knew where.
The next day Joe had been sent off on his own to collect the kindling for the fire in the woods at the back of the house. It was an old landlords estate, the large house had been abandoned and the grounds had been left an unattended wasteland.
As he was bending down to pick up some twigs, he saw the shadow of a face peeking up out of the earth beneath him. The face of a baby. It was covered in green moss and was definitely not living, the glassy staring eyes and pale almost white complexion being the give-away. He stood there in a state of horror for a moment and then ran home as fast as his legs could carry him to tell his mother what he had found. She went back to investigate with a possy of locals. It turned out to be the face of a marble statue that had once belonged to the big house. It was too late for young Joe though, he had already been traumatised by his find. This showed in his demeanor as he animatedly related the saga. As I laughed with the shock of hearing the punch-line I realised by the look on his face that these stories were not invented, they had really happened, to him. What amazed me though was it triggered my own memory of finding a dead baby on the steps of a church in Limerick as I walked past one day with my Grandmother. I can't have been older than about six, about the same age as Joe had found the statue.
I love the synchronicity in this and was possibly why Joe and I got along so well. The sixties weren't so different to the fifties back then. Maybe a little more advanced technologically, and men had landed on the moon by '63, but he was talking of an era that I can relate to well.

The stories in themselves seem fairly straightforward, but Joe breathed an animosity into them, which could only be instilled by a natural born shanchai. Joe is one for certain.

Tales of Joe the Plumber - part one.

Joe is a local man who must be about sixty something considering he remembers the days when radios were powered by large batteries that had to be charged and only had a very short playing time til the next recharge. He is very technically minded and gave me a detailed description, of the workings of the old transistor radios.
not only this but an an account of what life was like back in his day. They could only listen to the news in his house once a day and that was it. Their neighbours had a slightly more advanced radio and once a week the whole neighbourhood would cram into their kitchen and watch a football match. This was the highlight of their week. The rest of the time he spent running such errands such as collecting kindle for the fire, on which his mother cooked the bread.
He told a story of how when a landlord wanted to evict a tenant for not paying the rent on time, instead of bringing them to court like they might today, they sent bailifs around to physically turf the families out. Sometimes a family would barricade themselves in. So the bailifs would put a torch to the thatched roof and set the whole thing alight. Not very pleasant. This is one of the reasons the Irish hated the English so vehemently. The Landlords were settlers sent by the King (or Queen) to occupy the land. I had heard stories like that before.

This was as dark as he got. Most of the stories were funnier and the more he talked the more animated he became. A true entertainer in spirit.

Here is the first one as I remember it.:

The Money-Maker
Joe told me that his uncle used to make money. I raised my eye-brows. "ok..."
"No, he really used to make money."
This is how he did it.
He photographed two sides of five or ten pound notes, but not fifties, because he didn't have any.
He would do this on special paper from a lady who worked in the chemist down the town. She would be getting her share. Then he cut them out and glued the two sides together with a certain glue which was made of rubber. I remember this glue from my childhood. It was the only glue available at the time. I don't think it is made any more.
There was one problem. He got caught and here's how.
In the old days the shops had a particular system for payment. There was a large long wooded counter in the front of the shop and at the end of this there was a dark corner, where there was a hatch. In this hatch stood a lady who took the money and wrote everything into a notebook in pencil. Those were the days when people were given credit and could pay their bill on the Friday. In the hatch there were holes where the notes would be stored. First the notes were scrunched up into a ball, I suppose for quicker access when needed, then placed in the holes. Joe's uncle went in to make a purchase. It might have been a new frying pan his grand- mother needed or something similar. His five pound note was sent down to the hatch-lady. When she dropped it into the hole, it bounced back up. That's how she knew it was a fake note. Joe's uncle was sent to prison. When he got there he found out where he had gone wrong. He was told by another inmate that he should have used egg-white to stick the two sides of the note together. Rubber glue bounces. Fortunately he wasn't in for very long as it was a minor crime. He passed on a couple of years ago, so I won't be getting him into any kind of trouble by writing this.
Though I do wonder of he is not the originator of the expression 'to bounce a cheque (check)'. If he had made cheques using rubber glue that might well have been the story.



stay tuned for part two of the Tales of Joe the Plumber...

Twice locked out

Today was the first time I have locked myself out of the house in a long time. I had gone down to the library to collect a couple of books I'd ordered and on the way back up the street I saw the murmuration of starlings over the river. They were out-doing themselves this evening. As if in recognition of me the murmur came across the town and flew right over my head. I was astounded by how beautiful they were and was cursing myself for not having my camera with me. They looked like little black stars against the fading light. I raced home and since Louis was due for a walk, dashed back out in a hurry to try and catch them again before the light failed. By the time we'd gotten there they had gone. Never mind, so continued the walk and headed home. No keys.

To cut a long story short, I eventually got in via a series of calls and visits to various neighbours to locate my spare key.

Anyone would think it wouldn't happen again for a while, but it did. I hadn't smoked at all during the day and had a sudden 11pm craving for one and decided to brave the all night market, besides I had a hankering to go for a walk since it was a cloudless night and the stars were bright.

There is one particularly scary man in my hood and it was just my luck that he happened to be walking back to his house just as I walked out of my front gate. I thought he would turn into his house, but he kept on walking, towards me. That is when I stepped up my pace and practically legged it all the way to the market. I knew my son would be awake so I called him and we entered into our usual philosophical discussions. He likes those. You know, life and the meaning of it all etc. In fact I don't think is is capable of any other type of discussion, but I don't mind, it's all good. It distracted me from the idea I might be being stalked by scary guy. I did the evil deed and bought the roll ups and got some more credit for my phone, all the while talking to Leo, or rather listening to his musings mainly. He has interesting things to say so I didn't mind at all. I checked my pockets as I was leaving the market and, you've guessed it, no keys to be found. I called my neighbour who has my spare and he said he would be home in an hour after his darts game. An hour! It was by now about midnight. In true thanksgiving spirit I thanked the powers that be for the all-night market. There was no way I was going to wait outside my house after seeing scary man.  Reaching for something to talk about with my son I mentioned that I had written a half-decent haiku today. This reminded him of a haiku that he had been thinking about today which he had remembered from Fight Club.

" Worker bees can leave

Even the drones can fly away

the queen is their slave"

We discussed the meaning of this and other things. I narrated to him the story about the young bull and the old bull who were looking into a field of attractive heifers one day. The young bull said to the old bull: "Lets go through the gate and woo ourselves a heifer each." The old bull replied: " I have a better idea. We should go through the gate and walk slowly to the pond and take a drink. Then we will take all the heifers in the field."

I decided to brave the imaginary (or not) stalker and raced back to the house. Neighbour''s light was on so I collected the key and went in. As I sat back down at my table, I remembered that I had already read something about the film Fight Club today. No, it was a radio programme I had listened to which was on a friend's Facebook wall, an interview with the author of Fight Club, Chuck Palahniuk. This series of events could be seen as coincidences or seen as synchronicity. I mean really, what are the chances of every thing happening in double all day. Between the twice locking myself out of the house, the two haiku stories and the double connection with Fight Club and Palahniuk, either the universe is trying to tell me something, or I am beginning to tune into something which is already there but I wasn't spiritual enough to notice before. What ever the reason for these occurrences, one thing is clear to me, and that is, I like when it happens.

11-11-11 - An off the track memory,

It would have been an unforgettable date and time to smoke the last one and I could have answered the question impressively fast, : "So how long have you been off them?"
"Since eleven times five." I'd say forcing some return thinking time back onto the interrogator.
Anyway I am on cigarette number four which is great going for this time of day.

It is really veteran's day, not 'me giving up smoking day' so I want to put out a few words.

My friend Nancy, an artist, died five years ago at the age of eigthy. Her husband Conor had allocated me the job of giving her lunch several times a week while he took some time to go off and do things elsewhere. She needed someone with her all the time, as she was suffering from Parkinson's. To me, it wasn't so much a job as a privilege. They were the two most wonderful people I had met in a long time. I was allowed to write and study in the dining room and she would call if she needed me. I also sat with her while she watched TV, always an interesting documentary.

One day she told me about her brothers. They were both killed in North Africa during the second world war.  She had been very close to them and she said that she had never gotten over it.
She then handed me her biography. It was strange reading details of her life with her right there beside me. She told me that she had to make a choice between music and art as a career, and it was difficult because she loved them both equally. I asked her why couldn't she have done both. The answer was that if you are going to do something, it is important to put your all into it. I have been trying ever since to live by that. It is easier said than done in my case.
One day I fell asleep reading in the chair. Nancy woke me up and told me to go and take a walk. I went out into the chilly December air, walked around the pond and found myself in a wooded clearing. I was focusing at the ground careful not to trip on something, and on looking up saw two of the most enormous deer standing there right in front of me. When they saw me they bolted and jumped over an immense fence. It was an incredible sight.
I thought about it afterwards for days and weeks. Then one day I took my dog to the woods and came across a beautiful sculpture of a young buck. As I put my hand up to touch it, guess what, it bolted. Louis, the dog, ran straight after him and when he came back an hour later, he was totally covered in mud. I can only guess at where he'd been.
Deer seemed to go hand in hand with this couple. She was an artist of landscapes, abstract and earthy and he a sculptor of wild animals. Both were extremely talented at their respective crafts. It made me feel very strongly that when you're in the company of certain types of people, the experiences become entwined. My experiences with Conor and Nancy were very magical. They were both very warm and loving, and I took something away from both of them and that was to have witnessed a couple truly in love. Conor died within a year of Nancy even though he was 20 years younger. He had lung cancer but was diagnosed too late.
Even though I am sad that I only had a relatively short time knowing them, I would have had a greater loss having never known them at all.

This is what veteran's day has conjured up for me. A remembrance of two very special people. 

Quitting smoking diary continues - the scientific method.

I am planning to get to the bottom of this nicotine addiction, so I have decided to go down the scientific route this time. So here goes.

Dopamine.
Nicotine acts on the brain to produce a number of effects: It activates the Mesolimbic pathway which is otherwise known as the reward system. This regulates feelings of pleasure and euphoria.
So it is safe to assume that one of the reasons a person might smoke is because they are depressed, and could be the reason they begun in the first place. It has also been discovered that nicotine appears to improve symptoms of ADHA in adults. There we have it, two counts of self-medication.

Nicotine withdrawal causes down-regulation of the production of dopamine as the brain attempts to compensate for the artificial stimulation. Dopamine is a neuro transmitter which means a lack of it will cause drowsiness and lethargy. all of this makes perfect sense, but how to translate this info into a viable quitting plan?

Quitting should be gradual otherwise there will be a rapid emotional shift, which is connected up with the dopamine levels dropping. This is something I didn't know til I was told, and explains why previous 'cold turkey' escapades had failed. The trouble with cutting down slowly is you need to be extremely aware of what time it is at any point through the day. I tried buying a watch and found that I am allergic to the metal, also the strap broke on day two. I suddenly remembered the reason why I never wear a watch.


 In simpler wording - quitting smoking makes you feel depressed if not done slowly. If you're already depressed, simple answer don't quit, or get dopamine suppliments. Now there's an idea...ugh.

A lot of people just decide to quit and do it. More power to them. That I can't do that is not going to stop me trying to stop, only i don't want it to be the sole focus of my life, which is why I am going to spend a few minutes once a day jotting down my mood and, if I can discipline myself, how many I smoked the previous day.

Current mood - reasonable with occasional gusts of energy.
Amount smoked yesterday, 18 g of Drum light (more than usual)
Feelings about it: It really isn't good.

St Canice day and Columbas Day - an interesting connection

The Cathedral where my cousin Melo was buried is called St Canice. It is tiny as cathedrals go and in the heart of the remote Irish country-side. On the way back I cadged a lift to Dublin with a couple of friends and we got to wondering who St Canice was. None of us knew so I decided to find out. 

I discovered this article this evening on Wikipedia: http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/03250a.htm

It turns out that he is commemorated on the 11th October, today. 

Interesting considering it is also Columbas Day in the US. 

The investigation will continue...

The angels move the stars around.

Everything seems bland.
The grey day outside replaces the morning sunshine.
There is no wonder.
It was going to happen sometime.
Tears as the sporadic memories condense
into a strange and inexplicable oasis of spirit.
Signs or imaginings start to become clear
skepticism remains yet holds itself at bay
... for now.
The heart clears space for peace to enter.
Solace.

In memory of my cousin Melosina Lenox-Conyngham
(Feb 1941 - 1st Oct 2011)

From Thus Spoke Zarathustra.

"You say 'I' and you are proud of this word. But greater than this - although you will not believe in it - it is your body and it's great intelligence that does not say 'I' but performs 'I'."

I have been dipping into this book and have found so many gems, it's is like being in an orchard full of ripe fruit.

I was horrified when I discovered that Nietzsche's writings had inspired the Third Reich and the idea of the 'super-race'. For that reason I have always been reluctant to read much of his writings. Over the past week or so, I have faced that fear and found myself intrigued with this man and his work. My mother had read it years ago, and that was good enough for me to pick up Zarathustra and go through it.

I didn’t know that I didn’t know

What love was til it found me

Sitting by the bed of my mother

Thinking she would die.

Now I take a puff of my cigarette

And still I wonder why.

The Search for Rose.

A young girl came to look after the children. Her name was Rose. She was from a neighboring parish, a remote cottage on the top of a woody hill in the boglands. She was a lovely kind person with a nice way with young children. During the course of her time in the household it became evident that she had arrived there well into a pregnancy which she was no longer able to hide. My mother was herself at the same stage of pregnancy.

Because it was Ireland in the early 1960's, the general routine was to send her off to a Convent to have her baby and then give him or her up for adoption. It had been decided by her parents and she had been obliged to agree. A very common and very cruel law set down by the Roman Catholic church at that time, and utiliszed by communities who had been brain-washed by their local parish priests into thinking they would go to hell for rebelling. The ten commandments had nothing to do with it. Hell, most of them couldn't even read rendering it impossible to even break away intellectually from the status quo of the sermons preached to them every Sunday. The power of the church!
My father had been the chosen one to do the dirty deed. He had to drive and leave her there, his heart breaking slowly with every mile. When he entered he was ushered into the Mother Superior's office and  given the third degree. It was assumed he had fathered the child and was now renegading on his responsibilities. There was no way he could convince her otherwise. My parents already had four children under the age of six and were on the cusp of a fifth. It would have been an enormous task to take on a sixth and their mother, so I guess he felt she could at least carve out some kind of decent future without the burden of being a single mother in a society who treated such as out-casts and hurled them into social isolation. It was easy for me to say, in the modern day 1990's that what he did was wrong, but times were very different then. My instinct was to ask my father why Rose and the baby couldn't have lived with us as one of the family. Even then it was a question I didn't dare broach. I didn't want him to think I was disapproving of him as a human being, considering he assisted in something which at the time was the 'right thing to do'. I know for a fact that it is been haunting him ever since.

I heard later I think from a local or family member that when the daughter (the baby was a girl) finally grew up she went on a search for her mother and that they had been re-united in England. Rose had met and married a local boy and they had taken off in search for a better life. I also believe they had several children between them. On top of that it is also rumoured that the lad she married was also the father of the adopted child.

I want to write the story of Rose, with her permission, and let the world know the true story of a very bitter event. She had been a loving and tender influence on us all. She even saved my youngest brother's life during a car crash which left my grandmother in a wheel chair and the other two siblings in hospital with severe bruising. My youngest brother had been sitting on her knee in the front seat without a seat belt and how ever she had held him, had protected him from injury. Considering she had a hidden pregnancy at the time, it was amazing she came through it without losing her own baby.

I need to add that the crash was not the fault of my grandmother who was driving the car, but another car had crossed the road, fast, taken a left turn and slammed into the side of the stationary vehicle, hosting my loved ones, which had been waiting for the coast to clear before heading onto the main road.

My search for Rose begins in earnest soon, and I really hope I find her in good health and happy.

Re-set.

Like trying to re-connect with an old lover
she re-visits the scene again
the gap widens, reality grips
cuts the strings, free-falling
lands here, with no place to go
but onwards...

I didn't want to do the dishes
to wash away the loving memories
of the round the table.

as I absent-mindedly laid the extra place
my tears reminded me that the seat
would remain un-warmed

Gertrude.

This is not Gertrude.

This is Aoibh with

her cygnets Fionnula, Aodh, Faicra and Conn, Bodb, and Lir.

Who knows, they might be distant cousins.

In the early sixties, my mother found an injured swan by the side of the road, a female. Wanting to set her free on the lake, she buckled it into the passenger seat, and drove a hundred miles north. The swan lived on the front lawn for a few months to recover then flew off to join the other swans. Mum named the swan Gertrude after my great-grandmother, who dies the year I was born. Her
I briefly knew both Gertrudes. 

"Out with you upon the wild waves, Children of the King!

Henceforth your cries shall be with the flocks of birds."

~ The Children if Lir.

What is 'good thinking'?

Thinking, not thinking.
Thinking, not thinking.
Not thinking, action,
Thinking, control.
Thinking, tiring. Not thinking, tiring.
What are thoughts?
They flow into your head, through the stimuli around you,
We act or react on them depending on how we are feeling.

Bicycle

The morning my son came home from working in New York I had bought a used bicycle. The most dangerous, funniest, most furious, incident came from it. The following day, I rode the rusty, bald tired, single-braked pedal-pusher around the neighbourhood, remembered how much I loved cycling and as I steered out onto the main road, a car came behind me. The bike ceased to a halt mid-cycle, and the car screeched to a stop. I got off to the laughter of the man driving. So you would laugh if I had been killed, would you? Would you be laughing at my funeral, if you even bothered to go to it? In a semi-whisper swallowing down my anger, even though it was more my fault than his, if he was even at fault at all. I headed towards the place I had bought the bike, not really knowing what I was going to say only that I wanted to sell it back to him. He was in his kitchen, so I waited outside amongst the bric-a-brac sitting on the old ironing board, computer desk and coffee table. A well-heeled woman walked by and I heard her say to her friend: "Oh, look at that bike, I might buy it." She looked at me, mistaking me for the vendor. I told her she could have it for thirty. She said she might, but would come back later. The scene was set. When the vendor came out of his kitchen I told him I wanted to sell the bike back to him. He looked at me in disbelief. I told him he could sell it again for thirty. More disbelief of the eye-staring variety. The 'anger' welled up again and I related the traffic incident. He sighed and shrugged: "Alright I'll give you back your twenty." I went off trying not to smile all the way home.

Louis was waiting as I walked into the hood, lazing like a lion over-looking the Savannah. Like the opening scene from the Little House in the Prarie, I ran towards him, arms open in slow motion. Like a Monty Python sketch we missed and he bounded on towards the guy with the pipe down the open man-hole.

What writing career?

Cowards

Cowards knocking on my door.
running away.
The old cliche.
Don't they know one day someone is going
to do it back to them.
Don't they know,
I could take each of them by the heel
and make them squeal.
What fun it must be,
What glee they glean
from their own idiotic scheme. 

Demise of a presidential candidate

Dignity is his middle name.
Honesty and integrity are his game.

Dad.

Dad phoned. He is booking in for the night on his travels. He sees me first and last before taking the boat back. Same as he has done for the past two years. "Tell me this and no more." he said. When I was ten he told me: "Only speak when spoken to."
He is nearly finished his book. I may read it when complete. Not for publication., but because that is what he wants to do, for his family. He has a kind heart. He works still for no pay, doing his thing. SAFFA  - Soldiers, Airforce and Army. He loved his father. He earns his life. He may well out-live me. He wants a section out of Solomon's song after he goes. I don't know which one. 

CMC - an echo, a ricochet.

a dog with a bone,
a squeaky toy
jumping in circles
mimes: "Get me a friend"
This is no pretend.

Caught between a rock and a hard place.

It is not easy when you are interacting with others,. But, hey isn't that what we are doing most of the time. Even when alone, we are not truly alone. We carry memories. They play around in our heads, dictating what we do next. When you run away from one, another will take it's place. That is the way of it. We flit from our sort term to our long term memories like bees to nectar, or from flies to road-kill to cow-pat.

Up Down Level-ish.

It's ten to one and I don't know why I am still up. Maybe I am still 'riding high' on the good news. I came crashing down after I phoned my brother in a moment of forgetfulness. But how could I have forgotten the hell he is going through? How could I forget that he is lamenting daily, the loss of his oldest son? His pride and joy. How more insensitive could I have been than to phone him, in my elation. I always instinctively shared my news with him. But as I started talking I could hear the pain in his responses. My latent pain welled up. I have been running from the chasing pain for five long years, (failing often) trying to protect my children. I can't. This is something which I now fully realise they have to do for themselves.
My daughter has come through profound depression. Our whole family have. Sam was only 15 when he left this word. He was a shining light. It will never make sense. We have been inconsolable. That is the reality. I had to cope. Becky with hers, Leo with his, and I with mine. Perhaps it is because he is a boy, I am not sure that his grief emerged in other ways, just as valid, equally as traumatic. But like Becky, he shines. Children repair easier than the adults, though no reparation is by any means easy. They have youth on their side. I have a nagging responsibility to try and be more careful of peoples feelings, more aware of what I say, what I do, and how I hold myself. It is not an easy task to set yourself or to expect from others. We are all human, fallible.
I came to a sudden realization that Becky was going to be alright yesterday. She has followed her chosen path seen it to the end and created a hope-filled future for herself. Leo is doing the same, in college, studying what interests him. In my world things are beginning to look up. A long slow process for us all, and so very welcome.
It started in TIBU for me. It was my first internet interaction with other humans, as opposed to simply, I guess, surfing. Posting an old poem and going from there. I still remain friends with most. Regrettably there has been a few defriendations, mainly because of differences and my own lack of something or other. I needed to mask the depression from the world, from my friends and even my family. I am not sure how a good a job I did, but it was a quick fix which became an addiction. I haven't told any lies, but pretend emotions I can't live with. This is complicated. I have been finding that the facebook smiles and the lols are not fake but momentary. That it is so easy to not reap what you sow but to reap what is bestowed. I was tempted to throw out the baby with the bath water. But I stand corrected. This has altered how I think and feel about it. I need to be real, to know how I really feel. I feel hope and love. I appreciate my friends in this. I could not have done it alone. You people should know, that a kindness goes a very long way. My family too it needs to be said. Each and every one of them. I remain alone, but not lonely. I realise I still  have a lot to do, people to see, and places to go, and I will carry the love with me.

Gold fish bowl.

This is
no Gaza Strip, no Berlin Wall,
push me and you're going to fall.
It wasn't you, or you, or you
Just something that I had to do.

He gave me to the tractor. It was a 'W' on my licence. I'd never been on one before, but I lied.
"How hard can it be?" He threw me the keys and it started up, into reverse and crashed into a line of bicycles.
He threw his arms up in the air. "I thought you could drive it". Don't ever presume. So he sent me to the carpentry.

There I sat varnishing the wood for double beds. Then she asked me to come work in the shop. Matushka. War weary all. The French guy never left his hut. He'd killed his wife in an automobile accident. The Argentinian came in exhausted, begging for mercy.
Big Jimmy walked by grinning loudly.
His parents had jumped together off a cliff.
When was five years old.

The cotton fields were bare
but there was a pecan tree nearby
and a wood-pecker pecked
as I strolled towards the showers
a kitten jumped up and clung to my sweater
he came back with me and lived with the mouse.

The orange groves were ripe for the picking
sacks and secateurs,
cubed crates headed for Jaffa
Where is the Jaffa Cake man now?

The early morning call .
The bakery knotting the Shabbat Bread
The volunteer girls giggling
the work weary sigh of the machines.
He came to ask me if I would save his father
this boy from Brighton, no older than me.
He'd been there too long and wouldn't leave.

There was no end to this girl's responsibility.

So they dressed as Poirot's and came to Christmas
while I sang the Town of Ballybay with the girl from Galway.
I picked Pecans from the ground, because I could
added them to the bounty of food.
The masks left early, those rolling stones
but still they tried to get me to take him home.
I couldn't go, i was paralysed with the grief
of  the death of a child.

drowning in my own stupidity

Stupid:

same as it ever was

Memories make themselves
follow carved paths
a bob-slay rides it out to the end
As they bandage you up, you lie there
wondering how it came to this.

My confidence is smattered.
The love game
I know it.
One follows one leads.
Trust is paramount
once broken



Dad.
Neither a borrower or lender be.
Don't do as I do, do as I say,
If you don't get up you won't get breakfast.
Go ask your mother.






. 

apology

I am always apologising for who i am
not for any sin i might have committed

love is something that
I wear on my sleeve
the front runner of my desire
I have no apologies for it
yet truth is hidden deep
under solid skin

Morning Meandering Musings

How can I make sense when my references are faded chaos
Copper water under sepia bridges sooth the dark shadows
of the
all too
shimmering light.
I count seventeen pillars arching under a busy monoxide bridge
blending old with new where carriages once rattled,
and cattle were prodded gently to market day.
As these images start to fade I wake back into the everyday
where the hooded gulls fight over a scrap of bread,
and the geese waddle comically in single file along
the new concrete promenade looking through side eyes
as if I was the one who took away their muddy bank.
I don't worry about these oblivious birds but for the likes of me
who in a fraction, don't how to take the right action
so over-whelmed by it all, who tumble and fall in an emotional abyss
that this all too quiet life, that these are the only words coming from
a world spent attempting and failing to make sense.

The sparrow and the elephants.

One sunny day a little sparrow
flew through the open window
behind the bookshelves.
that lined the entire wall,
corner to corner, floor to ceiling.
She had that where's it gone kind of feeling
Over the fire-place live three 
small wooden elephants
from India, graded in height.
But that sparrow had disappeared
right out of sight
She went to bed that night hoping
her feathered friend would be alright.
When the morning came, she entered the room
to look for her glasses and saw right through
the blur four little elephants resting
on the mantle-piece, all in perfect formation.
What a strange thing to see
Last night there were only three
through her sleep induced blurry.
Sparrow had found some midnight company.
He doesn't come near the house any more,
his nest is in the rafters of her patio
where he feeds the babies
chirps about his adventures
indoors hanging with a herd of Indians,
and a funny little lady with dentures.

bridges are built not to jump off but to walk across - thought of the day

Tries to hide in rock pools 

the tide brings him in

leaves him stranded naked

vulnerable, 

cruel beaks peck at him

cooked by the searing sun

this shell remains intact

still whole and i wonder

if he's still at home 

or has he found another

that fits now he has grown. 

by fiocle

The River

These familiar waters of my childhood

still flow strong and silent

holding memories

of alabaster canoes

rods with hooks

dips to cool the sweltering heat

of the summer sun.

The smell of fresh rainbow trout

the spectrum of colours shimmering

on their glossy scales as they

shudder into the other world.

The soft sound of the oars

the glubbing of a bubble rising.

We are pirates seeking new terrain.

We are captains of the ship

sailing to distant lands,

conquering new islands.

We are protectors of the otters

who watch us incognito

from their shady den.

These halcyon days remain

etched in my mind

with no beginning and no end

by fiocle

Weight - blogen

When I pick up my camera, I can tell whether the battery is in it just by how heavy it is.
I enjoy that I have this skill. It's subtle and means that my nervous system is doing good.
By nervous system I mean, the connection from my brain to my arm muscles, and my ability
to compute and discern. Yes, I like that.
Remembering where I put the battery is a whole other ball game. My eye muscles come into play
and there is a lot more searching involved. Much more strenuous than weighing something up.
I would be good as a bird of prey. But maybe I would make a decent baker, actually maybe that is why I like to bake. I don't need scales, I just lift up the bag of flour or sugar or whatever and 'guess'. But, in my case, it isn't guessing, I am naturally good at it. This leads me to where I need to be right now. Looking into the possibility of going back to work, you've guessed it, in a kitchen, baking or other some such weighty pass-time. Did I mention I also like chopping things fast. Vegetables more so than meat.
Now where did I put that battery?

Photosynthesis

Trudging through the day,
weighted
no reason to mimic the sky
listening to the crimson
love-calls of the clueless purple people
Blue competing with yellow
in confusion turns to green
Photosynthesis struggling for it’s say
amongst the black and grey city scene.

Last Tree Standing

They came with bulldozers and chainsaws

Tagged numbers on our trunks

Beasts ran for the hills

With retracted claws

They felled us, cut us into chunks.

I watched silently as they came for me

Branches trembling in the breeze

A whistle blew, I knew they'd be

On their way home now for their tea.

The horrific day turned to night-time black

I await now for them to come back

To take me to the others on the stack.

23rd July 2009

'musings' on the closing of hospitals in rural areas - it's personal.

What do you think you are playing at
You self-serving bureaucratic
whine and diners?
Could you push your heads any further
up the place where the sun never shines?
These useless lines, these futile rhymes
are all I can do to try and quell
the rising anger, thoughts of the hell
in which you will fester, you jesters
fooling with my mother's life.
You have a wife? a daughter, a son?
Well, play on then, it won't be long
Till you reap what you sow
and btw don't you know
You are murderous twats
and that is all I have to say
about that.

Fiocle 6th July and angry.

Sunday - in the pouring rain.

How am I going to lug the gas cylinder down to the shop,

never mind in the pouring rain?

It will be four trips, in the pouring rain.

One to get the trolly,

One to bring down the empty

One to bring back the full

And one to bring back the trolly.

Make that five, another to return home.

So five trips in the pouring rain

to make soup.

Yes, I think it is worth it.

Cut and dry.

Nothing is,

what crumbles between your fingers

when touched, like thoughts, that once

were deemed so important,

now lie formless beneath your feet.

In a manifestation of repressed emotion

your tears evaporate into the ether.

Lost in the mist forever wandering

the time-warped forest, wounded, snarling,

you reach out across the gorge.

Chasms filled with untold thoughts,

stories with no beginning

tales with no end.

Pain, joy, pain again,

a light peaking through the cloud

snowdrops falling

you run the rickety wooden bridge

you jump the broken, rotting slats

dashing back towards your lost memories,

Infernal fire burns behind,

you know there is no return.

Succombing to the senses.

Will quick, awake, alive.

Survival rests in every cell,

no prophesy can ever tell,

what round every bend will show,

a taste of heaven, a smell of hell,

and things you may never, ever know.

Fiocle March 2011.

Everyone needs. - June 2011

These thoughts keep running through my head, periodically over time. So I decided to write them down.

Everyone needs physical affection.

Everyone needs to have an outlet to share.

Everyone needs to be appreciated.

Everyone needs to appreciate.

Everyone needs to know they belong somewhere.

Everyone needs to feel special.

Everyone needs to keep their feet on the ground.

Everyone needs friends.

Everyone needs to be a friend

Everyone needs sunlight

Everyone needs oxygen

Everyone needs water

Everyone needs food.

Everyone needs truth.

Everyone needs to be truthful.

Everyone needs to believe in something

Everyone needs to be believed.

Everyone needs sleep.

Everyone needs someone to sleep with.

Everyone needs to be kind.

Everyone needs kindness.

Everyone needs to be woken by birdsong.

Everyone needs to awaken birds with song.

Perpetual Chaos

The future prevailed, our lives de-railed,

The sturm and drang of it, no siren sang of it.

And everything that came before and after

was no disaster and certainly

couldn't plaster the deep, deep, wound

that left us sitting raw and stinging.

With ears ringing, we couldn't hear the song

designed to cheer, because it couldn't be composed.

It does not exist, so we continue to try to resist the iron fist

that everyone knows, can slap up against your grief

and give no small relief, to the constant happy clap-clapping,

of the ones who don't know the feeling.

The consistent reeling, while the cracks

of the existential whip continue to trip us.

But there it is in black and white,

no imminent warning to herald the morning,

the mourning that will never cease.

Snow White in the City - a poem

Snow White

in the city lights

just dreaming

of those moonlit nights

swapping stars for stars,

and cars for acres

of wild and free

but these dreams

can no longer comfort bring

outside the birds still sing

in concrete trees,

no rest on wires of string

but the song carries through

the smoky air and passes it

to those who care

and those who don't

and kicks the ass

of those who won't.

While in another time, another day

A Monkey Puzzle Tree

who'll never have his say

stands solitary

in majestically dignified

defiant self-defense.

Hello Goodbye

Yes she's coming to town, today. Hurray. Really, I think it is a good thing, it's truly wonderful. She no longer has to sneak in incognito, in an old raincoat and Groucho Marx nose-glasses. Walking through the front door of Ireland, welcomed and forgiven for all the evil things she has, no doubt personally, done to us over the last few centuries. Expected by some to make an apology, I think she should and it should go like this:

"Citizens of Ireland, I am so sorry for actually BEING the blade of Cromwell. Please forgive me for the terrible sin of the famine. I was a twinkle in the eye of my great great Grandfather at the time. How dare I, even to have considered being a zygote, in the near proximity of Sir Walter Raleigh, who is responsible for bringing the potatoes onto our colony in the first place...." and more of that ilk.. Would she get away with mega sarcasm? I doubt it. Will I? Doubt it.

Sarcasm aside, my mother is going to be driven through all the security barriers, so that she can get to the funeral of her long time friend Maurice. He was 91 and lived a full and productive life.

Not a word about him on the radio so here is the obituary:

http://www.irishtimes.com/newspaper/ireland/2011/0513/1224296840528.html

On a personal note we all lived together in a house in Dublin in the early 70's. Two families together consisting of six young children, about five adults (one of them lived under the stairs)

and two college going teens. There was even a dog. The school was the Rotten Jam Sandwich - of which I retain no memories at all. Worrying considering I attended for two and a half years...allegedly.

Maurice was a stable person, an oasis in the chaos. And chaos it was. I remember. His voice was soft gutteral and gravelly. Words spoken with a humorous gravity. Smiling eyes carved into a soft lived-in wisdom face....

Smell you later.

Hi my name is Lewie. I am a attention deficit hyper-active canine who barks loudly every time I hear any noise what sounds like a knock on the door. I just love love love it when the post comes, especially junk mail, because then my misses gives it to me and I can pretend I have just caught a big rat and shred it to tiny bits. It gives her something to do afterwards when she comes and picks up the pieces and puts them in the treat box. This is where all the good stuff goes. She pretends not to see and if there is something really smelly in there, I have to get it. Being smelly is good. She calls me smelly a lot so she must really love me..

I have been here all my life. This is my house and I don’t ever want to leave. Like the time when peoples came and took away my brother and sisters one by one. We were four, then three, then two, then there was just me and my mama. Oh and the peoples too, but they weren’t cool like us. We already had fur on us, they have to make fur and then put it on them. Not so clever, but then again they are kind of cute and always try really hard to be kind.

I am starting to train her now. So far I have taught her when I need to go out in the garden.. I had to pee all over the house before she would get the message. She finally noticed that if she opened the back door I wouldn’t have to pee on the corners of the chairs and the floor. ..I love the word ‘pee’. I love peeing. When I make her take me for a walk by running around in circles with my lead in my mouth, I can pee on the trees and the lamp-post and the yummy smelly dust-bins.and, and, and another trick I used was leaving a puddle at the bottom of the stairs. She always fell for that one. That’s when I learned the socks word. I love socks. especially after she has been wearing them all day and they are warm and smelly.

I got to go now because I can smell something in the kitchen. It’s chicken. I love chicken and I love my person because she loves to cook chicken. I sit there and give her the look. I can do it real well. She always says “ok you can have a little piece with your dinner.” so I know putting thoughts in her head through my eyes is working. Chow for now, and I will smell you later.

On the grape-vine

I had been wondering what to blog about when I was presented with an over-sized electricity bill. I don't remember asking the company to 'super-size me', so I gave them a call.

I started out calm, rational and convinced I was going to 'sort this thing out, once and for all.'

Tom, an innocent fellow, just doing his job, was nice enough if not a little patronising.

"So, Ms Person", accusingly.. "you, single-handedly, have been using twice the amount of electricity than my wife and children use in my home."

Now hold on a second! I could feel the calm transforming into the beginnings of an inner hurricane. I haven't even asked my question yet. Which was to be how the frig I had all of a sudden been slammed for four big ones. I had paid the bill on time, every month, since I had switched over to the company. A meter-reading lady had come periodically to read the meter, and thought everything was above board. So why had they the need to 'estimate' the bill, as they claimed this was the reason for the extra cost?

Now I owed them back-money?! Someone was to called up on this, and Tom bless his well-trained heart, was in the firing line.

It turned that after much deliberation and antler-locking (i shouldn't be doing that, I'm a girl fer crissakes) my mistakes were these: I didn't write down the dates the meter-reader came on; should have insisted on reading my own meter; should have taken tabs on how much I was using each day; should have kept a closer eye on the billing system.... and so on... who knew?

I refuse to relinquish my basic right to want to place trust in my fellow human beings, even if they are a massive power corporation (pun intended) looking only to line the pockets of the National football leagues.

The 'little old ladies next door' are to the most part just a statistic in their corporate data-bases.....until, to be fair, and you have to be pretty bull-headed to achieve this, you manage to win over the likes of the tele-operator Tom, who it has to be said, after I had my say in the matter, has struck me a 'fair deal' with the pay-back, even though there is nothing fair about it. He even volunteered off his own back to go the extra mile and call me a few days before the bills is due. But truthfully the kind of assistance I need is to have a genius brain installed in my skull so I can make any sense of any of it. But I will allow him to think he is genuinely doing me a favor, as i think he is an innocent pawn in the larger corporate mind-game. This mind-game is actually simply, wilful neglect. I am hardy. But what about the others, this has happened to, who maybe don't have the time or energy to stand up for themselves?

I feel tricked, cheated on and used...divorcees out there - remind you of anything?

I know there are others I heard it on the grape-vine...

What to do if you're bored on a rainy Saturday.

I have decided on this rainy day to make a light comparison between:

The Eight Limbs - the core of yoga and

The Ten Commandments - the moral epicentre of the Judeo/Christian philosophy.

I am sure it has been done before but, I am about to do it again, so fasten your seat belts and put on your head-phones, pump-up the volume because this could be a slow painful ride.

Here is what I have come up with so far...

• Don't kill

The first Yama (universal moral truth) - Ahimsa - Compassion for all living things

Commandment No.6 on the tablet. - You shall not murder

• Don't steal

The third Yama. Asteya - non-stealing

Commandment No.8 - You shall not steal.

• Don't lie

The second Yama. Satya - The Commitment to Truthfulness.

Commandment No.9 - You will not bear false witness against your neighbour.

The Do's

There don't seem to be many direct do's in common. The only thing I can say about it is that there is a vague similarity between prayer and meditation. The difference is in prayer we are generally told what to pray for, in a dogmatic manner, from someone in authority

In meditation there is just you and the universe. You are taking responsibility for your own thoughts. This is not easily possible following the rules of Christianity or Judaism. Same thing to an even greater degree in Muslim and Islam. Now those are two religions some people have a problem making a distinction between.

Why am I bothering to do this? Because I am trying to find a universal truth, or is it The universal truth. One that belongs to everybody. Life is confusing enough, and I possibly very naively thought that by simplifying it with comparative study, might bring me a better sleep tonight.

Well, i could rattle on all day about it but I have to walk the dog... buy oranges, and other sundries....

Tigger too.

My mood has lifted

I don't know

if its the spring

or if it's you.

Springs are bouncy

So maybe

You are bouncy too.

Day 2 ~ blog-a-day keeps cabin-fever at bay.

This is where I was on Saturday. Visiting the Travelling Tomb of Tutankhamun, in replicate.

It re-kindled the fascination I had as a child when I came across the story and pictures of this boy King. I don't know, maybe I was dazzled by the gold, the mystery, the antiquity, the beauty, the loftiness of royalty. Yes, all those things. But more than that, there is something very self-contained and comforting about the finding of the tomb. A tomb which, if it hadn't been for the persistence of one man, might still be lying in all it's glory, undiscovered under the hot Egyptian desert possibly for time infinitum. It gives me comfort in that it makes me wonder what else is buried in time, physically or ethereally, which nobody will ever know about or see. Oddly or not, I love that thought. I love the idea of the unknown, the never to be known. But I also love this teaser which highlights the sense of the unknown for me.

Here is another picture. This is a template of the burial chamber.

It kind of reminded me of the Babushka Russian dolls:

It actually looked like this, only they had separated each chamber and had me wondering how on earth they had fitted them into each other. My son explained. They had started with the smallest one and had built the others around it,. like you might build the bottle around the ship. After a few giggles we realised that would be impossible, and tried to imagine the glass-blower blowing melted glass around a tiny toy ship. The attention deficit continued and the mystery remained...

The man's name was Howard Carter and he looked like this:

I do have some reservations about it all. But then I have reservations about everything.

Here they are:

• The Tomb's right to privacy.

Mr Howard Carter didn't come upon this tomb accidentally. He actively went out searching for it. I'd do the same, who wouldn't? But there are some moral issues involved. It has to be made clear that grave-robbery is a crime, should be. But suddenly it became kosher to rob this grave because the government 'gave the go-ahead'. As I write this I am beginning to see why. If it hadn't been Carter, who found the tomb, it may have been someone else, who may have completely disrespected it. The integrity of Tutankhamun's tomb is currently intact. This is definitely the most satisfactory out-come. Compromise had to be made for the tomb's very survival, is one argument. But then, there is also the odds betting on, that the tomb may have never been found, in which case it would still be there undiscovered in it's ultimate untarnished glory. I would not be writing this, or have feasted my eyes and mind on the beautiful artifacts which conjured the images of a life, far beyond any we could emulate for ourselves today. It may not have in reality been a bed of roses all the time for this young family. I imagine that they were very much controlled and pretty well isolated in their existence too. But the initial reaction of coming face to face with a life size replica of these lives long past, fires and fuels the imagination, which then has to be put into perspective, by discovering and knowing the history behind these glittering gold and marble artifacts we saw in front of us.

Here is a picture of his friend Lord Canarvon who funded the expedition:

He was unwell at the time and been sent to Egypt to recuperate. Nice for him...

• Respect for the dead.

I can only imagine what I would say if someone asked me how I'd feel if my dead body went on tour around the world in replicate. I would probably say: "Why ask me? If you are going to do such a thing, I'd rather not know about it. Do what you want, you will anyway."

Well, no one got to ask King Tut, so we will never know whether he is being disrespected or not. I wonder what the ethics behind that is? If someone isn't around to be asked, should you do it anyway? I am not sure on that one. I am leaning towards, probably not.

• Tutankhamun's right to some post-death dignity.

Ok, so the grave was discovered. Even if it was an accident, what's the protocol? Jump up and down with glee and shout; "This is mine, all mine!!". ??

Let's get back to your grandmother. No. I wouldn't want someone to do that to her. I would want them to go: "Oops, my bad. Tip-toe back out, re-seal the door and place it under guard."

There is no way of knowing how he would have felt about his remains being put on public display all over the world, and viewed by everybody and anybody. All I know is how I would have felt if it had been my Grandmother's body, touring the world year in year out. But then my grandmother, as wonderful as she was, wasn't a goddess who lived in a palace made of marble and gold.... Never mind all that....I still and always will find it incredible that this one boy's tomb is such am rich and fascinating historical document.

I would like to dedicate this particular blog to Bex, Leo, Stephen and Jane (The Awesome Four-some) who helped me celebrate my (50th) birthday early and in such style. They are also the reason I have missed the past few days of the promised blog-a-day marathon. But are totally forgiven! Partly because they surprised me with a replica of the Cat Goddess Bast.

Bast represents protection, motherhood and fertility. here is a picture:

Well that is blog No 2 taken care of...I hope some of it was interesting. If not, the good news is tomorrow's will be completely different.

Happy Tuesday all!

A blog a day keeps the psychiatrist away... No 1.

To keep me from becoming a totally introverted nut-case, which I am already on the road towards regardless, I have decided to write a blog a day for the next 30 days. It will be on any topic and of any length of my choosing. This rule is to keep me from making excuses not to do it. The point of it is to get me out of my own head and sharing something.

Since I have given up smoking, and yes, it is for real, I was helpfully informed I would need to find something else to do with my hands. The ritual of rolling my own was all part of the attraction for me, and I do really miss it. But this tale has a happy ending. I am now the proud owner of two, woolly crocheted hats. I chose the blue and white mixed colour myself and even taught myself how to crochet. At first I tried following a pattern but gave it up after it kept coming out the wrong shape. So I started in the middle and worked my way out into a perfectly shaped hat, which I wear proudly around the town and even feel is giving me a certain air of respect from some of who I consider to be the 'cooler' members of the neighbourhood. (all around my age and older, shabbily dressed types with lots of hair and reading- glasses) Ok, they are all a little like me.

When the novelty of hat-making wore off, I turned my attentions to the key-board (of the musical persuasion) which was lying idle in the corner of the living-room-that-never-gets-lived-in. In only 24 hours I had taught myself the first half of Fur Elise, a tune I have always wanted to be able to play properly. I also polished up on a few other little tunes I had been learning over the years. Those couple of hours a day are really my most enjoyable.

Apart from these two creative asides in my life, I have managed to re-paint the front door, the back bed-room and do a reasonably impressive amount of gardening, considering there is still a chill in the spring air.

Meanwhile there is a large bumblebee in the sun-room sharpening his sting for the next time I attempt to put him in a jar. He will then be transported all the way out of the back-door and set free in the wilderness of my small domestic back garden.

In memory of my friend Christopher Daybell. ~ Irish poet.

This is a poem by a prolific poet who was definitely under-appreciated, while he was alive. He was a man of the times, a voice of the people. Yet, if you go into a book shop in his home town, you cannot buy his art. He is interesting because he gave up his job as a lawyer very early on in his career, to become a full time poet. I used to meet him in the street where he would be busking his poems. He always had a friendly smile, and a kind word, a real gentleman of the old school. Blonde curly locks down to his shoulders, blue eyes, and the classic tan colored corderouy lapelled jacket. His name was Christopher Daybell, born in 1939, died, much too early, in 1990.

Recently I have become semi-obsessed with finding this man's collections and my investigations lead me to the National Library in Dublin. I was delighted to discover that he had been a prolific writer and found approximately seventy-two booklets and journals all containing his works.

Once I got over the feeling that I was spying in on something which hadn't openly asked to be spied upon, I found my self relaxing into reading the poetry. I was so impressed that I managed to allow the librarian to talk me into looking into the publishing rights. This was completely unprecedented, considering the fact that originally all I wanted to do was to replace my lost magazines.

Here is one that I particularly liked, as it seems to match the mood of the other poetry I have been reading recently, and my minor obsession with Nietzche quotes.

Illusions

Intense unity is parting,

The essence is change.

Would it not weary you

If I was always beside you?

What would we do with completeness

But secure it.

In the illusion of safety

The rock that never was.

Through ambivalence we see

The simple destroys,

The complex includes.

We could both part or stay.

Indifference can be positive

Not neglect.

I watched your face from the train.

The rain came on the way.

The times of danger

are the times of hope,

For them most people

will believe in anything.

Is anything more false

Than the single truth

Explaining everything

When nothing is explained.

By

Christopher Daybell