Words for Margaret Thatcher

 

 

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The Fxxking Titanic

Dave Lordan – 26/03/2013

Sound & Editing by Eamon Crudden

The Irish

I liken the people to the place they were born and raised.
Geography is all.

Gorgeous Ireland. Close enough to the north pole, violent swerving winds castigate its landscape and its people, a very old piece of land without mountains to provide natural sources of shelter; the Irish are completely exposed to the elements, the cold rain, the relentless wind, the dark days whose light palette will vary between grayish blue and charcoal grey. A streak of light does break through here and there, mostly in the distance to warm somebody else’ backyard.

The Irish are depressed and if they aren’t, they should be.
So they dance and they sing their blues away.
The circles of nature inspire their ancient art
Which they weave into tight threads
Tight relationships
Tight loyalty
Tight tribes.

The bareness across their landscape leaves them vulnerable to the whims of the gods above cos they have no place to hide…
Uncertain of what next day will bring ..
The need to fight for survival in this harsh environment grinds their senses ..
To ask the right questions is important to stay alive ..
Spirituality takes hold.

Given this scenario their best social security plan is to have children.
Done over the centuries this is their secret of life.
Pretty babies. Many babies.
For most the only option is to get out.
So, the only way to sustain this high turnover is to have even more children.
I was surprised to spot families of 6, not 4, as is common in most western countries.
No.
The Irish believe that if they want to survive they must multiply!

The passionate agony of its people reflect the island’ temperamental weather, its bare rolling hills and cliffs and its small size. Creative, loving, possessive, subtle, affectionate, cold, spiritual, proud, wicked, expressive, cruel, tender, ruthless, humane, atrocious, loyal and tribal.

They are not English at all, at all…

Random New Yorker – 16/03/2013

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Compassion in Action

The other morning, I woke up to a sharp winter sun rising over the Mediterranean. Behind me, the White Mountains showed they are worthy of their name. Capped with fresh snow, they hurled a cold northerly wind at us, cutting through the bluest of skies to make this a perfect morning for a brisk walk by the sea.

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I wrapped up well and walked the 200 yards or so down the steep, winding little path in the cliff edge, onto the beach. The freshness of the morning was invigorating. I decided to walk towards the harbour where sleepy little fishing vessels were quietly huddled together under the protection of the quay wall, disturbed only by the shrieks of the seagulls cursing at me for waking them too early.

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When I walked past the taberna, now closed for winter, an unfamiliar shape caught my eye. It was lodged under the wooden platform that extended out from the taberna onto the beach. Like the taberna, the platform has seen better days.
At first I thought the shape was a washed up buoy or maybe a bag of rubbish hidden there by somebody to lazy to walk to the next rubbish collection point.

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And then the shape moved. Only ever so slightly, but nevertheless, it moved. With the movement, it also produced a little grunt. As I watched, the shape slowly unfurled into a dark skinned, sinewy thin woman. At a guess, Asian-African, possibly Somali.
She looked at me once, in silence, and simply carried on doing what she was doing. There wasn’t the slightest hint of her even noticing my presence. To my amazement she produced a small child from underneath the blanket, which she then turned into a sling. In the protective cocoon of the sling, she put the child on her breast and walked away, without a sound.

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The sum total of this woman was there, in front of me, moving further away in slow motion. The clothes she wore, her blanket and her child. That was all. Was that really everything?
What happened? Why? How? Who is she? Where? What are her hopes and dreams? For herself, for her child..?
Hundreds of questions raced through my mind, and the single answer kept coming back in reply; “I don’t know”.
I’ll never forget her haunting eyes. At the same time questioning, accusing, wondering. But not pleading. She had gone beyond pleading, beyond asking. Her silent loneliness was her last defence against a world that didn’t want her.
I felt totally inadequate, and ashamed. I could have reached out, offered help, maybe some food, or my warm jacket, or… But I didn’t. The whole scene was just so surreal, a freeze-frame moment that seemed to last for eons.

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Today I went to Chania to get some supplies, and while crossing the road to go into the market for fresh fish and goats cheese, I saw her again.
The same woman, wearing the same clothes, her child sleeping on her shoulder. Today, her blanket offered itself as a pillow to the child. She stood at the entrance to the market building, and watched, in silence. Her dark skin even darker, backlit by the sharp low winter sun.
She did not hold out her hand, she didn’t ask for anything. She stood in silent witness to an uncaring world, so caught up in itself it neither notices nor cares about those it leaves behind.
Then, a little girl, she could have been 8, maybe 10, came out from the market building. She skipped up to the woman and put a loaf of bread into her hand. Then the girl disappeared back into the market again, dancing, smiling, brimming with life.

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Not a word was spoken between them. Compassion doesn’t need words, it is action.
If we can go beyond telling our children about charity, if we can teach them that real charity is compassionate action, all is not lost.
Today, a smiling, dancing little girl in Chania showed an uncaring world, so caught up in itself it neither notices nor cares about those it leaves behind just how simple compassionate action is. I hope the world was watching…

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Chania, Crete. 15/12/2012

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Ephilant – 09/03/2013

Ferry Town

A street of meagre terraces,

Clinging to the lough mouth

By destitute resolve.

Surviving cot and bothy

And the industry of brick clay.

Straddling the river,

Without bridge.

Without water.

 

One day they scattered the people

And their ways,

A hinterland in every wind.

‘They’re ferry people you know?’

A porous row monument left

To crumble through my childhood

And sink beneath the bungalows,

Peppering soggy points and quarters

From the Largy to Far Ballyscullion.

 

 

5intheface – 02/03/2013

The Liberties in the 21st Century

Come all you lads and lassies and good folk from the Coombe
And listen very carefully while I sing this soulful tune
I’ve come to praise the Liberties both the old and the new
I’ve come to praise the people who are honest, pure and true.

Now you have all heard of Zozimus who said his poems out loud
He never failed to entertain or titillate the crowd
But he never had a microphone to harangue the populace as they passed
Today he’d have less trouble, he could make a pod-cast.

And Billy-in-the Bowl who got about with ease
Although he had no legs and was riddled with disease
Today he’d have a wheel-chair all powered by batteries
To strangle all the quicker in the sweet old Liberties.

And Bang-Bang used the Buses with a large key in his hand
And frightened all the children in their native land
Today he’d let off fire-works as he’d ride along the Luas
But he couldn’t jump off quickly so he’d have to douse the fuse.

And what of Johnny forty-coats who was terrified of the cold
As he rambled round the neighbourhood, his story often told
Today he’d have an anorak made of pure Teflon
With a heat-pack in each pocket so easy to switch on.

And what of Robert Emmet, our greatest Rebel from the past
Who escaped down Francis Street when the die was cast
Would he have joined the Peace Process and played the moderate card?
Or would he have joined Bruce Willis and remained a die-hard ?

And the dealers all on Thomas Street who used to shout their prices
Now are much more worried now about the Euro Zone Crisis
And the constant dipping value of their properties in Spain
While there’s nothing can be done here to stop this bloody rain.

The changes that are coming, the changes that have passed
Are a source of much confusion to this ever changing cast
But whatever the confusion, the future will shine bright
If, like the people of the Liberties, we treat each other right.

 

Riposte – 23/02/2012

 

 

Toothbrush In A Poem

Daily grind, daily scrub, daily girl, daily gob

The sweet, sickly squeeze of paste, the morning news

The weary, ageing, sadding face

Did you ever do this?

Point the pasted brush, drag and release its bristles

At the mirror?

Just for the heck of it

A spray of insurrection

A rule inverted, a ritual undone

The funny chaos of minty dots

A small revolution reflected

Back at one

 

MediaBite – 16/02/2013

Kinds of Love

The kind we give
The kind we take
The kind we fall in
The kind we make.

Love forever
Love for now
Love unintended
Love !… wow 🙂

Delightful confusion
Infinitely clear…
Familiar mystery,
Definitively dear.

C. Flower – 14/02/2013

Rain

I’m happy when it rains,
It purifies the land and my soul,
It is the never ending chore of nature,

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In the yard, raindrops splash the ballet,

As they explode on puddled stage,
While on hillsides streams are forming,
Quickening to merge at the river with thunderous roar.

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Rocks tumble, clash and tear at the valley floor,

As they are ushered to the sea,
To be displayed there at the ebb,
Like a mighty army.

Trow – 12/02/2013

Survived

Anger written on a page
enchantment shattered,
sense scattered

Ink, ravenous with rage, hacks and scratches
till hearts, scythed and asunder,
deaden, stiffen,
nerves shriven.

Imagine that!
As a child to feel
and breathe such cancer
Tear your insides inside out,

Bone to bat,
bat to back
and back again.

A grotesque dancer
On a stage where you have no part
except to simply suffer and wait
In hope that all this woe will soon abate
And curtain falls
and violence exasperate.

Leaving me alone but lonely
alive but dead inside
to wait

and wait for scar blackened heart to revive
and adult squirmers to squirm in hate
to feel what I had felt
black-strap leather of a belt
brass-cankered bat across their bones
meeting the meaning of madness in their moans

And exult at their discomfort
Stare in my face – my face of mirth
Carved and coloured from their owed-dirt
Fashion now their very fruitful hurt

But for what is this hurt worth
If payment is revengeful spurt
And anger boils – still boils inside –
My loves and hopes away…. They died.

Andrew49 – 31/01/2013