Tuesday, May 10, 2016

Poem of the Week 430 Commentary

Guardian poem of the week four hundred and something. Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister by Robert Browning.

commenting as gwionb,


One of Browning's poems was first here in July 2010, Two in the Campagna, pre-forum-format-change, when the Reader was presented first with Carol's critical perspective topping the poem.

Back in the day the Potw Blog was feted, privileged and lucky to have regular voluntary contributions from the voice of a superlative post-modern senior Dublin critic, the anonymous, anytimefrances.

Although the objects, subjects and targets of her killer rhetorical  literary barbs may not agree, her post-modern yet plainly anciently sourced eloquence was untouchable in competitive conversation. 

She could deconstruct the semiotic signs and signifiers of any text, re-tooling the language of any poem, and cleverly re-combine them as a shrewd and astute Reader into the wholly opposite map of their critical meaning, thru her uniquely hard-won and refined philosophical lens and perspectives created by and found from a deep familiarity with the tortuously recondite writings of Derrida, Freud, Foucault, Marx and Lacan.

Carol took the position on Browning's poem:

"Two in the Campagna" is one of the most sombrely honest of love poems, but its doubts and questions are so scrupulously recorded and so beautifully, coherently woven together that it reassures us. For most of the scientists of Browning's day, the designer of the universe was still "in his Heaven", and the poet, by analogy, still at the centre of his twisting, turning, but reassuringly symmetrical web of a poem. Random, meaningless and incoherent modernity is still many decades in the future.

That week atf was also on top form. She did not yield on any of the deliberately provocative points she made, with any attack on her position, of which there were many, responded to with a heightening of eloquence and deepening of thought communicating a rare mind.

Her anonymous voice had a superlative critical ability, that relied wholly on its own wit and inventiveness to stand out so exemplary on this blog during its formative (2007-10) early-years period.

That most of the time was naturally witty and wise. Tho she was a very divisive figure, who, in my mind, because we were firm and natural allies, could do no rhetorical wrong.


Of the few times I've attempted it, much to my shame, i've failed to fall in love with any of Robert Browning's dramatic monologues that I've tried to be enchanted by.

The texts and voices that take immense pleasure and delight in creating subtle witty excursions into well thought-out in-jokes and the self-referential, meticulously wrought metrical stanzas that tell very involved tales stretched over long and rhythmically plodding lines from which one can hear a tone of confident earnestness in Browning's voice at the birth of modernism.

Wholly civilised, educated, lyrically poetic, rational, well-intended, wise, and very witty, perhaps, but one which is clearly entombed in a state and point of English history, and the evolution of its class system, that will, one suspects, render this Victorian's voice eminently dull in the ear of most contemporary listeners reared on, and loving, as we do, our diets of rock n funk n roll, and the contemporary pop-pap poetic of the wholly synthetic and soulless electronically enhanced modified and manufactured voices lip-syncing banal meaningless gobbledygook and one-dimensional brainless messages that lyrically captivate the first world Anglophone social-media masses.

We hear the well-wrought lines, recognise even perhaps their authenticity, ingenuity, integrity, high degree of literary inventiveness, and unceasingly metrical polish; but, i suspect, no magic spark of the mesmeric 'it' is heard in the ear or continually spotted by a majority of eyes in today's audience without a classical education, and reared on a constant cultural diet of contemporary meta-action and living the hyper-reality of fast-moving events.


After four centuries of literary evolution this week's poem is situated at the very Victorian apex and pre-Edwardian peak of an ultra-metrical poetic; and cultural bubble within which a poem did not exist unless it was diligently composed, or dashed off, in the strict and straight forms that are immediately identifiable on the page to a contemporary eye.

An entirely metrical poetic and collectively uniform technical measuring standard, that, unchanging, and evolving within strict metrical boundaries, for fifteen generations of poets, had wove a merry way from the first self-styled regius orator and poet-laureate, John Skelton, to the perfected Victorian lyric form of rhymers such as Barret, Blake, Bronte, Byron, Cook, Dickinson, Keats, Rossetti, Shelly, Harper, Tennyson, and Yeats.

And one of my own lyrically overflowing favourite voices from this perfected poetic era, that, I think, when at his best, was one of the most experimentally inventive, and audaciously gifted linguistically innovative metrical practitioners of the formal Victorian lyric, whose best poems touch joint-close with the superlative language of Manley-Hopkins, in speaking the Divine tongue and imbas forosnai all the Victorian poets of all the schools and stripes of spirituality - from clearly Christian to the more secular transcendentalists - can be measured by, and, who, like this week's offering, is, for many readers an either/or love/hate poet: Algernon Charles Swinburne.

All but William Butler Yeats, and most of the women poets, by and large far more socially and politically enlightened and advanced than the men, were unknowingly bound up in the final two and three generations of poets defined for four hundred uninterrupted years by the metricality of their verse.

Most of the many Victorian poets, all but Yeats and a few others who wrote both sides of the literary shift, had the metrical foundations, basis, and four centuries ancient practice of modern English language poetry, rendered, if not obsolete, certainly supplanted culturally by the free-verse of American modernity.

All but a handful of the Victorian English poets were unaware that posterity was going to canonise, as a majority of these now long forgotten Victorian poets would've no doubt considered him, the imposter Whitman, as the revolutionary antecedent and American godfather of a new modern anti-formal-lyric poetic, that the majorty of English language poets and doggerelists publishing today have as the sole one in which to practice, create, possess and publish ditties, and the odd stray whisp of eloquence and beauty combined into that which cannot be edited.


Of a relative handful of contemporary readers who'll have read any of Browning's numerous monologue poems, a proportion will be of course life-long lovers of his dramatic and theatrical, lengthy epics, and experience this kind of densely metrical writing and reading material as the superlative poetic and literary bees knees.

Whilst others, with less knowledge of this fascinating man and his history, perhaps, may well place his plodding and originally worded stanzas anywhere from slightly less than inspiring to ear-numbingly tedious.

As any critic knows being praiseful in print is in the long-term far healthier for the human spirit, and easier to do well when it becomes a habit, than exhaustively spewing satirical invective and letting show how genuinely we (all) can cerebrally bleed and phantasmagorically hate something created wholly within our own imagination. The problem with which is that if the 'bitter prayer of satire' is all a voice works up to in print, as the unceasingly political writing of certain contemporary satirists prove, the one-sided creatively imbalanced and intellectually draining nature of it can and will tip the always satirically expressed voices into a visibly negative death spiral of the positive inner literary and humanly spiritual tongue.

That all situating ourselves within the Humanities profess some connection with and love for.

In this respect I wanted this week's poem to succeed and detain one's attention, and be able to positively respond to this classically canonised piece of Victorian verse, creating as formally a well-written reply, with as detached cool passion as the very best anonymous critics on the potw blog prove themselves capable of and do month in month out. But, alas what little Browning I have read left me cold.

Tho i am not as foolish to believe that one's unfamiliarity with all of his dramatic monologues and personae poems is in any way a reflection of the true quality of Browning's verse. Because i also understand that the effect a poem makes within a Reader's imagination, depends entirely on the state of mind s/he is in at the point poem and person collide and combine.

On one day, in a certain mood, we may read a Browning monologue, or any other poem, out loud, and fall into expressing it with pleasure and being led as we go by an unfurling surprise to the Frostean figure of the wisdom a poem makes and is when terminating on its final syllable at a poetically profound destination. Yet on a different day, in a different cerebral state, we may find ourselves not connecting at all with the exact same poem, and discover what delight we read, saw and heard previously, has spiritually vanished.


Listening to this recording of Browning's How they Brought the Good News From Ghent To Aix, it is clear that today's' ear tuned solely by Anglo-American free-verse hears with an eye seeing first this very metrically uniform, and, to our modern collective ear, incredibly dated novelty and all but extinct tradition of ploddingly predictable literary rhyme, that time and the contemporary cultural dumbing down process has dulled the sparkling originality of. What at the time were innovative word choices, from the very off to the very end.

Monday, August 17, 2015

Shame A Sidhe Nee Note

'I credit poetry for making this space-walk possible. I credit it immediately because of a line I wrote fairly recently recently  (1995) instructing myself (and whoever else might be listening) to' -


What's the story? The message? What are we being encouraged to do by Seamus Heaney as people who might be listening?

From the response of the local and global Heaney audiences, there is an emerging consensus affirming what Heaney hinted it meant in his Nobel acceptance speech, shortly after he'd first written the poem, The Gravel Walk, which appears half-way thru his first post Nobel collection, The Spirit Level, in which the line's earliest poetic context appears.

Enact the line above as a living person. 

Or as Heaney said himself in a 2008 interview: 'I began to look up rather than keep down. I think it had to do with a sense that the marvellous was as permissible as the matter-of-fact in poetry.'

Certainly Historian Eugene Kielt who runs Heaney tours, gets it right, when he opines that it is 'very inspirational. It is about going for it. We are naturally cautious and sometimes someone should throw caution to the wind.'

Kielt continues, that though some charge of this advice is about 'keeping your feet on the ground', it's  about 'looking up as well. It is (primarily) about risk taking and not being inhibited, losing your inhibitions.'

If Heaney chose this epitaph himself, as Yeats did his own, the Heaney family can rest assured that there's at least one from the vigorous throng of poets on Britain and Ireland following in the wake of this Ard Ollamh - with a forty year presence at the very top of world poetry - with nothing but what Heaney calls, the 'professional love' a wordsmith has for their Muse.

Held in such internationally high regard because he had learned as authentically as any filidh taught on the curriculum that turned out forty generations of Irish rhymers from the fifth to the seventeenth century.

I was never introduced to Ireland's last Ard Ollamh during this past decade I've been  in Dublin. And incertus oneself I was far too timid and shy to approach and introduce myself to him.

Not least because Heaney was the only poet I was consciously aware of, that, in my own mind at least - had the power to personally make or break my belief in the veracity of what I was up to at that stage starting out on the road of literary learning and letters; barely a foclo or macfirmid - 'word-weaving beginner', and 'son of composition'

I was happy and feel blessed to have just been in the same room as him a number of times, observing and learning from the best (then) living poet in the world on his home turf, just another of the many wannabe filidh in an ultra-competitive throng at Tara seeking affirmation, validation, and favour from a high king-poet and linguistic leader of the homeland and himself alone first.

Then his family, and people that flocked from all over the globe to watch and learn from this once living container of pure human positivity and spiritual voice that had earned a right to walk rhyming on air, and talking with the ultimate authority on the poetic act and art, not because of who he stood next to, or who was socially drawn to him, but by being the best at what he did. Filíocht.

I was blessed by poetry, fate and dán (that in its most antique and authentic context means 'fate' as well as 'poem', 'poetry' and 'art') - to witness in Dublin Heaney speaking both poetry and prose, on five or six occasions.

On one occasion, four months after I'd first arrived, in the thick of the Kavanagh 2004 centenary; during a St Patricks College, Drumcondra, Seamus Heaney Series, of six lectures, on child cognitive abilities, the week following his own on Kavanagh, that I also attended; I looked up from the note-taking I'd been writing and there was Heaney's back, directly in front of me, sitting down watching and listening to the same lecture.

I realised it was him close to the end of the lecture. Note-taking thru most of it, it had gradually, over a final minute or two, dawned on me, as I intermittently looked up and caught glimpses of the profile of this senior stout person's head turning occasionally slightly to the right, then left - that the best poet in the world had chosen to sit right in front of me.

He had came in and sat down after me, and, no doubt observed before he did, me writing in my own private circle of studious concentration, oblivious to his presence. Unlike, one suspects, most other socially preening and posturing scribes and would-be poets of Ireland in the room that night.

As I already mentioned, on arriving in 2004 it was Kavanagh's hundredth birthday, and everyone in Dublin was on the Kavanagh centenary bandwagon. Somewhat ironically he had become an establishment icon, long after his life was over. When he was living the official Irish literary establishment didn't give him the time of day, but now he was safely dead silence his life and work was being culturally appropriated and celebrated by all.

During that summer, a new poet-pal I'd just made from Write and Recite, a weekly poetry open-mic that happened in Dublin from 2004-8, PJ Brady, was in the twentieth year of doing his one-man play in which he plays the role of Patrick Kavanagh, and I had volunteered to put up a couple of posters from his ten or so full-size glossy-poster stash, in as prominent and relevant places as I could think of.

To this end of putting up posters I opted to attend two events back to back. One was a Kavanagh manuscript exhibition at the National Library, and the other was the Royal College of Surgeons launch of Peter Fallon's translation of Virgil's Georgics, published by his own imprint, The Gallery Press; with fellow Gallery Press poet Seamus Heaney introducing his publisher's translation of the Latin bard.

These, I thought, were two perfect places to catch the eye of Dublin's poetry buffs. The Kavanagh manuscript launch was on Kildare Street at six-thirty pm, and Fallon at seven, five minutes walk away in the College of Surgeons on Stephens Green.

I arrived at the National Library and asked please was it OK to put a poster up; and the security man said, no problem. After I put one up it occurred to me to ask the person doing the introduction of a main speaker, if they would mention PJ's show. I ended up talking to a third-in-charge person, who came up with a classic reason for not mentioning Brady's one man Patrick Kavanagh show in which he spoke the Enniskeen poets prose and verse, that sums up the inherent natural comedy of Irish literary life.

"I don't think it would be appropriate in the circumstances."

I could not help but instinctively and inwardly chuckle to myself, silently responding what circumstances are they?

A Kavanagh event, Ireland's premier Kavanagh actor in a limited run of this world-class Kavanagh show, performing the Monaghan man's own prose and poems on stage. Surely the circumstances couldn't be more apt and appropriate?

However, being new to Dublin, enthralled with the place and in the mist on blind poetic instinct, I moved on buoyed by this briefly comedic creative episode; to Peter Fallon's launch, playing it by ear.

Arriving there I decided to ditch requesting a shout-out for The Heart Laid Bare, and to just put the poster up by a wine and cheese area of the ballroom where the culturally valued faces of the great and seriously good of Irish poetry (that I did not recognise) were broadcasting their price (lóg n-enech) mingling post-book-launch that had just occurred in the main raked, four/five tiered college of surgeons lecture theatre .

The ballroom has an imposing high-vaulted space with an intricately decorated ceiling adorned with expensive oak and plaster friezes, and fading oil portraits of various Augustine personages hung staring out on the walls; but the nearest sash window had been faced with interior double-glazing, making a superlative flat surface for adhering the poster to.

After the National Library experience I thought it best to cover all possible bases, and so requested and received permission from a security man at the main downstairs desk to put it up. So, after the launch, as a crowd tinkled in civilised talk and chatter, I went over to a glass window by the wine and cheese table to put the poster up; and half way through doing so a man who I'd watched introduce Heaney at the start of the event in the main lecture hall, came over in a vaguely agitated and disgruntled social state, and we had the following exchange:

"You can't put that up here."

It's OK, I got permission to put it up.

"What (somewhat disbelievingly), from security ?"


"Well, erm they probably think you're with us. You'll have to take it down."

By this time I was inwardly chuckling again, as he was clearly highly-charged, one assumed because of the high profile nature of the event, so I said no problem, and slowly began to un-sellotape the two-third affixed poster; when the most comical thing happened. Your man physically interjected and said:

"Here, let me help you."

And just at this point seeming as if he was about to tear it away like an angry executive snatching a latte from a facetious office boy, he realised his behaviour was drawing attention in the large public space away from the main cynosure of poetic gravity and focus, and onto us. He blushed brightly before turning on his heels and then shuffled off to fulfill a role of exchanging poetry-related pleasantries as the chief-smiler, hand-shaker, and director of official poetry chit-chat with those present.

He had inadvertently drawn attention and free publicity to the poster at the event than one had envisaged or hoped for, as the all-seeing collective Dublin eyes in the room noted from their corners, no doubt, who the then Director of Poetry Ireland / Éigse Éireann, that I later learned was the Louth poet, Joe Woods, had been having a frisson of socially combative exchange with.

At the wine and cheese do's of official poetry in Ireland, any stray scrap of true or fictional gossip, is big news, no matter how slight, so one felt somewhat pleased with my efforts. I'd not gone out to create a fuss, but still, in one's own mind if nobody else's; a spontaneously brief notice of my voluntary culture doings had occurred, that, I decided, could not have been better scripted.

I had been to my first Dublin literary establishment events, back to back, and all in all a good evening's voluntary work had come of it.

I then spotted a mobile notice-board just outside the sumptuous ballroom and decided to put the poster on there.

When I had slowly and methodically done so I turned round and was immediately met, ten feet away, by the eyes of Fallon and Heaney; who were having a one-on-one time-out from the bustle of the ballroom, sitting on two chairs to the side at the top of the sweeping marble staircase, alone, saying nothing and staring directly at me.

And with no sign of acknowledgement from them of me beyond a stare, caught unawares, not realising they were there, sheepishly I  raised my eyebrows and moved off lips clamped in a facial gesture of one in surprise spotted by this duo from the ollúna at their most authentic and natural in their own golden circle of imaginative and playful child-like artistic concentration.

Filled with emotional and intellectual positivity at the perceived success of my creative mission, smiling in joyful surprise; I vacated the building with a spring in my step, welling with imbhas and deciding that a perfect first impression in the golden poetry circle had been made.

At the height of this collective delusional spell of Celtic Tiger madness; that I believe (tho it's very unpopular and unpatriotic to utter any disagreement with the magical doctrine that the bubble is going to expand and last forever) - will spectacularly crash. I am certain of it."

contd@ Jan Manzwotz Blog, created four years after starting to write, at the start of one person's journey thru the thickets of the English language in Dublin. Created as an unconscious and instinctual part of a Finn McCool find ye name process forty generations of Irish rhymers were taught, yohl.
A metaphorical bardic poetry lesson from s/he that learns to love in letters a long route - from the curriculum's core reading material, found hitting ye head over and over again with it, until the contents of what a fíli poet had to learn, sunk in. From the pages of the unimprovable original druidic apparatus ye still have at the educational centre of ye poetic manual and practice in contemporary Ireland: Auraicept na n-Éces.

Sunday, August 14, 2005

Dince the Dentable Dork Called

A moan poet whose work no-one
will riddle

until the global brain
has brought to its chamber of gas
poetry's cold bloodied carcass
attended by a top-weight team
of sermon-faced sophists
deep in language conversing

beyond non-understanding

in a swamp of post-modern thought
addressing webs of hypotheses
resting on the basis of what lies
beyond in the moment unknown
or reached, but connected to now
by a bridge of wisdom conceived
erect with solid reflexive ideas
and the full support of conjecture
believed to be fact
waiting to be found

once XY and Z
turns to
AB and C

and some ustoppable force of truth
turns reason out on its ear and wel-
comes in Derrida, Baudrillard,
Krestiva, Barthes, and the symphonic

usurping 1, 2 & 3 into a possible 6
that may be a 4, or nine, depending
on how the colour of tomorrow's
noon strikes the sound of yesterdays


where onlookers standing
in swamps of complexity
ponder on unbelief and why
the human condition cannot bend
time to its will

with the knowledge philosophers
make up in time spent farming
and fishing the mind for proof
of being essentially moved
to reason the faith of beauty.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

Up on the Tide

Upon the tide flowing from the summer
night comes love empty of promise
offering no choice
or means to utter a prayer

but swelling the muse shed empty and turned
inside out by a rational process of time

returning its skin

less the bones of battered misgivings
the broken truth fully conceived
swallowed, consumed, spat out alone

and searching the mind for a soulmate
when unguarded moments abandon
the impulse of sense.

Untroubled by the pale defeat of ghost light
dawning on past fields lost
seize the gift of faith
confide in belief
keep counsel with the tree of life
rooted in the heart
and pray for hope.

Emerge from the melting absence of a passionate
self yawning awake
and confer change
in the deportment-conscious act of deploying
decorum at all time.

Until the final departure is logged, recorded,
and halts the call of eternal love

surrender a mystery a day, to what clear light
switches on god from within.


The run of history in a thick soup of rain


The brown coloured condiment in a clear bottle


The inexpensive aftershave and give away shampoo


Two pairs of runners on a canvas chair


An empty tin
unironed shirts
and traffic sounds
rattling in the moist breeze on a historic evening
of words surrendering in the mouths of politicians
in sombre dress
grey hair dyed dark
tasteful ties with moderate knots

the co-ordinates of sincerity
in the eradication of war


Telly-dressed leaders

- consigned by history
to a passionate cause
lining pockets of co-operation in
the equality of flags and parades -
a jumble of yesterday's news
holding the chips for tomorrow's game;
cold coiled reality, a level of trust constantly
tied, tested and untethered by events
departure and return - and the simplistic
consistency of two tribes, vying in wait for a sign
of belief in each others rights, in conflicting songs
of a patriot dead, who died for truth and lies
put into their heads, through centuries of silent
wrongs, and bloodthirsty rights.

Lóg n-Enech / Face Price

Knowing that time for truth
comes through talk when all
is said and done

come to the trinity
of instinct and two figures
rooted in a single mind.

One an Irish poet
one a homeless migrant
dwelling in the ear
of any who will listen
for beauty in a song.

Separate yet together
remembered and recorded
in a corpus of the work
imprinted in the hollows of the heart

shining from the watch-points of the soul
and lighting landscapes of expression
buried deep as Cuchulain
fighting waves of human forces
warring over cattle in Connacht.

Let us uncover ancient rites
in the migrant's Irish heart
which the poet has composed
on benches at the canal bank
weaving make believe with fact.

Saturday, May 28, 2005

Late May Day

A fluttering
in the kid-skin
soft slither-thin
of a beech tree

alerts her
to a bird
in the branches
hanging over
the oak bench.

A grey
feathered fledgling
awkwardly flaps
to the pitted
tarmac and nestles

its downy breast
against a coping
stone border
of the oval green.
A cricket match
has just ended

and the bird's first
flight from its nest
into the unknown
traffic of a new
world view

begun. The creature
taking its bearings
from earth level

looking into
the depths
and complexity
of existence

anchors her
eye-line securely
on the confusion
life's nexus
of glimpses distills

across the freshly
stretched backdrop
of a silent dumb sky

offering no foothold
of slender wood poles
with which she can
measure her ascent
through understanding

up to God's hand.

Monday, March 14, 2005

O'Watt's Imagined

For Leanne O'Sullivan

What O'Watts imagines is
she may fly as Fiontan
flew, if she attempts to launch
like the old Irish poet flock
who thought themselves as birds
and made her realise how wings
are crucial to suceed in flight as a shapeshifter.
So now she nows all her slim options
she decides to try out her wings
with no cutting quips
or wry observations
by flying in the form of an elegy
to the dark one who caught her imagination's
ember alight.


Western star gathers with the druid-spawn
in full blather-wear,
making well-worn anecdotes of one another,
and lies before their surety in tongue
to find, hanging from the mythical branch
where pure-nut fruits of the poets' toil are torn
Manannán's raiment in ancient straight cry

You've now found your soul so sing all
your song, as fear or doubt cannot haunt
where you belong. Your flesh fits and my
measure's this gift; go, weave the thread of life's
ageless truth twining timeless within your
spirit, and tell of what is to all
those who are yet to cross your ever wide
path from this moment onward.

And in tall dreams
with future high hopes
for all those sorts of people
who urge their love not to hide
O’Watts imagines.


One standard geometric chariot
has stopped, paused in transit, immobile
in angular repose, nestling atop
a row of poplar trees in thick foliage
three fifths exposed to view, whilst the bottom
unseen, seemingly weightless, rests its ridges
in a cloak of viridescent cotton
wool soft leaves, just forty short yards distant
from her silver form waddling onward,
nose stuck in the grass and oblivious
in the still humid silence to the whorl
above her, swirling low light in rhythmic
crystal perfect colour which trips
across their path.

He sees the seldom lifted
veil slipped revealing the unknowable and stops,
his mind frozen, momentarily awed limpid
by the weird sight, but strangely unshocked
or struck agape in real wonder with
the thing her eyes have not chanced upon; what
his mind has only ever dared to think
exists unknown in fantastical thought.
Ambling headlong straight into the drift
of light, seeking scents to follow and lost
in search of imagined quarry, she sinks
his chance of heading back to the unlocked
gate they entered through several long minutes
ago in night’s last dark breath when his watch
sounded at four, and he motions her by swift
action running down the track, keeping soft
footfalls, heading straight towards the cut-through.

LUAS Red Line

The LUAS stop at Tallaght on a raw
November afternoon is a chill sprawl
of hospitals and shopping malls; a mid-term
pregnant concrete project in construction
sired by the Celtic Tiger, giving birth
to troops of high-viz jackeroos conducting
the business of corporate-ordered paradise.

Trams slip out smooth from wombs of blue and white
hoardings, housing five cranes here, eight cranes there,
pull up the dip and sharply swing a right
through a swathe of hospital and houses
snaking round the winding perimeter
walls and rails of low-rise commercial outlets
along Belgard's dollop of urban countryside;
then down a slope to Kingswood's black cambered
cobblestones and a hamlet of Alpine
style picture postcard abodes in stout set
perfect lines which meander to a standard
stop beside the bare black faery bush at the
Red Cow depot's toy-town-like tram-park.

This commuter bus interchange-complex
awaits a final lay for the sod-fed
turf-green service-landscape to shine complete,
and as our low-slung tram passes over
the M50, past a lumpy scrapheap,
business centres stretch as far as the eye
can see. Harris Hina, an Esso
garage, Electrolux, Woodies DIY
and McDonalds, all merge to a wrapped-neat
blur of consumer-central logo
flags blowing in the breeze at Kylemore
shopper heaven, where a wind-whipped sapling
bends like a fishing rod reeling in the bargains.

Houses start at Bluebell, and a bright horse
and Mother Theresa relief pass in
a slow moment of double-take, startling
the eye to other incongruous sights;
sleek swans and gulls at paddle side by side
along the Grand Canal as a child flings
bread loaf from a buggy at Goldenbridge
whilst dad sparks up then leans against a wall.

An assortment of corporation housing
glides past in a variety of form
from three-storey strip-block flats at Rialto
to one small box of red-brick cottages
at Fatima, where town begins to show
in the barbed razor-wire strung on top
of high walls hugging St James Hospital,
and drunks in garish tracksuits and bubble
jackets dirt-burnished to a lard-like sheen
sup their gargle and stagger befuddled
as the city-centre's pulse begins to beat
in earnest.

At the gatehouse of St Patrick's
scruffy pigeons perch on leafless branches,
a poncho princess alights at Heuston
and the grey stone walls and bricked-up windows
around Smithfield and Four Courts juxtapose
the dilapidation of the Cobblestones
pub with a billowing new commuter
friendly layout running ribbon straight
across O'Connell's heart, through to the
bargain district of the bus station
before lipping round left to terminate
at Connolly, where doors swhoosh open
and we exit and melt into the cold strolling
crowds of Dublin heading homeward.


You will always live
buried in a deep beyond
and beckoning to me
from lambent thought's eternal path
through conduits of melancholy.
Your spirit flames alive there
fused within our heart
of sorrow's weathered love
and threads the soul within
the shadow where your spirit
speaks the poem of us all.

Mark's Valentine

Curled red hair like sun-flame
streaming through the ether
of a February day
has captured every moment
of the time it took for love
to ripen, and the suddenness
with which I fell for you;
sensuous butterfly
who makes my spirit quicken
to the music of the thorn-bush
and the cherry blossom
sung in spring to the lilting
beat of love song singing


Remember when we laughed at life square on,
in days existing now as only memories held inside,
distanced from this moment
by rotation measure time
we'll never halt
or with any words define?

Words will conjure images
and spark all sorts of trains of thought
careering through the mind,
like kaleidoscopic pictures,
but these we only glimpse upon in passing
with internal eyes
that swiftly frame in wordless abstract
any meaning they divine.

Some things lay beyond
where conscious grasp can't reach,
for time, like truth, is each our own,
unfolds unique to one and all
and lives are lived as days have gone,
no two the same
beyond the passing of horizons by the sun.

And should the echoes of our laughter then return,
when suns now set
outweigh the suns for rising,
will they live with those we leave behind,
when our stream of time no longer flows
and lips of life cease smiling?