Lost Track of the Time

‘Out on the Weekend’ by Neil Young

Though physically I sat in the front seat of my Dad’s car, driving reluctantly towards another school day in March of Leaving Cert year, track one of Neil Young’s 1971 classic ‘Harvest’ transformed reality into a countrified vignette of blown apart barroom romance and sour mash aftermath. Each morning, that stoic foot-drum tapped out tentative and sad sounds before the thin, pining harmonica began to weave its way about, eventually stretching out, long and vast, in a steady, pained whine which pierced my chill bones and clenched teeth. Neil, who knew what it was like to be young, sang to me of ‘the woman I’m thinkin’ of... she loved me all up’ and it was the most empty and emptying song in the great, big world and I could for four minutes and forty-two seconds envision losing all but never the poetry of the lovelorn. Suddenly, sinking entirely into this dust bowl dirge I’d find  Waterford forgot, reclining in that rusty pick-up headed ‘down to L.A.’, chugging along a low, open plain with blue moon memories of how ‘she got pictures on her wall that make me look up, from her big brass bed’. My toast and nutella became a rough griddle cake and my juice a scalding hot and muddy coffee, as I meanly chewed and slurped them down. The Cork Road housing estates blurred into deserted gold mining settlements, which looked as hollow as boot polish slapped on cardboard cut-outs of stagecoach towns, echoing Neil’s misery and mine. Finally, the harmonicas piped up once again, louder still, screeching out in emphasis the loneliness of the lonely, lonely, lonely boy out on the weekend, ‘tryin’ to make it pay’. Then the lulling fade-out and everything was vacant as we’d trundle along to a halt, reaching the end of the journey. Parked at the gates of school, I’d suddenly feel less weighed down, having dumped some heavy baggage in the back of Neil’s battered old pick-up on our escapist hitch for a ‘lonely boy’, in need of a contemplative ride to nowhere.  

‘The Non-Flying Dutchman’

Sweeping, soaring on takeoff,

Turbines roaring soundlessly,

Glacial touches sculpt the scene

to your grand design,

Gliding in cool, vapour jets

over Highbury lawn in winter,

Delicate strokes

of nimble limbs

Like ballet on felt.

Hovering suspended,

Mastering gravity and space

inside your ice palace,

as opposition 
like bad henchmen,

falter all around, 
sinking,

as you ski

steadily by,

Runways and channels,

Rising on tectonic waves.

The ball seeks you out

and you offer welcome,

Embracing smoothly,

this familiar acquaintance;

A deceptive warmth-

That solitary vein,

pulsing at the temple,

betrays your nonchalance.

Tundra eyes survey,

in slow-motion pirouette,

The sprawling panorama,

Pitch drawn up in geography,

as you map and conquer,

all routes opening with

satellite navigation,

Cruise control powers up,

Huge silence-

Lifting 

Skating to a standstill,

Clock End ticking silently,

A single frosted breath

escapes the pilot,

The sphere elevating,

curving high above.

  The homing missile dips

hits the net and surges,

Launching your passengers like flares,

red and white into the rafters

(Inspired by Dennis Bergkamp)

Big Brother is not watching you

From time to time we all like to indulge the misconception that our daily lives are special and fascinating and wholly worthy of extended viewing. Channel 4’s Big Brother pandered to this growing modern conceit, allowing the chronically idiotic and the terminally inane to flaunt their soul destroying selves on national television for all to see. Facebook and Twitter have continued this trend with people validating themselves by how many ‘followers’ they have or how many ‘like’ that photo of them impishly pouting in a glitter encrusted mirror. Since God got found out, the absence of a voyeuristic audience to watch us shower, shop and shite has seemingly left us feeling pretty useless. The greedy vacuum has been neatly filled by the most postmodern of sicknesses- what could be called, ‘Big Brother’ syndrome. This strange affliction leads us to conjure omnipresent watchers to make us feel oh-so special. Subsequently, hide and go seek becomes a popular pastime for fully grown adults seeking to shield their intriguing and endlessly exciting lives from starving eyes.  My aunt has recently refused to shop with bank cards, only cash, for fear of ‘the powers that be’ compiling data on her. Correct me if I’m wrong but I’d be inclined to reckon that the AIB, struggling against global recession, has better things to be doing than sending petty hate mail berating my aunt for grabbing that multi-pack of Maltesers the day after she picked up a new treadmill.

In 2008 in Suffolk, attempts to bring in CCTV cameras to trace stolen or criminal vehicles were met with fierce and self-righteous outcries against police surveillance from village folk. It truly begs the question, why would any Orwellian eyes waste their time watching your average, law-abiding 30Kmph motorist as they extract ear wax from their dull ears? Seemingly, Mr. and Mrs. Jones felt the route they took to their ginger beer soaked family picnic was a detail that should only be released following the gradual removal of all their finger nails. It’s depressing but many people now appear to feel entitled to the spotlight, every single minute of their stinking lives. Society’s wildest fantasies are now epitomised in ‘The Truman Show’, veritable masturbation material for the masses. People can’t even step out their front door without alerting their gran, girlfriend and Gary the goldfish via Facebook that they are ‘@in the porch’. Jim Corr, possibly irked about looking like a two year olds Magna Doodle scribble, has cried of omniscient dark forces carefully tracking his every move. His attention seeking antics are a classic case of BB syndrome- a lunatic who spent most his career invisible in the shadow cast by his sisters’ breasts and could’ve walked into any pub in Ireland with ‘I AM JIM CORR FROM THE CORRS’ perfectly scrawled across his chest in his own excrement and barely provoked a glance.

It is of course smugly satisfying to imagine now and then that you’re worthy of such ‘Big Brother’ attention. In all-too-frequent moments of narcissism, my own watcher fantasies are fuelled by the sight of the Russian Embassy standing imperiously on the other side of my street.  On overcast Monday mornings I like to imagine two ex-KGB hitmen perfectly camouflaged in garden shrubbery, meticulously counting each and every sultana in my soggy bowl of cereal and recording the details in a mink lined notepad with a pen that doubles as a lethal radium dart. Or when I pass the Embassy gates on windy nights I revel in vain delight imagining the grainy black-and-white shots of yours truly stashed so very carefully in a wax sealed envelope marked ‘Counter Intelligence- Highly Confidential’. These notions are as deluded as they are fanciful however. In reality we’re mostly cringingly painful to watch, like a nudist octogenarian with a penchant for jumping jacks and baby oil rubs.

'Garden Pond'

The garden ponds

glassy, cool waters

that go

'Blip, blip',

as soil shelled pebbles tumble

from children’s

worm wriggling fingers,

into its shipwreck green basin.

The garden ponds

glassy, cool waters

that go

'Dip, dip',

when warm earth spills

with the tilting

of a plastic spade,

into its shipwreck green basin.

the garden ponds

glassy, cool waters

that go

'Pip, pip',

as tadpoles weave

gossamer trails of

 silver ripples,

into its shipwreck green basin.

The garden ponds

glassy, cool waters

that are

silent now,

as my stare sits

upon the surface
of an adult face,
reflected in its shipwrecked green basin

Haiku

Haiku is a poetic form and a type of poetry from the Japanese culture. Haiku combines form, content, and language in a meaningful, yet compact form. The most common form for Haiku is three short lines. The first line usually contains 5 syllables, the second line 7 syllables, and the third line contains 5 syllables. Haiku doesn't rhyme. A Haiku must paint a mental image in the reader's mind. This is the challenge of Haiku- to put the poem's meaning and imagery in the reader's mind in only 17 syllables.

I- Alas it was she

who came to a bitter end

running with scissors

II- Yesterdays clown found

casually smoking still

beneath the rubble

III- Blackened effigy

discarded in wilderness,

wearing my likeness

IV- Multiple pitchers

undoubtedly ensure

merriment ensues

V- “I beg thee requite”

withering words kiss darkness

still unrequited

VI- Listless whisperer

humble reminder for all

words fall forsaken

VII- Here lies friendship quenched

gravely he’d left him for dead

bullet smouldering

VIII- Poured molten metal

down deeply hollowed caverns

cue echoing shrieks

IX- Blazing inferno

how greedy you are indeed

feasting ceaselessly

X- Fluorescent lab lamp

speckled eggshell light splinters

prehistoric life

XI- Yes, enough tears spent

to bittersweetly season
sorrows briny broth

XII- Taste a foreign land

sensing oriental fumes

china in your hand

'Gold Gilded Nocturne'

Honey tresses these

strands of gold radiating in

streams and curtains,

framing the parapet of your favour.

Silhouetted breath of

a halcyon breeze,

perfumed words shadow the dusk,

evading that shattered sunrise.

Who’s to know you?

how many words to afford you?

while you near me but elude my comprehension

as comets tumble off into nowhereness.

You want to know me, you say,

can I offer you more than conjecture?

as the consequence of your nearness

threatens the shelter of my solitude.

(Summer 2012)

'Transmission'

 “Drivers are advised to drive carefully on all roads tonight due to fears of black ice”. The warning flitted menacingly within radio waves, halting all prior meteorological conversation at the table, rendering it foolish and trivial. Each diner felt a sudden embarrassment at their incongruous neglect. That they would obliviously dwell, surgically dissecting greasy chicken joints and constructing thermodynamically sound mashed potato igloos, in the midst of such real danger. This new update however proclaimed the arrival of an incalculably sinister threat. The ice tonight would be dressed in black. Shapeless, clandestine and merciless. Tinged with bitter, cold malice. Mr. Muddle shuddered ominously and pulled his collar tighter to his neck as if to blockade against imminent attacks from the frosted renegade. As they sat in chill silence it seemed as if the enemy was near, plotting and skulking, shrouded in the foggy cloth of the dark December eve. Tonight someone would certainly fall victim to its deathly camouflage. Crumpled steel gnarled, wreckage shrieks, the frosted breath of a faceless ambulance crew. The backdrop to the rotating blue lights, searching the scene for the killer. Mrs. Muddle wondered to herself if she would know the victim. Perhaps they were on her Christmas card list. Maybe they had a child in school with Blake or administered icing sugar smiles at the cake sale in the local community centre. What would she say about the deceased if the ensuing media influx were to thrust a sleet spotted microphone into her face? Could she conjure a satisfactory summary of this individual’s entire existence in a few short sentences? She would make sure to google search a template eulogy as soon as the wash-up had been done. The Lord giveth and The Lord taketh away she muttered neurotically to no one at all, preaching to an absent congregation. 

(Winter 2010)

'Hiss'

Tilts it and it tips,

hits the mixed fluids,
hisses in the water,
connection is  

venomous,

solidifying ashes,
a toxic pebble of nicotine
pierces the viscous precipice,
sinking
compacted,
like Pompeian debris,
quickly through the
iodine tinted piss,
 hocks up phlegm
and spits,
watches as it sits,
then 
passes by the sink,
back into the stewing smog
and the slowly sweltering stink

'Seehaus im Sommer'

Decorated garden,

decked out in postcard perfection,
Bayern enshrined,

time honoured.

Beer mugs dot the tabletops,

stout glacial giants,

standing tall and proud

amongst the spotted raindrops,

mirroring the glinting lake face,

spilling irrepressible prisms.

Jugs filled with the centuries fermented,

draped upon their noble brims

dappled sunlight reflects

perspex dances of dragonflies.

All life emanates from the heart-

the perennial splendour of that chestnut tree,

and the sound of birds rolling above

pours like helles from its canopy.

(Summer 2012)