K8 the GR8

Mr O’Boyle was in his senior years and lived alone in a quiet cul-de-sac in the suburbs of an unforgiving town.  His cupboards were bare, his house was cold, and few lights were lit to burn a hole in his solitude.

Atta had grown up in a different environment, a world apart spoilt by ample means.  Her family lived in an era where their planet was on the brink of a crisis - lords fought for land and fuel and gained neither, for both were being rapidly depleted.  Paranoia sulked on every corner and leaders passed their problems around like viruses, each problem mutating cleverly and rapidly becoming immune to old fashioned common sense.

Mr O’Boyle shivered.  He eyed his coal basket with a similar gaze to that of a lost soul for a bottle of gin.  The old clock by the fridge ticked stubbornly and argued time with each echo that bounced from the cold stone walls.  Mr O’Boyle listened and remained still in the warmth of his decrepid chair.

Several hundred years passed on Atta’s planet.  Her great-great-great grandchildren grew without knowing of the hardships their predecessors had battled through, and were genetically sound, intelligent and resourceful.  Commerce had grown clever in its old age, and had thrown its resources into science and learning.  Tolerance of material value had melted away and revealed bright young tendrils of self-sufficiency underneath. 

Mr O’Boyle slowly stood and his bones (dismissive of his longing for pain relief and warmth) slowed his crossing to the fireplace.  He stooped slowly to pile the tinder and charcoal together into a flammable tent, then reached for a box of matches which he slowly slid open.  His tremors reverberated through the tips of his fingers making the simple act of lighting a match pure torture.

A small child played under an apple tree, turning leaves to pure energy with her new birthday toy; She watched each glow and fizzle with mild amusement while her grandmother still regarded the effect with pure unbridled disbelief.  The third sun was rising rapidly and reminded them of dinner and avoidance of evening heat.  They stretched their hands towards each other and stood up, brushing fibres from their clothes.  They walked home and chatted about the way things were.

The match connected and snapped in half as the last one had done before it.  Mr O’Boyle sighed and removed another, sucking his breath in an attempt to quiet his shuddering hands.  This third match connected and burst into life.  It travelled rapidly to the wood in the fire and was nested underneath, its energy enveloping everything above it so that Mr O’Boyle himself was bathed in a warm pool of flickering heat.

Atta’s world imploded, a fact unknown to its occupants who had by this time grown scarce.  The old world ceased to exist in the blink of a sparrow’s eye, and a new one was born of parallel molecular structure.  Atta’s world soon learned the skills of simple cell creation and began to adapt.

Mr O’Boyle basked in the fiery glow, and decided to make a cup of tea in the spirit of self-indulgence. By the time it was made, Atta’s world had invented the car.

Meanwhile the fire burned incomprehensibly slowly turning it’s dissolving carbon flakes to dust.

Here is something I Stumbled upon that pleased the tiny hairs on the back of my neck.  I hope it pleases yours too.

This is what you shall do:  Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labour to others, hate tyrants… have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.

-Walt Whitman

(source: http://www.rfincher.com/)

I wrote this rather maudlin poem today while stuck between a rock and a hardplace.  Puppychild was outside playing with other children when suddenly a kid pulled a toy out of her hands, causing her to fall over.  Tears followed, with heartrending appeals for a motherly hug which I felt I had to deny her for her own good.  I watched with tears in my eyes as she eventually picked herself up and decided to fight for the toy herself, a fight which she won. 

My pride at her small accomplishment made me realise that sometimes it is selfish to want to protect a child from absolutely everything, so I am trying hard to figure out exactly where the line falls between love and cruelty, nature and nurture. 

For parents everywhere
(Or: A sonnet for softies)

How tough it is to leave the loving room
Where childhood slept wrapped up in tender care
How suddenly the blanket of my womb
Was ripped away to find my child laid bare

Now on her own, the daunting task is nigh-
To let her grow despite the harshest winds
How do I stem the love, my kiss deny,
To ready her for schoolyard streetwise sins?

A greater pain I feel for cuts and scars
Than she, the wounded child who stands alone
Though tears are falling softly through the bars,
My heart must build a prison cell of stone

My freedom waits until the day I see
She’s found her comfort independently

There’s an arts group here in Wicklow that encourages local talent and gives a leg up to poets, artists and musicians alike.  Their ‘Space Inside’ magazine can be found free on various shop counters around Wicklow and advertises local theatre, exhibitions and various music shows with the odd book review thrown in.  The group also holds a ‘Live Night’ on the first Wednesday of every month down at the Sailing Club in Wicklow Town.  It comes with my badge of approval.  (Jefferson Davis, I’m still mulling over your email… I think this place would be well worth a visit on your travels!)

I’ve been meaning to drop down to one of these live nights, but somehow never got around to it until last night.  I was so glad I went, and will certainly be going again. It was fantastic, and this particular session drew a large crowd because of a promised performance by local singer heroine Robyn Kavanagh of ‘You’re a Star’ fame, so the atmosphere was electric.

The evening started with dimmed lights and poetry.  Various people stood up and read their pieces while the audience listened and basked in the atmosphere.  Heaven knows how the eight year old Robyn-devotees up at the front row stayed still for so long- perhaps it was a testiment to the quality of the poetry?

After a short break, a young lad named Neil Tierney sat down with his guitar and began to play the most capturing music, it was Jazz-Blues style, but what made it so unique was the rhythm he incorporated into the music by thumping the body of his guitar while demonstrating extremely complicated finger-styling at the same time.  It was seriously hypnotic, seeming as though there were seven musicians playing instead of just one - he held the audience in the palm of his hand and recieved an ovation at the end of his set.  I’d seriously recommend you keep an ear out for this chap- his music is a feast for the senses.

Suddenly the room filled to capacity and I knew it was Robyn’s turn.

I hadn’t heard her sing before, not having RTE at home, but I had heard rumours that she was a great singer with a strong chance of winning this ‘You’re a Star’ extravaganza.  I had also heard vicious rumours circulating regarding her ‘knacker’-like accent, and was curious to hear her speak. 

The strange thing about Ireland is the enigma that is the changing accent.  Once you’ve gotten used to the Cork accent for example (which is no mean feat), you could travel thirty miles up the road and find yourself listening to completely different intonations.  You have the sing-song style Kerry accent, which sounds worlds apart from your northern lilts, and Wicklow is just as unique. 

I found it hard at first to understand the Wicklow accent, it’s like somebody a long time ago told Wicklonians to choose two notes and see-saw each word around them… remember the ‘Pirates of Penzance’ song; ‘I am the very model of a model major general’?  Wicklonians sing their words much the same way.  Once you’ve become accustomed to it, it’s quite pleasant to listen to.

Robyn’s speaking voice is possibly the cream on top of this accent.  It’s pure and sweet and innocent and absolutely nothing like the accent of a traveller, and trust me, I speak from good authority here.  Those that choose to make fun of the way Robyn speaks truly haven’t a clue.

She launched into ‘Feeling Good’, and ‘Natural Woman’, and though her nervous voice faultered slightly on lower notes, the power behind her voice at the emotionally laden choruses was awesome.  The girl has the sort of voice that makes your breath catch, and the tiny hairs on the back of your neck stand up.  She smiled after the song and fidgeted nervously.

“I’m going to sing Summertime, now, so I am…” 

She smiled shyly while I wondered how on earth such a young innocent would pull off such a tough song.

Robyn did indeed pull this off in such a way that if you were to close your eyes, you could imaging Ella Fitzgerald herself, sitting on a stairwell nursing a bottle of Gin and singing with her tortured soul wide-open.  Robyn Kavanagh is a girl that sweats talent, and I’m starting to think that if she doesn’t win this ‘You’re a Star’, it’s because she’s far too good for it.  Kudos to her, I know she’ll go far.

There’s a ship over there; out at sea, out of reach
Though I’ve stood on her deck once or twice.
It sails its free course; while here on my beach,
The people seem bound by advice.

There’s word on the street of this boat out at sea
How the blazes and curses burn wild!
Their fear and distrust is too heavy for me,
I revolt by the phrase of a child.

How loud they proclaim that I’m burning my hands
While their courage is turning to ice,
And I know faith of heart drives me out of these sands
By my trust, not some dangerous vice.

Such promise I see on that wind-swept ship,
How the sun turns her splinters to gold.
And I watch as the waves kiss each climax and dip
While the sails let old secrets unfold.

If I swim out to sea like I’ve done once before
Will they cannon her stern out of fear?
Should I wallow in incubus here on the shore
I know courage would soon dissapear.

Too long did I stay as I pondered my fate
For I see the horizon’s in flames,
So as Zion is lost through a watery gate
I start to search for yet another bright idea…

Addendum; Ummm, it’s been pointed out to me that I should probably take some sort of credit for this blah.  Indeed and I did not rip it off the internet.  I take full shame and responsibility for I did write it my very own self.

I’m finding myself with spare time suddenly but with nothing much to say.  Then I decided that it is very rare for a blogger to post a post and use all of their tags at once (Bloggers such as Brian F and Stupid Irish Daddy are disqualified for lack of imagination of course).  This is my challenge,  and I’m giving myself an award for it.  You can have one too if you can do it.

What is both strange and unusual is that marijuana is illegal.  This subject is taboo, but it’s just something to think about.  Once one partakes in the activity of having a spliff, one is immediately part of the chain.  One is working hand in hand with the drug-lord and his artillery, and my philosophy is that this is unfair burden on us stoners.  It’s a little known fact that weed is quite benign, that it’s worst effects are the munchies and diminished brain capacity, but we accept this, and we take responsibility for it quietly and with a few giggles thrown in. 

Working the daily job is not easy.  Neither is dealing with the family and it’s shortcomings.  My weakness is that I would like to sit back and be able to put up with the tripe on the box and find it humourarse.  Sometimes it’s nice to listen to music or glance at the uncategorised pleasures of this life and be inspired to write new poems and things.  Contrary to public rantings, weed does not generally make us want to take up smack or turn bi-polar.

That’s all I’m saying because this is supposed to be a quickie.

Here’s my award.

Do you want it?  I’d offer it up for general grabs but seeing as memememe is one of my tags, I have to name names.

Me aul’ f’la

Irish Flirty Something

Scribbles by Hanulf

(You know you want it)

The woman haunted the forest daily, walking off her worries for her missing child, for to stay at home was far too difficult.  She grew apart from her husband, who had become annoyed with her ravings and her distance.  Each day she spent longer and longer in the woods searching for clues, searching for the magpie that had visited her on the evening of the wasp’s revenge.  Finally the day arrived that would have marked the entrance of her child into the world and she wept.  The entire day found the woman, who had now grown thin and haggard, curled beneath a hawthorn tree lamenting her loss, until the sun began to set.

As the moon started it’s ascent, a soft voice entered the woman’s consciousness.  She lifted her head and found a small creature standing before her.  It was an ugly and wrinkled little thing with tufts of hair poking randomly from underneath it’s tattered clothing.  She caught a scent of rotting earth mixed with sweet warm honey smells of gorse, and knew she was encountering something very strange indeed.  She sat up and concentrated on the creature, allowing it’s voice to become clear in her head.

It told her, despite her disbelief, that it was a faery who had been watching her for many weeks, that knew of both her and her child.  It explained that her child had been chosen by the insect folk to be their queen, that the fate of the child had been marked for many moons, and that these folk were not to be underestimated.  It told her that her sorrow had softened the hearts of many of the faeryfolk who lived in this particular Hawthorn Tree that the woman had chosen as a mourning post, and that they wished to help her.

The woman began to weep again as the information sank in.  She wept both because it all sounded so ridiculously strange, and because the solution seemed so complicated, but the faery slapped her and told her in very stern tones to listen properly and to mute her emotion until the solution was explained, for it would only be explained once, as faeries are very impatient folk.

On hearing the answer to her sorry situation, she went home and began to follow through with her instructions.

She sat cross-legged in her garden for ten full days and ten full nights and became very still.  So still, in fact, that the animals and birds which frequented this spot soon forgot she was there.  Foxes nibbled at her bare thin toes, and robins pecked at her ears.  She ignored them all until finally it arrived, the creature she wanted so dearly.  The magpie came to rest on her knee and cocked it’s head, listening for messages in the earth.  Quick as lightening, the woman grabbed the bird tightly by the neck and shook it, for this was the creature which had stolen her child.  It was in fact, not a magpie at all, but a faery in disguise who had been sent to deliver the unborn child to the forest.  The woman felt the bird’s neck snap, and it fell limp.  She watched in satisfaction as the cruel glint ebbed away from it’s eyes.  She then began to slowly pluck the black and white plumes from it’s body until it’s chest was bared.  Then, as instructed, she tore the magpie’s heart from it’s breast and placed it carefully in a jar in her pocket.

She served the remains of the magpie that night to her husband disguised in a stew, and went to bed, to sleep like she hadn’t slept in months.

Her husband rose from his bed that night and wandered.  His eyes grew steely and black and led him with an un-named conviction back to the forest.  He had no awareness as he stepped throught the undergrowth with his shovel in hand, his mind was not present as he began to dig through the undergrowth.  A tiny body slowly appeared as he dug, and when he saw that it was a baby, small and limp and dead, he was not shocked.  He removed his coat and wrapped the infant tightly, then brought it home to place it beside his wife on the bed.  He then lay down and resumed his slumber.

The woman woke soon after, found the cold bundle beside her, and shrieked with joy.  She opened the small jar containing the magpie’s heart and poked the tiny organ between the cool white gums of the infant.  Then she slept, cocooning the baby’s body against her breast until morning.

When she woke, the room was filled with morning light.  She sat up instantly to find a small pink baby gazing into her eyes and gurgling with affection.  She screamed with delight to her husband’s alarm, and despite the amazing story she unfolded for the benefit of his ears, she found that the forgetfulness spell had lifted, and heard how the last few months had passed for her husband as those of any other expectant family would.

The incident was soon forgotten as the baby grew, the darkness of the sinister tale was swallowed by the love felt for the tiny child.  And, as time passed, they even grew accustomed to the ominous buzzing sound that eminated from the child’s crib each night as it slept.

Once upon a time (but more recently than you’d think), a woman lived happily with her husband and her dog.  She was so happy, in fact, that she soon found that their abundant love had created a child which grew within her.  The couple spent many hours speaking of their child and of its potential, of how lucky they were that such a wonderful thing was happening.

One day, the couple went for a walk with their dog in the woods near their house.  It was a beautiful summer day filled with wonderful smells and birdsong floating around them in a balmy zephyr.  The woman laughed with her husband while absently picking up sticks to throw for the dog which happily pounced about their feet in expectant hope.  Each time she bent down to reach for a new stick, she kept a watchful eye on her dog, for it was commonplace for such an excitable animal to knock people over with his weight and lollopy paws.  It would, after all, do her no good in her condition to find herself sprawled on the forest floor at the mercy of such an enthusiastic beast.  Her concentration was so intense, however, that she accidentally picked up something that turned out to be very untoward indeed.

In almost the same moment that she threw this piece of soggy rotten tree bark, she heard the sound.  It was an unmistakable sound that sends shivers down the spines of most ordinary folk, all sharing the same atavistic fear.  It was not benign or distant, it was an angry buzz and it was right beside her.  It was the sound of an insect intent on revenge, and there is no other insect that is better at exacting revenge than the wasp.

The very second she heard it, instead of stopping to look for its source, she ran.  She ran hard and fast, and only stopped when her breath got left behind. Given the distance she’d fled, she found it quite a shock as she bent over in recovery from her exertion to find that the angry buzz had followed her, and seemed to have doubled in volume.  She felt the stings painfully and in great detail.  Once.  Twice.  Three times.  As she tried to gather enough energy to escape, she found that not only had a wasp become entangled in her hair, but that another had satisfied its blood-lust by trapping itself in her clothing, and was laying sting after sting in her flesh, each tiny injection being intensely more painful than the last.  The wonderful blessing that is adrenaline gave her the final push to outrun these wicked insects.

As she nursed her stings a short while later while she bathed, she worried for her child, as every mother does, and prayed that her shock would escape the growing infant.  As she prayed, a magpie rested on her windowsill and watched her intently with its dark beady eyes.  Woman and bird locked gazes, and suddenly a dreadful feeling spread through her like a dark cloud covering the sun.  She knew that something had floated far from her reach which seemed to taunt her in ways she couldn’t quite understand.

That night, her dreams were filled with fearful images of magpies which seemed to be stealing her away part by part despite her pleading and terrified screams, and when she woke with a start in the depths of the night, she found that her growing bump had disappeared.

She pleaded with her husband to hear her story, she beseeched him to try to remember her pregnancy and the incident that had only occurred the day before, but to no avail.  He had forgotten, as though a spell had been cast on her house so that all of those wonderful memories and conversations had been swallowed up in a frustrating pool of nothingness.  She began to wonder if indeed she had imagined her pregnancy, and would have given in to this apparent reality if it weren’t for the steadfast connection she still felt with her infant.  She knew it was still alive, but had no idea as to how to find it.  Her belly felt empty and her mind felt full.

Drastic Ending Loser’s Lament

As I stared through windows gray,
Thoughts went wild with sheer dismay.
All keys I tried so cruelly mocked;
The doors were clearly staying locked.

Hair pulled cleanly by the root
Frustration blooms with each reboot-
Shameless threats remaining moot
With every failed three flange salute.

How I wished I’d listened closely!
Should’ve learned what mattered mostly…
Should’ve driven hard to C:
My own infallibility.

What to do?

Life’s interrupted.

My hobby crushed, collapsed,
***corrupted***

Grab a hammer? Smash to vapour?

Start afresh with pen and paper!

I found this painting I did years ago when I got a brand new set of oils.  It’s a bit shite, I know that, but I found it gas analysing it, what with the flames licking up the side of the bed and that.   I must have been going through a Bewick phase.

Nice Arse!

Now you know what The Accidental Terrorist looks like.