Thursday, September 30, 2010
"All we hear is *clap clap* radio gaga *clap clap* radio goo goo *clap clap*"
(don't get me wrong I wouldn't be physically clapping in traffic, but I'd be clapping inside my head alright)
Suddenly I noticed, something was wrong.
One of the claps was missing.
It now seems to go "All we hear is *clap* radio gaga *clap*"
Now I'm not sure about you, but my childhood discos always featured this song as a high point of the 3pm - 6pm set, and everyone clapped twice at those points in the song.
What's gone wrong?
What has happened to the second clap?
I won't rest until it is solved ...........
(she says as she falls asleep at the desk)
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Bet ye thought I'd forgotten... never!
A poem which attempts to dissuade you from bringing your Poet to the Meat Processor
Don’t bring your Poet to the Meat Processor
Not unless you want to obsess her
With blood yukky guts yukky gore, oh god bless her
What can I say to convince you
She’d write sonnets on tumblers, would rhyme at the trimmers
There’d be no end of trouble as she’d rip through the inners
And mourn for the animals, write odes for the sinners
Would sharpen noun knives with verb flints, ooh
She’d be so unkind would go endlessly quoting
Animal loving poets to the workers while noting
The scent of the blood and the decorous coatings
If you try to obstruct her she’ll mince you
For it’s a well known fact that all poets are vegans
And this is why too, quite a lot are Galwegian
They’d go ape in a meat plant, so don’t risk a lesion
No Meat Processor for your Poet today
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
below - you can listen to one of the many creations that resulted - read by a mystery reader
And now the words:
Underfoot the forest floor was dry
And snapped and crackled as I made my way
In the dead of night
To the tall trees where they waited.
I heard them hold their breath, I hesitated
But knew it was best, I turned off the flashlight
And they stepped out, took my hand
Found my lips, found my kiss,
A memory of who we used to be
Was it really just a dream?
A dream of wilderness and stubble,
A smear of wild berry lipstick.
The forest opened to a clearing.
No branches stopped my way as I emerged.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Sunday, September 26, 2010
The games people play
Small minds molded easier than morla
Squeaky voices tell you what to think
Easy as remembered pink and blue
A home for me and a war for you
So simple even a 3 year old can do
Can find correct place in the world
Can stay blind to the traps
Trace lines on the maps and never go astray
Take on trust the enclosure is safety
Believe in Barbie or Bob the builder
And burst balloons, and fun cartoons
Beg a plastic iron to press tiny things
A tiny tears doll to care for
A gun to fight strong and dare for
Games people playing with small minds
Friday, September 24, 2010
Iggy McGovern was born in Coleraine and resides in Dublin, where he is Associate Professor of Physics at Trinity College. His poetry has been widely published in
anthologies and journals in Ireland and abroad, as well as in the popular “Poetry In Motion” series on trains in the Dublin suburban rail system (DART). Awards include
the Hennessy Literary Award for Poetry and the Ireland Chair of Poetry Bursary. A first collection, The King of Suburbia, published by Dedalus Press, was the winner of the inaugural Glen Dimplex New Writers Award for Poetry in 2006. A second collection, Safe House, is published by Dedalus Press in October 2010.
He has a blog, which he is careful not to overdo - over here
His selected theme is "Science and Art" and I know of few people better equipped to tackle the topic, so it should make for a profound and brilliant discussion (on his side anyway).
We are going an hour later than usual at the time of 5pm (1.45 pm in Barbados), the later time to allow for extra profundity, and you can listen live on the usual liffey sound button over there on the right, or follow up on the archive as always.
If you can't stand to wait until that late hour, there is another option for getting a little bit of "Iggy time" - that'll be on Culture night, you can find him in one of two locations, Sweny's fantastic pharmacy or the Trinity long room hub... along with a gamut of other talented writers - when? this very night. Get in there and enjoy!!
Personally I'm heading for the hills, so don't expect any cultural vulturehood from this quarter.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Yes the super friendly bus driver that we had, refused to move the bus till party pieces got under way and so it was that when the time came I found myself saying my poems, into the loud hailer of the bus, in the middle of the night, hurtling around the back roads, somewhere in County Clare.
And the chocolate biscuit cake afterwards wasn't half bad either.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
DNG is an estate agents for those who don't live in the area.
A poem which attempts to dissuade you from bringing your pigeon to Douglas Newman Good
Don’t bring your pigeon to Douglas Newman Good
He wouldn’t behave like a good pigeon should
He’d home in on the staff, say he misunderstood
The request not to act omnipotent
He’d not be fancied, it would not be terrific
To hear him a cooing at auction, horrific
To see him scratch ads from billboards, dolorific,
Oh t’would be quite the trial, quite the torment
No the real estate agent’s no place for a pigeon
He’d nest in the rafters, if you’ve any smidgeon
Of sense you’ll agree this is no tough decision
Stay at home with your grey flying rodent
I couldn’t care less if he has a ring round his ankle
If his wings are powered by an engine called wankel
No matter the trouble, the pain or the rankle
No Douglas Newman Good for your pigeon today
Monday, September 20, 2010
It's back to school time, and knowing of a few who are back into college, I have to remind myself of what has changed since college times for me
7 signs that I'm no longer in college
1. I eat more than just spaghetti on toast, all the time.2. I no longer leave half cups of coffee in my room until they've grown crusts.
3. I don't marvel at the amount of people who are up at 8.00, and think of them as some sort of weird small subdivision of society.
4. Partys are actually occasion based now, not just a few drinks in someone's house.
5. I usually end up sleeping in my own house, and don't see other peoples houses half as much.
6. I can walk 50 yards without bumping into someone I need to go for coffee with.
7. I have less nights out than in, and nights out are less likely to go past 1am.
7b. There are hardly ever any bikes in the bathroom now.
So what's changed for you in the last 15 years?
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Our meeting was an anchor
solid, lasting, plain and true.
We didn’t notice scrambling tide
yet I swam straight out to you
pulled out by an attraction
strong, magnetic, fine and fair
knowing only that I’d met one
almost perfect. One so rare
that life’s questions seemed less daunting
once you held me, close. I waited
for the feeling to get weaker
but I hadn’t calculated
on the way your strange pure self
and I, mixed up and made our pairing
mean more to us each single day,
here’s life, it’s made for sharing
Friday, September 17, 2010
Joe was born in Walkinstown, but moved to Lucan 10 years ago, he has worked as a software developer all his working life, and has travelled - living in England, Holland and Australia. He's been writing since 2001 and was one of the founding members of the illustrious Lucan writers group. He has written short stories, memoir and a novel, and much of his writing draws on his experiences while travelling. Asides from that he has an interest in writing science fiction and fantasy. Joe is just into his first week of a full time arts degree in UCD which he has just begun.
You can listen to the show from the usual link on the right there for Liffey Sound, or catch up on the very fine radio archives... (does anyone out there know anything about itunes by the way - or setting up an rss so that I can do a proper podcasty thingy?)
Anyway Joe's show will go out at the grabbing life by the scruff of the neck time of 4pm on Sunday. Join us then, seize the day, why not? Why not indeed,
(she said mysteriously, thereby ending the post with a sense of mystique and enigma).....
(and everyone wanted to listen to the show right that minute)
(but couldn't because it wasn't on yet)
(the poor feckeens)
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
I'll say nothing more except that you should perhaps make sure you're sitting down when you press play
TheMix by variouscushions
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
This week's poem to dissuade is a purpose built one. I am reading tomorrow night at the Winding Stair for the launch of the Moth magazine. The Winding Stair is a very famous and lovely book shop (though I've only been in it once, and felt a wee bit intimidated by the fact that I couldn't spot the staircase - no doubt now that I'll be reading there, they'll show me the staircase, give me a key to it or some such).
Anyways - very much looking forward to it, mean while here's the poem. Let me know if I should read it out or not, or come along tomorrow night and tell me yourself
btw - the infra red frequency that candle flames emit has been found to contain similar frequency to that emitted by female moth pheromones
A poem which attempts to dissuade you from bringing your Moth to the Winding Stair
Don't bring your moth to the winding stair
He’d find the lights too blinding there
He doesn’t delight in finding rare
Books, he’d just flit through the bookies
No, moths can't seem to camoflage
among the assorted bricolage
in this sacred home of books, no courage
would be enough, no cookie
Your moth can't read by candle light
better keep hold of that door handle tight
This butterfly ancestor would amble right
into flames that remind him of nookie
So tell your moth he'll have to be patient
It's not that you're lazy, nor are you complacent
but this lovely shop's not for your fluttering agent
No winding stair for your moth today
The Loose are a great crowd, check em out on youtube if you haven't heard of em, one of the happiest hippest bunch of cats in town (that aren't cats at all). There were some great moments, singalongs, jumpy up and downy bits, that didn't apply to us old farts, as we stayed sitting pretty (lazy daisies that we are) at the very civilised tables and chairs. I was in heaven for the mooosic song, one of the best songs ever written.
Twas a first night out in the academy - bouncers there think they own the place, maybe they do, maybe it's a co-op, they were itching for a fight whatever way you looked at them, so we didn't.
More culture to be found earlier in the night was at the veggie place opposite where we stopped for sustenance. Govindas it's called.
A chilled out little spot on a Friday night, the crowd there is eclectic, the seating looks like old bar sofas, worn and comfy with the type of pattern seen everywhere in the 90s. The food was great, and reasonably priced. Culture shock came when we asked for coffee and the man checked the coffee maker and there was no coffee, the machine had malfunctioned and no one had asked for coffee all day, so no one had noticed. This tells you all you need to know about the customers. No coffee asked for. All day. I'm not sure I belong in that world, but it's an interesting one to stop off in. We had tea and went on our way.
Monday, September 13, 2010
He started off with Occam's razor and parsimony, going to great lengths and along many tangents to describe how simplicity is better than complication.
He focussed in on "Waiting for Godot" and "Endgame"
He's been doing Waiting For Godot every other year for more than 20 years at this stage. Reckons that only one magical night in Shanghai the production was perfect - because they all just let the words talk for themselves. They added nothing.
The fight against bringing too much of yourself and your own interpretations etc is the biggest difficulty with the play, trying to overanalyse it is another folly according to himself. It is what it is. I haven't seen it, but look forward to it sometime. You could say I can't wait, but I can (and I must)
Sunday, September 12, 2010
What’ll be left
It doesn’t take much
for all the bands of colour
just a touch
of light to pass through mist
then it’s here
may think we’ll paint the world grey
with the scum of our own waste
the smoke smog reprimanding
the slur of coal disgrace
The tired world might blacken,
lives lie slacken with the pain
still colours sparkle sky-bows
after stinging acid rain
Fascinating fact learned during the research for this one: when there are two rainbows in the sky, the weaker one is always backwards versus the original in terms of the order of colours
Friday, September 10, 2010
Also a scriptwriter, he adapted his own published story for Burning the Bed (2003). Directed by Denis McArdle, this award-winning film stars Gina McKee and Aidan Gillen. Chapman has written several episodes of the Cbeebies and RTÉ series Garth & Bev (Kavaleer, 2009/10). His audio play, Doctor Who: Fear of the Daleks (Big Finish, UK, 2007), was directed by Mark J.Thompson. It stars Wendy Padbury as Zoe and Nicholas Briggs as the Daleks.
With Philip Casey, he founded the Irish Literary Revival website in 2006.This brings out-of-print books of Irish interest back into circulation online, with the consent and participation of the authors.
Chapman has been a finalist twice in the Sunday Tribune Hennessy Literary Awards. His story ‘A Ghost’ won first prize in the Cinescape Genre Literary Competition in L.A.The title poem of The Darwin Vampires was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
ok ok, so as correctly divined by the divine niamh boyce, perhaps i had a secret yearning, a wee desire for recognition, for my herculean blogging efforts, especially what with the new look etc
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Advice for Spiderman who, in the above shot, is contemplating where he should and shouldn't bring his Koala Bear.
A poem which attempts to dissuade you from bringing your Koala to Liffey Sound*
Don't bring your koala to Liffey Sound
There's little eucalyptus enough to be found
without him eating through it, he'd be browned
off with the community station
He'd be so unfit, your dodgy marsupial
he'd want to go pirate, just like a troupial**
Oh twould be very painful, even worse than rupial***
Listen there's no invitation
For teddy bears disguised with pouches
They're far better off hanging out on couches
He'd nibble the microphone, cause so much ouches
Don't let him enact desperation
Koala BEARS are far too clingy
for broadcasting, wouldn't be very singy
Tell him go way on a boat, a ship or a dingy
but no Liffey Sound for your Koala today
*Liffey Sound is a local radio station in Lucan for anyone who hasn't heard of it - hot debate on the classification of koala bears can be found here. http://sundayscrapbook.
**Troupial is a bird that specialises in pirating nests - ie pushing out other birds
*** Rupial is a skin disease occuring specially in tertiary syphilis
Monday, September 6, 2010
I've never gotten very many of them in the past, but I've seen this kind of notification on other blogs and I always think it's very impressive, since it seems to hint that I've had loads of awards.
Anyway, I genuinely fear with the new look, sexy background and brilliant fonts on this blog that I may soon get overwhelmed with awards, and they mightn't go with the new image. So please imagine I'm holding one hand up in a dainty but firm "Thanks but no thanks" kind of gesture
Memes and awards both seem to have fallen off the edge of blogland of late... have we all got that mature? have we all got so many more important things to say? maybe it's just me, and the circles I mix in.
Here's a meme - name your top three favourite memes of all time
1. The one where you have 10 eclectic facts and one's a lie.
2. The poetry bus... though it's so much more than a meme and soon to be a magazine for god's sake.
3. Poems in Shops!! Coming again in December, can't hardly wait!
go on - sure for aul times sake.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
This week's task, set by Pure Fiction, (who you'll find over here, along with the other passengers) was a poem on a transformation of any sort. So here's a work in progress, I've been working on but not really progressing with for a while.
Sometimes a band on stage get in a drench
Their lips get locked at funny angles
Sweat runs their soft skinned temples
They hurl their E’s and Ow’s
Throw shapes make funny eyebrows
Tongues slip out – triangles of focus - sharp
And they writhe in their guitars
Or try to marry their sound systems, pretend they're harps
Strike out and pluck their own harmonics
Make love under the lights forget their cares
Their heads thrown back to fully feel
The sonic beat, the ecstacy, a fleeting sense that they are gods
In charge of everything that matters
Their eyes contort, they steal themselves,
And in the scatter
You can see what they look like when they dance
That intimate duet of lovers,
The slow smile, secret euphoria pulsing undercover
A fight to the top, a breathless-senseless working hard
Discarding shards of guardedness, all there witness
With them, climb the climb
Yes, the audience on lead singers back
In the ruck sack, breathing that thin air
Trudge tight inside that frozen time
To right up top the red hot liquid summit
All fall together back the mountain side
almost to despair, to silence
in the sway of that shy moment there's a newborn afterglow
That we know is held apart
Almost sacred to the hearts
of happy comrades at the show, amazed
A flashing concentration of life intrinsic splendid
Forever hooked ... we drift from concert, dazed
Something broken in us - mended