Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Dya know what

I'm posting another poem, already, and you'd think I'd have better things to be doing, but I really don't right now, Mr VC is out at a school concert of some sort, Danger Cushions is miraculously in bed - preparing for his big day tomorrow (9 month old check up!! - I'm very excited, they're going to tell me he's a genius and that I win a free years supply of nappies since they've never seen a child so advanced, in such a modest understated kind of way)... so I sat me down and wrote a poem, I have to acknowledge it is somewhat inspired by another poem I came across in class last night - a little number called Similes - by Charles Reznikoff. Yes I'm going to classes by the way. Just one a week, and just for a few weeks... it has the intriguing title "Parallel Worlds, how to build them with words" and is facilitated by Trevor Joyce, and I'm rather liking it.

Anyway - here's me poem


She’s eating her words now.
Fierce watery words they are too.
She could never wash with them, they’re too scarce and sputtering.
She tried to drown Seanie in them, but it was only a drip drip drip, drilling
a hole in his ear.
Through to his brain.
True, and down the drain with that relationship.
No type of a ship could’ve gotten across that tempest, the temper on her.
And her holding up each phrase as if he should listen.
She wrote him a letter too.
She wrote him a poem.
She carved his name on her arm, and on a tree, and in cheese from the fridge.
She soaked herself in soft old talk about his early days with her, their
happy times.
Her mouth is dry with calling him.
What she said was what she said, and it hailed out of her frozen sometimes, or misted in her quiet breath, or lashed with the warm enthusiasm of a summer storm, fat drops of things she said, thick streams of sayings, flowing, leaking.
All she ever said gushes with the rest -
white noise tearing through the string vest of space.

and now the poem by Charles Reznikoff -


Indifferent as a statue
to the slogan
scribbled on its pedestal.

The way an express train
snubs the passengers at a local station.

Like a notebook forgotten on a seat in the bus,
full of names, addresses and telephone numbers:
important, no doubt, to the owner—
but of no interest whatever
to anyone else.

Words like drops of water on a stove—
a hiss and gone."

- and yes there's a heap of sweeping still to be done here....

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Spring or - I should be sweeping the floor now

Inspired by the word Spring - as a people's republic of bus monday poem - otherwise known as the scooter.... I have written the following


Ground tilts, warms towards life
Locked away in homes the Ordinarys
See new telly schedules
The arrival of the Oscars

Walkers see excitable shoots
Animals are squelching out of older bigger animals
And getting licked and loved and discarded
Vets elbow deep rooting for hooves or heads
Thinking of their tea, the summer holidays,
the Oscars
Shiny tiny people taking tiny shiny people home

In school the frogspawn arrives in tanks
Boys wait in gleeful horror for brothers to awake
and eat each other
the world writhes with excitement of the new
stuff from ash reborn into
the tilted landscape

Monday, February 27, 2012

in other news

I've decided not to join the secret service after all... Turns out since they're all secretive, I wouldn't get to brag about my big fancy job with them, and their canteen is rubbish. All it is is a can machine and a few sweets and foodservice instant coffee with a burker boiler that hardly ever works and drips boiling water into the sink constantly.... Or was that my last job? I can never keep these things straight in my head.

Anyway - yesterday I went on what can only be described as a trip through time.
Meself and himself and the other himself, found ourselves in the city, in the early part of the day and a big latin mass about to be said in one of the churches. By god, we said, we'll have a bit of that, bit of culture, bit of language, bit of religion, sure why not?
Well. They should sell tickets. It was amazing. The priest and his two assistants stood with their backs to the congregation for all of the latiny bit, so you only got the odd "carpe", or "labia", here or there. It gave a great sense of how alienating the old church was though - with their mysterious non layman language, and how you'd be looking at the backs of their heads for so long. Then yerman turned around, and that's when the fun really started. If there was a theme park in the vatican, with haunted houses to visit where you could see priests as they might've been in the old days handing out fire and brimstone, this guy would be the top man.
Did you realise the pain of childbirth was a punishment because of Eve's misbehaviour in the garden? We could've all saved ourselves a lot of money on epidurals if only... There was a punishment for Adam too - probably manflu - I missed hearing exactly what it was because I was so shocked by the former.
Anyway he was going on and on about giving up things you like for lent. And I was thinking he should give up giving out. He referred to this letter sent by the pope a couple of years ago - when we were trying to get over the abuse scandals, anyway - one of the recommendations in the letter was that we should give up things we like every friday for a year. The priest didn't mention whether he had adhered to this recommendation himself, but you just knew he knew no one in the church (out of the whole 30 or so of us in the place) would have done it, he wanted us to feel bad. (I did, but only because I was so affronted by the cheek of such a recommendation forming part of what was hoped at the time was going to be an apology). He also asked that we refrain from "Googling" he didn't mention any other search engine - and if google were present they would have surely thought it unfair - but "Googling" was mentioned in much the same tone as "looking at porn" He also said 30% of the bold angels, ie the ones turned into devils, were still on the earth. I feel kinda bad passing this info on, but I was so impressed by him having statistics to hand like that...
We were just leaving when he started in on "Nice People" too. "Nice People can lead you astray" he was saying - as us 3 relatively nice people sailed out the door, not for the first time I was glad to have a loud chirrupy little fella with me who didn't know or care about the correct social conventions and had decided to sing all the way through...
The church has changed a lot, but if you ever want a glimpse into the guilt laden/ bizarre past, there's a definite tourist attraction for you.

Friday, February 24, 2012


Did you know Ireland has a secret service?

Now maybe I dreamed this, but I heard someone on the radio this morning saying their funding had been increased by 76%.

I can only assume they've been hiring in new staff with this money and one of the newbies disastrously, mistakenly took it upon themselves to release a press release. They were probably instantly fired on the spot. Men in black erased all their memories and they were dropped back to the corn field.... or something.

If the irish ss IS looking to replace that particular specimen, they need look no further. Yes I can be the spy with the eye, the agent with the stage-ent, the undercover with the brover... you get my drift.

I've proven, I think, by recent performance here, that I can also be extremely secretive when I want to be. I haven't let a word slip about my adventures of the past number of weeks. No, not even anything about danger pulling himself up on the couch to stand up - then true to his name letting go, not a hint about the fun of a course in writing that I'm attending in the people's republic, no sniff of the festivals I am failing to get to, or the million movies I'm watching before my free months trial of netflix runs out. No, these, and many other secrets can be safely counted as under my care. Secure. Secret.
Ye know where to find me ss, if ye need me... ye know where to find everyone.
(yes I am just trying to flatter them so they'll approach me)

(and yes, this is probably exactly the post someone who was really in the iss would write, just to throw ye off the scent, and this kind of comment would be further proof)