Biography

I started writing poetry a few years ago but then got out of the habit for some time. Then someone told me about Write Out Loud and attending a session prompted me to start writing again. My writing is about anything that catches my attention, places I've been, things I feel strongly about (like hunting) or things I just wonder about (like why we always want to be busy).

The poetry I write is not constructed in an educated manner, I know very little technically about writing poetry. Mainly I try to get a rhythm and even more important to convey feelings. Ages ago I noticed that speeches that work really well have bits of what I would call poetry in them (think Martin Luther King's dream or Winston Churchill fighting on the beaches)

My day job is photography and graphic design and I teach both and art in colleges and schools.

Writing makes me feel good and that alone makes me want to carry on. Sharing what you write and what others write is fun and keeps me interested. If someone gets something from what you have written then that is a terrific feeling.

One poem I wrote about my Granny making butter hasn't been published but it has been read at about a dozen funerals in the West of Ireland where people tell me it rekindled happy memories of their parents and grandparents. That poem helped people on such a difficult day that I doubt I could ever achieve anything so important again.

I did a quick count earlier today and found that I most frequently write about social (or political) topics. So I've added one of my recent poems "The Hood" to this profile.

Samples

Time After Time

Thirty years ago
They were all there
From the shop-floor
From the salesroom
From the office
And from his secluded
Segregated suite
Even the boss himself

The polite applause
The empty speeches
Slipping from the bosses mouth
Slipped just as fast
From his mind

As well rehearsed words
Drifted over his head
Faithful, hard working
Valued, respected
Gratitude, long service
He remembered only
Long
So long
So very long

The watch in a fancy box
“Real Gold”
They said
“Two hundred quid”
They said
“Should be proud”
They said
“Should be grateful”
They thought

They handed him his watch
Shook him by the hand
“Keep in touch”
They said
“Don’t forget us”
They said

Then left him
At the door
Alone
Retired
Finished

He won’t forget
Every day
As he drags
His aching bones
From bed to chair
And chair to bed
He remembers them

He remembers when
he was so alive
So very alive
And they retired him
Abandoned him

“You’ll need a rest”
They said
“Take it easy”
They said
He just needed something
Something
To fill his time
Too much time
Too much empty time

He must rest now
Marking time
Waiting
Interminable
Uncomfortable
The heavy watch

Weighs on his wrist
And he remembers
Two hundred quid
For fourty years
Not even tuppence a day
Wouldn’t even feed the birds
Not a couple of bob
Per sleepless night
Just twenty pounds per
Blistered and calloused finger

He remembers
Again and again
Too much time
Too much empty time
Time after time





Standby

My old television
Had a big old switch
On and off
With a clunk
My new one has
Standby

No switch
Just a button
Touch sensitive
That doesn’t really move
Or a remote
With flat batteries
It doesn’t ever really turn off
It’s ready to burst into life
To satisfy an instant need
For entertainment, for news
For diversion
To fill an empty moment
We can’t wait a few seconds
We need it now
Go on
Touch the button

My new computer sleeps
The screen goes blank
The fan stops whirring
The disk winds down
And parks
But a little light flashes
And then
Touch the button
It bursts into life
Straight back to where it left off
Its not really asleep
Its on standby
Go on
Touch the button

This is the modern way
Life at the ready
On 24-7 watch
Don’t stop
Don’t go to sleep
When I close my eyes
The world keeps going
The world might pass me by
The world never stops
I wouldn’t want to miss
Anything
I wouldn’t want to be
Left behind
We live
In a thoroughly
Modern rush
Go on
Touch the button

I don’t really sleep anymore
I close my eyes
Lie quiet
Might snore
But I‘m not asleep
Oh no!
I’m ready to jump up
At the drop of a hat
The bark of a dog
The rattle of the wind
The morning birds
A filling bladder
An empty stomach
The ring of the alarm
No
I’m not asleep
I’m on standby
Go on
Touch the button

I don’t have a little red light
But the alarm clock has
The phone has
The TV has
The digi-box has
I don’t need my own
Little red light
I’m surrounded by them
They’ve got inside my head
Glowing
Flickering
Light emitting synapses
Waiting to switch on
Always at the edge
Ready to go
I’m not asleep
I’m on standby
Go on
Touch the button

And if I finish my days
In a hospital bed
Plugged-in
Connected
Then
When my lights go out
I won’t be dead
Resting in peace
No
Not dead
I’ll still be
On standby
Go on
Touch the bloody button




The Hood

Old man shuffles
Stooped, shrouded, muffled
Against cold and damp
Uniform of age
Coat grey
Woolen scarf
Hi-shine shoes
Capped head bowed
Furrowed brow
Sunken cheeks
Age-dimmed eyes
Lines of life
Life lived
Duty done
Passes by
Nods hello

And the dogs watch
And tails wag

Young man struts
Perma-scowl
Too-young
Too-deep, furrowed brow
Thin stretched lips
Suck
On the last of ten
Smile-proof
Sunken eyes
Beneath
The Hood

The Hood
Hides, covers
The accused' blanket
The judges wig
Executioner’s mask
Hiding feeling
Hiding all

The skunk cloud
Beer puddled brain
Swaggering
With sham-strength
Confused values
Misplaced, replaced
Aggression, size
Anger, power
Resentment brimming
Arrogance wrapped

And the dogs bark
And he

Wonders why!




Fear of Empty Moments


A moment
A fleeting glimpse of time
A lone empty second
Much like any other
But empty, meaningless
A void

Live with it
Dwell in it
Look at it
Listen to it

Take it slowly
Let it breathe
Let it grow
Unfilled

That empty second
Becomes
An empty minute

That empty minute
Becomes
An empty hour

That empty hour
Becomes
An empty day

That empty day
Becomes
a week

A month

A year

An age

And that empty age

Remains
Forever





A Far Cry


It’s a far cry
A far cry from nature
A far cry from humanity
From civilization

I know, ‘cause I smelled the foxes
In the cold morning breeze
‘Cause I watched them grow
‘Cause I saw them play
‘Cause I heard their cry
Far in the distance

And the foxhunters? They
Watched them die

The hunters
Caring, caring for the countryside
Caring for nature, caring with their hatred
Their seething anger, their aching lust
For blood, for fear, for power
And yes, their lust for death

All their fancy jackets
Expensive tweeds and shiny boots
Sitting high and mighty, toasting their success
With blood-red wine on a pedigree horse
A pedigree horse groomed by stable hands
Delivered by Range Rovers
Polished and paid for by the working classes

Charging through the countryside
Like some long lost cavalry
Red coats bright, bugle calls shrill
But these brave toy soldiers
They won’t see battle, they won’t feel fear
Or wonder when their final moment comes
They won’t lie forgotten
In some God-forsaken foreign desert

No! the hunters
Defending their privilege their “Way of life”
Looking after the peasants and paying a pittance
To keep them in their place
To keep up traditions
To keep flaunting their power

To race through your back yard, or mine
Hounds baying for blood
The blood of a fox, or a family pet
Who cares? “Stand aside! we’re coming through”

The hunters days are numbered
But they still can’t see the truth
That there never was a God-given right
To hunt the fox, to ride roughshod over our land
Over the working classes and over our laws
But they still can’t see

Because they never smelled the foxes
In the cold morning breeze
All they smell
Is diesel fumes, polished leather
Warm wine and horses and dogs
The pungent sweat, the sickly-sweet scent of blood
The sharp reek of fear and the stench of death

And all they hear is
Snorting horses, yelping hounds
Tearing flesh, breaking bones
A vixen’s cry and her last breath

I know, ‘cause I smelled the foxes
In the still night air

And the hunters? They
Watched them die

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

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