Saturday, May 26, 2007

Talking About It

So I've heard that talking about it helps. Since I can't quite bring myself to talk about it, I'm going to write about it, since that helps not as much, but enough. So there's a gap. There's a little bit of time every day that I don't spend talking to my mum. Like today, I had a great game of cricket, and I haven't really told anyone about it. And I'm fine with that, because now I'm learning to enjoy it for myself, and that anything else is just a bonus. But I know she would've loved to have heard about it, and it would've made her happy. It didn't have to. She chose to. Not everyone has parents like that. I don't know. I'd just have liked to have shared today with someone.
The cricket was amazing, of course! It was epic, in a way I didn't think I could play. The bowling was a little substandard, pickin up a few tailenders, 4-0-24-3. pretty happy. Happy enough that I could go in relaxed for the last half-a-dozen overs, and score 41! Holy shit, I can't even believe it now. I just swung at anything that came my way, and ran like my life depended on it. It's a personal best for me, and I think I lost about a stone in sweat. Asides from that, I got everything sorted out for the Nouse film page, and this edition's lookin a cracker.
Here's a couple of poems I wrote a few days ago.

A Good Year

A good year it's been now. Coarse and brittle,
A rainless year, without memory of rain,
Without a prayer for a squall,
Or the lousy grump of October.
A full year now, since the pang of thirst
Was settled, and reminders of that
Love I felt first, cast to the roadside on
That cruel April evening, driven out.
A bloody year it's been, with blood-torn nights
And arse-dry days, where no bitterness
Lies, for the senses have crumbled, no scent of
Summer looms, no words lie in the throat,
For want of you.


Standing by a clearing, unassuming,
Awaiting discovery, great rock
Behemoths shading the wood. There sits
A fallen trunk worn smooth by time,
A wizened oak skinned by curious walkers,
Curiously slumped, wide-eyed
Transfixed by terrible earth-woven beauty
On stony earth. But none the wiser,
For once seen, the western landscape,
The drumlins and cliffs, like so much
Ham-fisted doggerel, stands
Unassuming, the noise of myth fallen silent.
Waiting, cloth-eared, pulse-shocked,
The great stone bastards hold their breath.

Pirates of the Caribbean tomorrow. Wheeeeeeee

Thanks for reading,

Friday, May 11, 2007

Poetry of Sorts.

Oh, it's party time.

So it's been something of a while since I put any ol ramblings up here. Between having nothing to write about over Easter, and the general business of self-actualisation and gathering of confidence - both deserved and otherwise - and the tragedy of the love-life that never was, I just haven't dragged myself to look at a blank page or screen in the way I used to. However, things are good in my little world, what with a cool party the other week, and the terrific experience of bein a cricket correspondent at Roses, and the interesting prospect of my first acting audition on Sunday, and the Modern Irish Poetry seminars in which I kick ass and take names, things are as rosy as the weather by all rights ought to be.

First things first, the Cinco de Mayo party barely alluded to in the above paragraph. It was brilliant craic, I met a few American folks, most of whom I was able to impress with my passing knowledge of geography and professional sports teams (go Giants/Chargers/Pacers/what have you), and some rather impressive hostessing work. Needless to say, should I ever need advice on how to be a successful hostess at any point in my academic/professional writing career, I'll know which corner of the globe turning toward would be judicious. Plus! I now have a name and an entire backstory to the girl who last term filled the role of irrational crush previously held by a number of illustrious names too illustrious to mention in these tawdry screeds. She was lovely, too, daughter of a university professor in upstate New York, livin on an old farmhouse. Sounds too perfect. So Hannah, if you're readin, I had a bit of a crush on you last term. But I'm happier now that you are a real person.

The cricket was an eye-opener. Like how long a match can seem when it ends as a contest two hours before the conclusion. Or how much sunburn plays a role. Or how much work it is to document every last bloody ball from morning to evening. Or how tetchy the opposition can get if you wait untile they're 2-2 before asking for a quote. Whoops. Still, t'was good craic, and if all else fails, I've got a pretty sturdy safety net in sports journalism. The world will always need sports journalists. The article ran in the Nouse Roses pullout, which made me happy. What made me happier still was bumping into Raf and Niamh at the Vanbrugh cafeteria and hearing that not only had they read my article on 300, they enjoyed it, and mentioned it on the NOuse podcast! Yessssssssss.

So! The whole point of this post is really as a means to rationalise the past few weeks, put some things in order, and generally feel better about things. But! As I have nothing but admiration for you, dear reader, I feel that now is the time to take the first steps on my journey as a Modern Irish Poet, and give y'all a tentative free sample of my poetic tenor. One for my Dad, one for the news of Peace In Our Time on the home front.

Giants' Causeway

Back on the path, its gravelled lustre
A reminder, overwhelming, that I hid
Most skillfully, pretending the rough sea
Wind had blown dust under my eyelid,
And walked on, a few steps behind.
I made jokes about the cliff face, and
You pointed out primroses, decided where
In the garden they'd go, and I feigned
Interest, and pointed out Fairhead.
It emerged we'd walked the wrong way,
And shuffling skillfully past the anoraked yankees
We giggled for knowing no fear to allay,
Being locals, proprietors, and far more
Rightful to shuffle down the stairwell
In mirth half-hidden. By a crumbling
Hand-rail with a red-rusted warning fell
Any palm-sized rock we found,
And after all these years I shouldn't've been
Surprised that you still had the better arm.
They stirred the spray. The ocean
Refused all entry, the cluttered sky gone grey,
We retired for the day for a stout meal
At one of the pubs you knew. And then, I thought
I knew what you felt in your blood.

Going Home

It was a strange thing to hear,
Like a student-fantasy play
At the end of the Ireland crisis; "We're
Imagining that one day
The two of them'll meet in a room
And, y'know, get on like normal folks.
Not to say they'll sing the same tune,
But they'll laugh at them'uns' jokes,
And get on like the whole thing
Was just a misunderstanding."

So there you go.