I can't get enough of this shit

Oystercatchers

The road beyond the house stretches
Out around a field grown wild with oilseed,
Tarmacadam sweating rainfall into gutterways
Before turning east in search of seashore.

The road lies low, and silent this early,
Mist and light rain holding indoors all but
The swallows, herons, swifts, cormorants,
And any one else who never wanted for roofs.

A corridor of hedgerows opens into the rocks
And sand (smaller rocks) dusting the spray
As the oystercatchers loiter in the shallows,
Waiting for the water to offer its secrets.

Thanks for reading,
Dave.

Time Out

A new month, a new poem. Hopefully the first of many.

Burns

It was divine providence, synchronicity,
Along those lines. Fate made me miss
The appointed time, we met by pure chance.
Not that that means anything of itself,
But my mind likes painting over cracks.

I signed my name, detailing my confession,
A dim-lit night of bad wine and worse blood,
Delicate serration –
Not that it matters. That was someone
Younger than me, unwelcome in my hearth and home.

We took hour-long excursions to quiet places,
The wood-sheltered rivers I’d forgotten
Becoming their own tributaries as memory
Worked its home-surgery, witch-doctoring
Tattered parchment to smooth river-skin.

Each meandering Charles, each low-lying Lagan,
Each Feirste and Quinobequin curved
Away beyond kenning, carrying ballast downriver,
confluences of babblings and rapids
Recollecting stony strands at my feet.

At this turn in the river, in this auburn-tipped clearing
Where cardinal and blue-jay fade to heron and gull,
I reach my hands into the clear-dark freshwater
And wash the stale blood. Tent pitched on the littoral,
Water flowing past us, on its way to everywhere else.

Thanks for reading,
Dave.

Hello Again!

Three months on, things are rolling once more. Back in York, doing stuff. That's Amsterdam, up above there. It was the coolest place. And that was by no means the only bicycle in town. I'll talk about that more later. For now, content yourself with the knowledge that it was class. Here's a couple of poems for some reason!

The Island House

A cricket rubs his legs, wild percussion
Close to the house; close to the house
Are the open valleys with crazy-form mountains –
Slieve More - big mountain; Knockmore - big hill.

Hives on the arms are tattoos of honour,
Though the midgey convicts’ days are numbered.
They emerged, days later, from behind the curtain,
Overdosing on the quiet peace of the living room.

Over the fence, a donkey tears the grass free
With blunted teeth. There is space to hear breathing,
A steady brush of air between the lips,
The tips of the leaves twitter in the breeze.

She Held a Daisy in Her Fingertips, the Bitch

She had a camera, capturing the coast though a daisy
Held up to the lens. Her friends sounded German
Or Swedish, she looked French, or at least like
The ones I’d seen in the movies.

There she was, standing at the edge of the world,
Taking photos, though the tint of her travels;
Maybe the reality of Ireland clashed with her dreams,
Maybe it didn’t. Either way,

A month later, I was wandering through Amsterdam,
And met her in the red light district, taking photos
Of the girls in the windows, selling wet dreams.
But I hadn’t the nerve to say hi.

Three Nights In Belfast – A Villanelle

An angel, like an angel, clothed in white
Strides across the field on the attack
His antagonist stands quaking at the sight.

October’s dress, embroidered in delight
Heaven-witnessed observance of a pact,
An angel, like an angel, clothed in white.

One drizzling evening, nothing but polite
In her appraisal of all the things I lacked,
Her antagonist stands quaking at the sight.

A desperate prayer, the forlorn hope I might
Restore to you a life made whole, intact;
An angel, like an angel, clothed in white

Should patrol above your headboard, shine its light
To ward away the demons at your back,
Its antagonists stand quaking at the sight.

A man sits by the bedside, tries to fight,
And, pleading for a gem that sickness cracked,
An angel, like an angel, clothed in white,
Your antagonist stands quaking at the sight.

Thanks for reading,

Dave.

The Edge of the World

It's not every day you find yourself part of someone else's family. So when I found myself in Stirling at the start of this week a full-fledged member of a social group I hadn't seen since St Patrick's, I was somewhat taken aback. It was an incredible experience, and to my new relations north of Edinburgh, a big "'sup?" is more than due.

In other news, it turns out each new heartbreak hurts less than the one that went before, to the point where it barely seems like heartbreak at all. World, bring it on. Things are looking rosier than you like them to.

In that vein, I'd like to continue the theme that has been running through recent posts, and stick some more poetry up. It's hard to know straight away how good they actually are, but time and revision will play a definite role. After all, being 21, time is only on my side. Here goes:

Birthmarks

They tell their own story,

Angry, red-ribboned, fraying,

Black-edged, a more sober

Reminder of nocturnal passions

That grow green and pale

In the cold light of morning

Or the warm breeze of spring;

The bitter solace taken

In the fact you came back.

A Sorrow Burns

A vesperal flare in the reddening night

Curled on the floor, half-naked, we lie

To each other, beautiful half-truths, delight

Daubed freely across the northern sky.

The kinetic meander slides flowingly past,

Leaving us, all fingertips and tales,

Sun-fled and tight-lipped, too fleetingly grasped

To the warm, dull thud, too livid and pale.

And down, as needs must, as rainfall returns

Us to respective lives. Frail memory recedes,

And sentiment directs a crowd-pleasing reprise

Where our parts are played, sensationalised

By our favourite actors, the starring leads

In this picture. Somewhere, unheeded, a sorrow burns.

Achill

I will not reduce your life to pithy verse,

No wailing, no chest-beating, drunk despair,

Nor breathless hyperbole, nor unctious chaff,

Just acceptance, as just as fair.

For nothing truly dies, though all things change,

As wind will alter course, lead the lost astray.

For nothing's truly lost, the destination knows

To come along the way.

I will look now to sea, every coastal bound,

And defy, though every hope be gone;

Take all I need and to hell with the rest,

And with heart in hand, sail on.

Thanks,

Dave.

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.

Revelation

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,

Dave.

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.