nom nom

The cricket is back on! There's a very slim chance that England could win this one - they need to make a high score (500?) and skittle the aussies (can they get all 10 in two sessions?), but it'll likely be a draw. Still, there's been some decent batting, though they've been making a score then getting out cheaply far too often. On the other hand, a 1-0 lead going into the last two isn't a bad position.

Poem? Poem.

Two Days Later

Don’t offer to store your squeeze’s junk.
Don’t schlep a scanner through town,
the cables are fried, you’ve nothing to scan.
Before you borrow her Rimbaud and Rilke
green-light-it that they’re both translated
and legible. By all means take the wine.
But for the love of Saint Christopher,
don’t unfold the neat green throw that holds
the red-wool plaits from her hair as the air
of her scent expires, packed in a grip with a snap
of her smiling, as grateful are you are to be found.
Don’t be surprised if you wish you’d taken more.

Another tomorrow, then a break. Thanks for reading,
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.

Dave on Brave New World, Cricketing Lamentations and What Have You.

I've been takin no enda hassle wi regards to the writin of this bloody essay. It's procedural, doesn't count, and is concerned wi probably the most educational (least inspirin) morsel encountered thus far in the English Lit smorgasbord. To paradoxically relieve pressure from, and speed Icarusly t'ward thon deadline, I've taken to readin a bit o Aldous Huxley, a beltin scribe if ever one were to be found.

Brave New World is - like the other brochures for dystopian future that followed, but never emulated - both terrifyin an captivatin, promptin the discernin reader into a mania o 'God no's and 'so that's where The Matrix nabbed that off's and so such. There's little more to be said bout the cautionary tales an the prophetic genius - save that they're both in resources plentiful - so here's m'thoughts. 'Pon puttin yon book through the colour-coded letterbox 'neath the automatic book-return (God, puts the cold sweats on jus thinkin about it), then steppin out into the glazed, fragile, glarin sunlight, Brave New World makes its profoundest impact once it's over. Makes a fella want nothin more than to go flyin, to put all he needs in a bag, get on a bike an jus go. Anywhere, doesn't matter, just in celebration o the fact that he can. That's the big deal bout it, that the sufferin inside the book need never find realisation outside. No embryos in jars, no unified identity, no predestination, no fuckin soma, jus the freedom o God's green earth. It's a proper good read. Whips the arse off o The Song O Tittin Roland anyday, that's for sure.

Speakin of arse-whippings, England are in some pretty fuckin incredible dire straits at the minute. Hard to see where you go from successive steam-rollerins from New Zealand an Australia 'B'. 110 all out, 111-1 in 24 overs.

Things are pretty rosy at the mo. It's all quiet on the girl front, alas, which obviously is a wee bit shite, but 'ey, what can a fella do? Wi reference to the aul post regardin Patch House, Amelie etc, I reckon I'm in some way ready for the aul relationship malarkey now, though even the fact that I have to soften the word 'relationship' by surroundin it wi all kinds o bull-words an blather shows more'n I care to think about. But who the fuck knows! Nobody, is who. Alls I know, there could be some delightful young lass wi all sortsa questionable thoughts o a filthy nature regardin myself, an I'm jus waitin for to meet her! Who can tell what tomorrow may bring. Perhaps she'd even be up for a bit o the aul literary banter pon the subject o individuality an Huxley an allsorts. P'raps she's readin this now an takin notes. Who the fuck knows. Sir Huxley certainly has little for to add to the topic. High 24/7 that boyo was.

Thanks,

Dave

Vaughan, but not forgotten.

Good news! Michael Vaughan is back and battin well, Paul Nixon looks like the bona fide wicket keepin-batsman England've been looking for, and that's the last Twenty20 match England'll have to play for a while. On the other hand, they were shocking. Australia batted out of their skins, fair enough, but they were never tested. Australia bowled well, but Flintoff and Pietersen combined for 11 runs on a decent wicket against a strike force that could hardly be described as world-class. The dropped catches tell their own story. The world cup is in exactly 60 days, and England seriously need to pull their socks up if they're even gunna survive the groups. Hope the selectors have Gough on speed-dial.

Liverpool 3 - Arsenal 6!! Holy shit! Makes you think of the good old days when Liverpool beat Newcastle 4-3 every week. We took it for granted that once Newcastle went 3 up Keegan would send on more strikers, just in case. Jose is clearly a talented guy, but I can't stand to look at Chelsea these days. So many talented players, playin the kinda football you'd be ashameda playin in the park. Kudos for Benitez and Wenger both, who play beautiful football whoever they play against. The special one can get tae fuck.

Thanks,

Dave.