Wednesday, June 22, 2016

Brexit: The Movie

Wake from Swift, Holyhead
Is it really as clear
as those signs at the rear
whose letters in green
distract from the screen
(where Nigel and Boris
make a Carry On Norris
flag-waving the fleets
that are under his sheets)
or is all this 'greatness'
the tang of a tasteless
and placeless Armada
amounting to nada?

Friday, May 13, 2016

The Hosting

It is a king’s work, this hosting
of all of Adam’s seed,
and yet is it no work, nothing
at all, and it proceeds.

No sooner do they know
than they study to forget
where the hosting goes –
no one is ready yet.

When you are called forth,
if you refuse to leave,
in whose house, whose fort
will you stand siege?

After 'The Last Call-Up' (from A Golden Treasury of Irish Poetry, Ed. David Greene & Frank O'Connor), an anonymous poem of 17 stanzas originally published in the 15th century Book of Lecan.

First published as part of a short sequence, Departures (long after the Irish, AD 600-1200), in my collection Fade Street (Salt, 2010).

Photo: Stéig, an iron age (AD 400) fort in the Ring of Kerry.


Tuesday, March 08, 2016


Looking for god is like asking directions for the edge of the earth. –– Stephen Hawking

In the beginning there was nothing, which exploded. –– Terry Pratchett

Before the Big Bang, no time, so no room for god
crushed against solid Nothing. We should
be ‘pretty pleased’. No need to fear god now
(though what scares most of us is that paler shadow

at the back of our group photo of devils and gods).


At the quantum level we’ve seen a photon pop
into existence from nothing –– why not
‘the ultimate free lunch’? So something has come
of nothing: my appetite’s gone. Bear with me

Flying Spaghetti Monster made of string theory.


The unnameable was always a human name
even as it shrank from having a finger put on it ––
sunbeam touching the nerve in a passage tomb,
god of the minded gap, the sucked thumb,

cloud of unknowing breathed on a window pane.


What if god comes with the bubble-wrap, the fold
between universes, blacker than black rose
bundled into the mother of all black holes?

What if time is a sliced pan, each moment
self-preserved, fresh as the day it was born?

Moseying along the path at the edge of the page, the cliff ––

agnostic heartbeat: what if, what if, what if  

from Haunt, Salmon, 2015

Wednesday, April 08, 2015

Lines For The Diceman

i. m. Thom McGinty

Good to know you might turn up
in the frieze of faces on Grafton Street,
familiar stranger surprising us
in something from your wardrobe-gallery,

a walking painting say, holding its own
gilded ornate frame, the face
white as a mask, Mona Lisa
in a black cat-suit, cracking a murky smile.

Dead-slow, solemnly careful
among eddies of Christmas shoppers, summer dawdlers,
tourists, street-traders, Guards...
mindful of each sound-proofed step, sure-

footed as an acrobat, spaced in, treading your own
high wire. When we looked
at you looking through us
we took in the joke that jumped -- a spark of silence --

eye to eye, mind to mind,
across Grafton Street's  canyon of swirling clockwork noise.
You're gone now forever (back
into the box with Jack)

and scanning the quickslow, giddy, sedate
everyday street-portrait  ---  its procession
of invisible masks  --- the eye misses you.
Old master, Diceman, conductor

of the ungrooved thought, catcher
of the thrown glance, are you still there?

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

The Reverse

–– Cornelius Gijsbrechts, 1670

Although his trompe l’oeil, ‘The Reverse
of a Painting’, is intended to deceive,
one double-take is all it takes to leave
the expected for the micro-universe:

nested rectangles, the frame’s pale grain, the buff
canvas stretched and pinned with tiny tacks,
the price on a ticket fixed with sealing wax ––
range-findings, star-charts, more than enough.

Beyond a trick then, his scrupulous look
at what is overlooked –– details that wait
behind what hangs in MoMA or The Tate ––
lifted the world of appearance off its hook,

turned it to the wall and then applied
equal pressure to the other side.

          from Haunt (Salmon Poetry, 2015)

Wednesday, April 02, 2014


Two surprises this morning.

Firstly, just before waking, I met two alive-dead people in a dream. One was the vice principal of the art school I attended in Dún Laoghaire (now the IADT), Trevor Scott. Trevor later became a friend, then he died prematurely from cancer in the early noughties, at 58, a year older than I am now.

In my dream Trevor was judging some kind of exhibition/show. I expected to get a prize and was disappointed when Trevor awarded the prize to someone else without mentioning my work (whatever that may have been, a photograph?). Then I was talking to Trevor and somehow my mother came into the conversation. Trevor spoke warmly about her. I think he said she was a very kind person. Then, as happens in dreams, my mother was there in the room, in a wheelchair I think, with a shawl over her knees, as she would have been in her last years if she were out and about. I went to her and I think she told me she loved me, and I began to weep and told her that I would always love her, and we embraced. Though I have been aware of mum's shadowy presence the odd time, this is the first time I recall actually speaking to her in a dream since she died two years ago. When I woke I wondered about this, then remembered it was my birthday.

Getting out of bed, I was led into the kitchen by our son, to be presented with a birthday gift, a chocolate cake and other goodies, and a big happy birthday hug from him and my wife (and he later made me a lovely little birthday card in school).

The photo above was taken from outside, looking through the window, and shows mum in her chair, among the evening reflections.

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

A Birthday

My mother was born on this day in 1918. She died just over two years ago. In the top photo she's on the right, standing next to her sister Moira. They were the eldest in a family of seven. Moira died not long before my mother (about a year or so) at 95.

I took the middle photo while on holiday with her in 2001. That's another sister, Nuala, on the right (under the sunhat). I have my cousins to thank for urging me to take this holiday, something I should have done far more often with her. Though it became a nightmare towards the end of those two weeks (9/11 took place and Nuala had a stroke on the day we departed), the first week was something of an idyll.

The lower photo was taken on the day before her last birthday in 2011 (she was going into the nursing home the next day for her two week 'intermittent stay').

I think about my mother every day: amalgam of memories, a presence at once both vivid and vague, the vitality she lost as she grew older and more dependent, the pain she went through increasingly with osteoarthritis ('singing in my bones' as she'd say).

I had remembered this was her birthday up till yesterday. This morning, I must have had other things on my mind because it didn't hit me till the early afternoon. Nuala's birthday was on the 10th of March and I regularly muddled the dates, so that might have had something to do with it.

Her siblings are almost all dead now, apart from her older brother Dermot, whom I spoke to not long ago. He's in his nineties and apparently in good health.

There's a poem I was working on till I abandoned it recently. I'll post the last draft here because it relates to my mother, but it's another person's memory of her, the younger brother Niall who died in November 2012. On our way back from yet another funeral (Nuala's) Niall told me about this, hence the title:

Something My Uncle Said

Not long before he died, following my mother
and her sisters, he passed me this blurry memory,
somewhere in England –– Liverpool? ––
he is a schoolboy getting off the train

to change for another, the one
that will take him home to Burnham on Sea
(for one of those holidays that are made for 
rhapsodising, squinting back along the tracks
at Shangri-La filmed through a Vaselined lens).

His older sister, my mother, is there to meet him
and see him safely home –– guardian
who will takes him walking on the dunes
and reads him Winnie The Pooh and AA Milne.

I didn’t ask whether he finds her immediately or
has to look for her, because
something else is there too, off to the side,
the soundtrack he will carry with him through the years:
relentless thunder of bombs and presumably sirens,
the war I only ever heard of or saw in films.

An extra, I keep coming to that station
to stand among the noise and clots of steam
and the too-close sounds of something else, out
of my world, punching great industrial holes
in the ordinary noises of a city,
making me search harder for a face
milling among the faces on the platform,
blank, intent or bewildered as my own.