Percy French Prize for Serious Poetry?

For the first time in around nine years, I didn't attend the Percy French Prize for Comic Verse at the Strokestown Poetry Festival. The winner was Samantha Strachen, pictured above, with judge Eleanor Tiernan. Congratulations to Samantha.
The reasons I didn't attend were manifold. I didn't much like the way that the competition was advertised - it seemed to be looking for slammers and rappers, rather than people who can craft a comic verse. I didn't like the way that the number of shortlistees has been cut from ten down to eight and now down to six. I didn't like the way that the competition was pushed back to 10pm, as the highlight of the evening is always the craic in Anthony's afterwards and this would seriously eat into that time. And I have also taken a strong turn against serious poetry mainly due to the politics within it. All in all,  despite the fact that I have tremendous admiration for the people on the ground running the festival - Melissa, Pat, Kay, Shane et al - the weekend didn't inspire me to attend.
Now, I've been speaking to a couple of former shortlistees about the competition and, like me, they're not enamoured about the way things have gone. One of them, in England, added the fact that the nominations were announced so late that, had she been successful, she would have had to have declined, as Ryanair flights would have been too expensive.
But the main reason that all three of us felt disheartened by this year's "inaugural" comic verse competition was that none of us got through. Is that arrogant? Well, possibly. But, and I mean absolutely no disrespect to the winner, none of us failed to see anything remotely comic in the winning entry. You can read it here and then tell me it had you rolling around in the aisles.
I, like the others, hark back to Declan O'Brien and The Corinthians Letter to St Pauls; Josh Ekroy and his Vicrossloo (a non-rhyming poem); Sean Lyons and his trips to Fungerola and Shopping for Trousers; Martin Parker's subtle wit; John McDonagh's superbly crafted poems; Ian McDonald's ribald humour, Dee Gaynor's wry take on life, Margaret Hickey's subtle, yet perfectly metred observations (well done Margaret for making the shortlist by the way). The list goes on and on. Memorable poems. All crafted their works to maximise the humour but still retain the poetical authenticity. Sadly, I don't get this from 'Ideal.'
Of course, its not Samantha's fault. The judge picked it. But the disappointment for me is that there are so very few outlets for humorous verse in the world today. Nobody wants it; there are precious few competitions for it. Yet it is an art form that takes every bit as much skill to perfect as serious poetry. And Strokestown was the one competition every year we looked forward to because it seemed to appreciate the art form. Okay, it never printed up the winning poems (one step in the right direction for this year's organisers) but at least you knew the winning poem would have to be something special - both comic and well-crafted a la Percy French - to beat off the competition.
Now, sadly, there seems little point in entering again.

Thwarting Father Time...

Pat D'Amico lives in Washington State and is a staunch supporter of the light verse scene. She has been plying her trade for thirty years - in fact, 184 of her poems appeared in the Wall Street Journal.
She writes a regular column for local paper North West Primetime and is frequently to be found among the contributors to Martin Parker's brilliant Lighten Up Online quarterly magazine, where I first came across her work.
Pat is a master of the short, wry, poignant, humorous, clever poem. She writes of things we see all around us but take for granted. "When I woke up one morning / and was trying to clear my head,/ I stretched a bit and nothing hurt - / I thought that I was dead." Her poems are tremendously popular with ordinary people, which is what good poems should be. Many of today's poets appear to write for their fellow poets - Pat writes for people like herself.
Anyhow, she's finally getting around to assembling some of her thousands of poems. "Thwarting Father Time"  is a compilation of the verses that have appeared in "Northwest Prime Time" over the last 8 years. To order, please send $5.95, postpaid in the USA, to Pilot Publications, 5203 111th Ave. NE, Kirkland, WA 98033 or contact pat@lightversepoetry.com.

Chapbook printing

Smithereens Press
was recently set up with the intention of producing high-quality poetic texts of chapbook-length to be made available online. The decision to start the press was founded on the understanding that opportunities to release shorter texts, particularly those that may not meet the criteria of standard full-length collections, are restricted by financial realities and limited interest on the part of the more-established publishers. The ambition is to provide a venue for poets so that their work may be made widely available to a community of readers and poets here in Ireland and abroad.
The press recently released their first three publications (and have others forthcoming);

'The Server Room' - Conor O'Callaghan
'Rain' - Maurice Scully
'Zero at the Bone' - David Wheatley

As evident in their first publications, the press welcomes work from diverse poetic backgrounds and its editorial policy hopes to blur any reductive divisions between 'traditional' or 'experimental' poetry. Submission Guidelines can be found here
All enquiries and submissions may be made to the editor, Kenneth Keating, at smithereens.press@gmail.com.

The Glencush Boreen

The sun was awake and shone bright his light for us

and the dew on the hills had a shimmering sheen.

The alarm had been raised by the chaffinches’ chorus

as I strolled with my love along Glencush Boreen.

The circling linnet sang love songs above us,

far up o’er the larch and the spruce so serene.

The morning itself had been crafted for lovers

on that long, lonely stretch called the Glencush Boreen.

She was pale as a statue and nearly as pious,

as fragile as porcelain, cool as a queen.

The sparrows chirped homage as they flittered by us

as we strolled arm in arm down the Glencush Boreen.

We sat by a stile when the heat bore down on us

in the shade of an oak, branches leafy and green.

And she snuggled up to me, did young Kathleen Connors

and we kissed long and soft by the Glencush Boreen.

But I was a lad of impetuous genus

and my hand sought out places it shouldn't have been.

“Stop you!” cried a voice like a hatchet between us,

though we were alone by the Glencush Boreen.

Startled we jumped and searched wildly around us

for the voice had the tone of a callous machine.

But no-one stood near, which served more to confound us,

all alone by the side of the Glencush Boreen.

“Stop you!” came the voice once again and it filled us

with terror, for still no-one there could be seen.

Then high on a branch, a cold, black shadow chilled us,

its beady eye trained on the Glencush Boreen.

The raven was large and its voice cut right through us.

“Stop you!” it squawked loud as if venting its spleen.

Kathleen leapt up high as if pricked by hot skewers

and ran like the wind up the Glencush Boreen.

I snarled at the bird that had managed to thwart us,

still watching me blindly, eyes callous and lean.

Then it bowed and flew off to its sons and its daughters

and left me alone on the Glencush Boreen.

I ran up the lane straining veins and aortas,

on up to the far distant lake of Diheen

and there found my love floating in the dark waters

that lie near the end of the Glencush Boreen.

Was she spooked by the fact that a raven addressed us?

Or was it the words pricked a conscience pristine?

Not knowing the reason both rankles and festers

whenever I think of the Glencush Boreen.

I told my strange tale to the judge and the jurors.

No guilt do I bear for the death of Kathleen

but it seems like a raven was able to skewer us

hook, line and sinker on the Glencush Boreen.

And sometimes I gaze out these iron-barred shutters,

whenever the clouds o’er the mountains convene

and I spy the dark shapes that alight on the gutters,

far, far from their nests on the Glencush Boreen.

Upon the Samuel Beckett Bridge

Upon the Samuel Beckett Bridge,
I waited and I waited.
I waited till the day’s grey light
had all but dissipated.
I waited till the sun was gone
and hope was sacrilege.
I waited all my life upon
the Samuel Beckett Bridge.

Banks banks banks - Rant alert!

The photo above is of the Bank of Ireland branch in Dunboyne. Don't know when Google took this photo as the 6 parking spaces are always jammed. I only go to this branch once every six weeks or so and I invariably leave it in a suicidal state of mind. Everything they do is designed to thwart the personal customer and get you to do all your banking online, at a charge naturally. It's not the staff's fault - they're actually doing themselves out of a job and there's nothing they can do about it.
What bugs me the most is the way they try to dress up their new anti-customer initiatives as being greatly beneficial to the customer. They used to have a Quick Lodge box. Pop your envelope with money and lodgement slip into it and that was that. Now you have a touch screen machine and you have to have a card and a PIN. How does this benefit the older person? Or the person short of sight?
Last month I was in the above branch and there were 20 people in the queue for the cashier. And the one girl behind the desk was doing other work! There was actually nobody serving.
Now I hear you can't get a bank draft for less than 500 euro. And, unsurprisingly, this is a positive step. How?
The banks no longer take coin, even if you have bagged it up yourself, without imposing a hefty charge on putting it through a counting machine. Isn't it a part of the banking system that they accept cash?
They closed our local branch down in Stoneybatter years ago. Stoneybatter is an area mainly comprising older people. They transferred all the business to Phibsboro, over a mile away, or a walk and a bus ride away. Efficiencies. Not for the customer, its not.
Oh and bank charges are back with a vengeance. God help those people trying to renegotiate mortgages,

All part of the customer service

We’re closing the branch that you always frequent

for we do not believe it is money well-spent.

It’s better for you if we cut down on rent.

Yes, I know you don’t really deserve us.

There’s no need to thank us,

that’s why we are bankers –

it’s part of the customer service.

The ‘Quick Lodge’ is gone; you now need a card.

Just follow the screen, boy, it isn’t too hard.

Remember your PIN or you’ll find yourself barred.

There’s really no need to be nervous.

Efficiency means

you must deal with machines –

it’s all part of the customer service.

Bank drafts are gone, they’re a thing of the past.

Use banking online, it’s so easy and fast.

Computers are cheap and they’re all built to last –

ask any independent observers!

If you’re seventy nine,

you can still bank online –

it’s all part of the customer service.

We’re pleased to announce that bank charges are back

to help get our balance sheet back up on track.

Some critics have claimed it’s a retrograde tack –

oh, the saints in heaven preserve us!

As our profits accrue,

you will benefit too –

it’s all part of the customer service.

Don’t bother the teller, he’s too much to do

to spend half the morning a-listening to you.

In time he’ll be gone and the manager too.

The unions will never outswerve us!

It’s us, the bank’s bosses

who’ll help to cut losses.

This board of directors

is here to protect us.

At present the onus is

on paying our bonuses –

it’s all part of the customer service.

All is quiet

All is quiet on New Year’s Day,

so Bono and his cohorts say.
But noise enough to wake the dead
is pounding all around my head
and cannot, will not go away.

Our deeds are reckoned; now we pay
for gulping down that sweet rosé
and it can, with no truth, be said
that all is quiet.

Somewhere near, the children play
on biscuit tin and metal tray.
The dog is howling to be fed;
the telly’s blaring Mister Ed.
Beneath the eiderdown, I pray
all may be quiet.

Christmas Dinner

Kerry is howling,
Hopper is scowling.
Dad in the kitchen is a-grunting and a-growling.
Mother is swearing,
Little Jen is staring
at the chocolate stains on the dress that she’s wearing.
“Is the dinner ready?”
asks Uncle Eddie.
Outside it’s pouring,
Granny is snoring.
Turn off the telly ‘cos the telly is boring.

Hooper is irking
Kerry and smirking.
Dad’s telling everyone how hard he’s working.
Mother’s not forgetting
the servietting,
Dad spills his beer, Little Jen gets a wetting.
“Is the dinner ready?”
asks Uncle Eddie.
Granny is crying out
that real men are dying out.
Up against the cooker, Little Jen is drying out.

Kerry is spluttering,
sobbing and a-stuttering,
Hopper is muttering,
tension is fluttering.
Dad smiles proudly at the parsnips he’s buttering.
Mother switches pots about,
the dog just trots about.
Everyone wonders what Granny’s in knots about.
“Is the dinner ready?”
asks Uncle Eddie.
Outside it’s teeming,
Hopper is a-scheming,
Kerry’s eyes are streaming,
Granny is dreaming.
Up against the cooker, Little Jen is a-steaming.

Hopper smacks Kerry,
quite extraordinary.
Mother’s on the sherry and getting rather merry.
Dad carves the turkey,
the dog becomes perky.
Mother says the gravy is looking pretty murky.
“Is the dinner ready?”
asks Uncle Eddie.
Outside it’s raining,
the ducks are aquaplaning,
Little Jen’s complaining
her dress is staining.
Granny’s yelling out that the sprouts need straining.

Kerry is sobbin’,
Mother’s head’s throbbin’.
There’s a tap on the window from a washed-out robin.
Hopper is shouting,
Little Jen’s pouting,
Mother’s de-sprouting,
the dog’s de-grouting,
Granny thinks that she’s going on an outing.
“Is the dinner…?”
“Shut up!”
The ham gets cut up.
The rain keeps on drumming,
Dad is a-humming.
“All I asked was…”
“Yes, the bloody dinner’s coming!”

The kids wash all traces
of beer from their faces,
then get into places
and twang Dad’s braces.
Dinner is served on an arbitrary basis.
Kerry eats stroppily,
Hopper eats sloppily.
Eddie says the roasties aren’t cooked properly.
Dad throws the delph about,
Mother throws herself about.
Little Jen is moaning,
Granny is groaning,
Eddie’s going to use the roasties at a stoning.
The dog’s gone boning,
Mother’s telephoning.
“Oh Holy Night,” the angels are intoning.

Merry Christmas to anybody still out there...

IPYPIASM - Poet, grasp thy pen

 Okay, IPYPIASM (International Put Your Poem in a Shop Month) is now in its fifth year. In a nutshell, do what it says on the tin. Write a poem, put it in a shop, photo it, leave it there for other shoppers to enjoy, post the evidence to your blog, notify the official scorekeeper, who, this year, is the wonderful Titus

Although it is absolutely NOT a competition, Scotland and the USA have been running away with it this year, with just a lone pre-emptive strike from Emerging Writer on the board for Ireland,
Unaccustomed as I am to venturing into shops, particularly at this time of the year, national shame forced me into a blitz on the Blanchardstown Shopping Centre.
First, into Harvey Normans (sorry that should read HARR - VAYYY NORR MAN!!!!)

Next to a store I'm afraid I've forgotten the name of. Think it might be called What? Does cheap Christmassy decs and lights and household goods. Its next to Inspiring Ideas, if anyone knows Blanch.

Thirdly, into Woodies, which is a big department store and garden centre

That would have been it but then I was dragged into the main part of the centre and made sit and wait while she examined every top in Dunnes. So I had my camera. I robbed a pencil from beside the till in Fields and then removed a 40% off tag from Dorothy Perkins, wrote a not very good poem and got a fourth one in for the lads.

Bit hard to read - Christmas time is getting near / time to choose your Christmas gear. But shopper, wait! To clothe your soul / put some poems in your bowl.
So come on, poets, leave out the middlemen who say they love your poems but can't use them at this time. Bring your poems direct to the people. Spread some poetry this Christmas!
For a brief history of IPYPIASM go here 

Lighten up Online 20 is out

Issue 20 of Martin Parker's always entertaining Lighten Up Online is out now.

Put the festivity back into your Festive Season with Annie Fisher on the booze, Mae Scanlan with a small but fundamental panacea, Jerome Betts and a whole lot of bull, Susan Jarvis having the run of the dessert trolley as well as the waiter, and Chris O'Carroll's nicest vice.

Plus: Alanna Blake, Geoff Lander, Leo Vincent, Gail White, D A Prince,  Brendan Beary,  Robert Schechter, Julie Kane, Lynn Roberts, Catherine Chandler , J Patrick Lewis and Steve Herbert.

Thankfully, I didn't make the cut this time around. I say 'thankfully' because it is refreshing to think I am included on merit, rather than because the editor owes me a pint or two.

Competition 20 is entitled In the Bath - 

Over the years many of our best thoughts have disappeared down the plughole with our bathwater. Now is your chance to save some of them for posterity. Using waterproof ink and any available flat surface please compose a deathless sixteen lines max. meditation entitled Thoughts FromThe Bath.Please head your email submission Competition 20 and send it by February 12th, 2013 to -- submissions@lightenup-online .co.uk