Bernie Bolger RIP

Very sad to hear today of the death, at the scandalously young age of 51, of Dermot Bolger's wife, Bernie.

One of our more accessible major poets, Dermot has been very kind to me, giving me interviews at the drop of a hat down through the years. A lovely man and my thoughts are with him and the family today.

Lighten up Online online

For those of you who like their poetry a little less serious, the June edition of Martin Parker's quarterly Lighten-up Online is now out

Martin was a finalist for the Strokestown humorous poetry prize both last year and this and has a soft humour that is utterly bewitching. One of his poems, written in the style of Longfellow but from Hiawatha's mother's point of view, has me smiling every time I think of it (Minihaha - "bloody woman from Dakota")

Standing on the footpath as the Poetry Bus departs

This week's task set by Bill has me beaten I'm afraid.
Take a sentence, remove the second half, think up alternate endings and make a poem out of them.
This is my workings (like maths exams, I'm hoping not very optimistically to gain a bonus point for showing my reasoning)
Sentence - There's a guy works down the chip shop / swears he's Elvis
There's a guy works down the chip shop / who got done for assault and battery / who has no sole / who has a sense of plaice / who can sprinkle me with vinegar any time he likes / who's a little ray of sunshine / who wears a herring aid / who double jobs as our local TD.

Its actually quite a useful exercise because I'm intrigued why I can't do it.

Some theories - I've written about 6,000 words and 2 poems over the last three days and I'm all written out; the phrases don't lend themselves to a rhyming poem; the phrases don't lend themselves to a serious poem in free verse; the phrases point towards a bad fish pun poem and I feel the object of the exercise is to get away from the original sentence.

Whatever. All I can do is point people towards Bill's blog where they can be linked to more imaginative poets than me!

Jools Holland

See Jools Holland is playing the National Concert Hall in October. I am probably the only person in the world who never knew that he used to be in Squeeze. (FAO Michael Farry - a rhythm combo that performed popular music in the late 70s, early 80s with certain commercial success!)
Squeeze always intrigued me, mainly because their rhymes never quite, erm, rhymed. It was always touch / love, letter / tell 'er, assumption / junction etc etc, so much so that it became something of an obsession with me and totally overshadowed the songs!

Crannog Summer 2010 edition

Dear Peter

The Editorial Board has now read all submissions and will publish The Song of Lugnad in the summer issue. Publication date is Friday June 25th. There will be a launch in the Crane Bar, Sea Road, Galway at 6.30 pm on that date. You are invited to attend and read from your submission. Please let me know by return if you intend to be there. We look forward to seeing you.

Regards

So, after years of trying, I've finally got a poem into Crannog, which I'm pretty chuffed about. Sadly, I've tried juggling around my working times but there's no way I can make June 25th. I bet they're thinking - God, we selected him and he can't even be arsed turning up...

White House Poetry June 2nd

White House Poetry Night

Wednesday, June 2nd 2010, from 9pm

Guest Poet Afric McGlinchey

Afric McGlinchey spent her childhood and early adulthood living between Ireland and Africa.
A freelance journalist, editor and workshop facilitator, Afric's poems have been published in many journals in Ireland and abroad, including Southword, THE SHOp, Revival, Acumen, Poetry Ireland Review, Tear in the Fence, Scottish Poetry Review, and more.
She lives now in Kinsale, Co.Cork.
I've seen Afric's name in various journals and quite like her work. Surely though its not a coincidence to be called Afric and to have spent some of her childhood in Africa?

Too much heartbreak

I feel a poet often has a neeed, indeed has a responsibility to record moments of deep emotion for the nation.
However some events are so traumatic that mere words could never adequately express the national grief we are all experiencing at the news that Ronan and Yvonne are splitting up. First Brian and Kerri, then Katie and Peter and now this lovely, committed young couple are suffering the heartbreak of separation. We are sharing their emotional trauma and can only hope they find it in their hearts to attempt a reconciliation.
The only light on the horizon at this time is that hopefully Ireland might reach the Final of Eurovision tonight and temporarily lift the national gloom...

World Cup nearly here

God, I love the World Cup, despite the exploits of Handball Henry. As a kid / single man, I'd spend the entire tournament in front of the telly, fill in my wall charts etc.

Nowadays of course, I'm not allowed to do that but its still great fun, particularly wondering who England's scapegoat will be this time around for their failure to get beyond the quarter finals.

Last time around, I did a day by day poetic analysis of the tournament, writing a poem for every game and even for rest days. Haven't decided yet if I'll attempt the same this time around.

Some site in England in 2006 had a "write a poem and win a World Cup shirt" competition. I won an Argentina shirt, as I recall. Hardly wore it - it has a rough patch on the inside of the embroidered crest which irritates my skin...

Time running out for Dublin 15 writers

Tony Devlin

Any writers in Dublin 15, the closing date for submissions to Phoenix Ink 4, the anthology of the local writers' group, is May 31st. All forms of writing accepted but you must reside in Dublin 15.

Submission guidelines are pretty complicated, so best email me at gouldingpeter@gmail.com and I'll send them on by return.

Anthology this year edited by Tony Devlin, Sharon MacDonald, Brendan Shortall and Maureen Redmond.

Uno ticketo for el Poetry Busso

Okay, I have no idea what is happening in the picture above. The caption says "Keith Carter girl," which seems a strange name for her.
But in return for one poetry bus ticket from the lovely Terresa, I must try to capture this enigmatic photo through the medium of words. Or maybe just scribble down any old piece of tat.


Spontaneous combustion

“Spontaneously combusted?”
Cried her husband, most disgusted.
“That’s no way for a wife of mine to act.”
“The conflagration’s partial,”
Explained Ban Garda Marshall.
“Her bottom half is practically intact.”

“I’m glad that statement’s qualified,”
The husband said, quite mollified.
“Though Lord, I paid a fortune for that fur.
But she’d a harsh and strident voice
And, by God, if I’d the choice,
The bottom half’s the one that I’d prefer.”

Poems about art

This seems an interesting competition, thanks to Nuala at Women Rule Writer

Select a piece of art from the Mill Cove gallery and write a piece (poetry or prose) about it.

No money on offer but an interesting exercise nonetheless

Full details here

Poetry Ireland Introduction Series Part 2

Part 2 of Poetry Ireland's Introductions series tonight and once again four very different poets to enjoy.

Andrew Jamison, the pride of county Down, had the unenviable task of kicking off the night but he gave it a great start. Lots of humour in his introductions and a lot of poems about buses, as he acknowledged himself. His poems are snapshots of time and very very good.

Stephen Leyland treated us to extracts from his Ramblings of an Unkempt Man, a veritable kaleidoscope of images encompassing the whole world and all of history. This is another writer whose work I would love to sit down and read as there is so much in every line of his that this poor brain couldn't take it all in.

Niamh MacAlister gave an assured performance next with her little vignettes of everyday life and relationships. The sea she admitted had been a powerful influence on her and her poetry, which is crafted with style and thought. Definitely one to watch.

Connie Roberts rounded off the session with what could have easily been an Angelas Ashes depiction of her years in an Irish orphanage but which was written and delivered with superb poise and control. Beautiful images, ugly images, all woven together with the skill of a master storyteller. A very powerful performance.

Poetry Ireland Introduction Series last night

The very brilliant Martin Dyar

Okay, last night was my 15 minutes (literally) of fame. Selected as part of the Introduction Series, Andrew Caldicott, Jessica Colley, Martin Dyar and myself had to read for 15 minutes each in front of an audience of around 80.

Michael Farry attented and has a much more objective account of proceedings than I could ever do here. Andrew was up first and didn't disappoint. In all he rattled off 14 shortish poems, all with a little kick in them. Hoping the knot he put in his son's balloon string would be large enough, for example.

Jessica followed - she seemed nervous but spoke well. There's a lot of depth in her work and sometimes you would like to have the words in front of you to link pieces of poems together. Her poems demand more than simply a cursory listen - they should be studied to truly appreciate them.

Martin was Martin. I don't know much about the art of poetry but I have a sneaking feeling this guy is going to be mega. Fabulous poems, laced with humour, great performance and dammit, he's good looking too. And to top it off, a really nice chap.

I went 4th. I'd practised the 15 minutes about a dozen times in the mirror and guess what, never stammered once. Then when the real thing comes along, my insides turn to mush. But I got through it all reasonably well - just one major hesitation on the word 'dogs.' I tried forcing it out - it wouldn't come. I tried bouncing it out - d-d-d-d-d-d -but it wouldn't come. In the end I just said "Feck it - animals" which got a laugh.

Did 5 poems, two about Wicklow, Seligman Az, Villanelle Villanelle and a short funny one to round it off. Think it was about 14 minutes, which was long enough for me!

Delighted to meet the legendary PJ Nolan at the event last night, a poet I've always admired, even though sometimes I don't get all the layers! Looking forward to tonight's bash...

Thursday bloody Thursday

Pat Boran

For the first half of the year, I work Thursdays (12 hour days) and as poetry events seem to happen a lot on Thursdays, I feel as though I'm missing out a lot.

This Thursday is no exception with three events on, which I'd like to see but can't.

1) Poetry Ireland Introduction Series Final night - featuring the incredibly talented David Mohan, Cliona O'Connell, Ed O'Dwyer, Pauline Hall and Rosie Shepperd. Irish Writers Centre 7pm

2) Boyne Writers Open Mic always great fun and this week featuring poet Willie Hodgins.

3) Pat Boran reads from his recently published memoir, The Invisible Prison at Blanchardstown Library from 7pm.

More Poetry Ireland Introductions tonight

Connie Roberts

A reminder to everyone that the second night of Poetry Ireland Introductions takes place tonight at the Irish Writers Centre on Parnell Square. I thought it was 7 pm for a 7.30 start but in fact it began last night around 7.15pm.

Quite an impressive line up with Connie Roberts, Andrew Jamison, Simon Leland and Niamh McAllister guaranteed to probe your emotions and intellect.

Boyle Arts Festival

Clarification from Christine Kelly of the above festival -

"We're taking a break from the poetry in 2010 but it may be back in 2011. We are only running with the new drama competition for this year."

So come all you playwrights, young and fair...

The Golden Pen award

Got a phone call from a very nice man called John Corbett, who is the coordinator of the Golden Pen Poetry and Prose competitions. He was delighted to tell me, he said, that my poem had won the poetry competition for this year. I'm unsure which one it was, as I sent in two - one was a terzanelle and the other was free verse.
I presume that I was the only entrant. That's the only explanation. Either that, or he's going to ring me back shortly and tell me there's been a terrible mistake.
..

Ticket for this weeks poetry bus

Okay, this week's poetry bus is driven by the supremely talented Barbara who, in return for a ticket, is demanding a poem beginning with the line "I got down on my knees and smelled the new linoleum..."
As I missed last week's journey due to a four day break (sorry Phadraig!!) and as Barbara's offspring are currently occupying the 27 seats down the back, I'd better get in early to guarantee a place.
I am afraid that I have bent the rules ever so slightly, adding (as it happens) the word 'bended' to the line given, instant disqualification in some circumstances, but much more serious transgressions have been ignored in World Cup qualifiers (still bitter), so I prostrate myself at Barbara's feet and beg for leniency.

-ium

I got down on my bended knees and smelled the new linoleum,
Matches poised adroitly o’er the jamjar of petroleum.
Upon the wall, a classic view of ancient Herculaneum,
Chalk-white pillars decked with both nasturtium and geranium.
Through the yawning doorway, I could see his new solarium;
The carp conferring vacantly inside his large aquarium;
The picture of him posing in the pulpit on the podium
(A self-indulgent photograph I always viewed with odium –
Why would one want a photo at a death-dull moratorium
Of oneself droning drily to a half-full auditorium?);
The brochures on his desk for his Miami condominium,
Gloomy in the shadow of the shrivelling delphinium;
A snapshot of the WAGs night out (to use a mundane idiom);
The cabinet of drinks no doubt frequented post meridiem;
The silent clock beside the door, hands studded with zirconium,
Colours clashing brusquely in artistic pandemonium;
His speech to his shareholders in a vain attempt to rally ‘em;
The dead canary in its cage beside the jar of valium;
The worsted patterned carpet, pile once lush and thick, now medium;
The works of Milton, unabridged, to ward off any tedium...

From upstairs came a moaning caused by sexual delirium,
Rising to crescendo from the husband-snatching Miriam.
I got up off my knees and said a decade in memoriam,
And then I turned his house into a raging crematorium.

Sorry to everybody

My sincere apologies to everybody who has emailed me, left comments etc over the past 2 weeks and I haven't replied.
Two consecutive weekends away, with 12 hour work days in between has meant I am struggling for time. I haven't even anything worked out for this thing on Monday night, for Chrissakes, and like the journeyman footballer, I should be working harder than everybody else to make up for my lack of skill.
So please don't feel slighted - normal service will be restored soon.

According to Orla Fay's blog she received word last week that she had one of her poems highly commended in the Windows / Cavan Crystal poetry competition. There is nothing on the website as yet but this would seem to indicate that I don't have to get time off next Thursday to travel up to the awards ceremony.
I'm not too disappointed - this competition attracts some excellent poets.

Strokestown Part 2

Won't do an in-depth review of the Saturday and Sunday at Strokestown as it'll only bore you.

Attended roughly half the readings, as I can't do a full 2 days of poetry, some of them very samey, some quite refreshing. Highlights for me were Helena Nolan, who was shortlisted for the main prize, Cathal O'Searcaigh (seems to have changed a lot since he was in the Undertones) and in particular Sebastian Barker, who I had never actually heard of but who delivered poetry of incredible beauty that quite won me over. (Paddy Bushe actually bought the last of Sebastian's books as I was asking my wife for money to do the same!!)

I also caught Dennis O'Driscoll for the first time. My God, what dry wit and deadpan delivery! Very very funny.

Simon O'Faolain won the Irish language prize for a second time. The main poetry prize went to Lawrence Kessernich who travelled over from Boston for the weekend and was, I think, a deserved winner. All the shortlisted poems can be read here

Welsh Poetry Competition

Welsh Poetry Competition closes at the end of May, so about a fortnight left.
Good news is that you can enter and submit online. Bad news is that it costs £1 extra to enter online, apparently to cover the PayPal charges (!) and the extra time to process the entries.
Prizes don't seem particularly high for the amount of money I'm guessing they take in. Last year they listed a top twenty which I wish more competitions would do.

The Somme and Ypres

Village memorial in La Targette north of Arras

Three nights, four full days in north-eastern France and Belgium. Quite a sobering experience just to witness the graves and memorials to the hundreds of thousands of soldiers from WW1 whose bodies were never found.
Two facts about the war I never realised -
1) that tunnelling played a huge part in the war, whether digging tunnels under enemy trenches and laying explosives or getting troops to the front line without the enemy realising (as at Vimy Ridge)
2) that the Treaty of Versailles stipulated that only allied gravestones and crosses could be constructed of white stone. The Germans had to use black stone. Seems pretty despicable now but I suppose we're judging from a distance of 95 years.
And we never found Willie McBride...

Away for a few days

Okay, thanks to the volcano, we're flying out at 6.25 am to Paris Beauvais, staying three nights in Arras
(behind which Hamlet stabbed Polonius, as I remember) returning late Tuesday night, plumes of smoke permitting. Doing the Somme / Ypres thing.
21 year old son and canary left at home. The canary's in charge.

Submissions sought for The Cathach

Final call for submissions to the second volume of The Cathach published by Sligo County Libraries. Bit sketchy on details but it appears you can submit via email, though whether they accept attachments and the quantity of submissions is unclear.
The first volume in Summer 2009 seemed pretty good with some real heavyweights in it, so its possibly a bit out of my league. But I'll give it a go...

A date for your diary - advance warning

As I rather big-headedly mentioned a while back, I was one of 13 poets selected for the 2010 Poetry Ireland Introductions series, which aims to give emerging poets a bit of a platform (from Clonsilla Railway station)
Anyway, I am reading shortly.

Venue: The Irish Writers Centre, Parnell Square, Dublin 1
Time: 6.30 pm
Date: Monday 17th May 2010:

Andrew Caldicott
Jessica Colley
Martin Dyar
Peter Goulding

Venue: The Irish Writers Centre, Parnell Square, Dublin 1
Time: 6.30 pm
Date: Tuesday 18th May 2010:

Connie Roberts
Andrew Jamison
Simon Leyland
Niamh MacAlister

Venue: The Irish Writers Centre, Parnell Square, Dublin 1
Time: 6.30 pm
Date: Thursday 20th May 2010:

David Mohan
Cliona O’Connell
Edward O’Dwyer
Pauline Hall
Rosie Shepperd

So, if you are feeling at a loose end, please drop down on the Monday evening (or indeed any evening) We are supposed to be advertising this night and day but unfortunately I have no friends, so I'm very much relying on my fellow readers to provide an audience! I am trying to persuade my wife to turn up.

We have been told we are reading for 15 minutes, which should be just about enough time to get a haiku out, (not that I write them) I presume I'm going fourth, following Martin Dyar, who I think is fairly over-qualified for the description of 'emerging poet' having won the serious Strokestown prize, the Patrick Kavanagh award and a host of other awards.

So, no pressure then....

Strokestown Festival Report Part 1

One of the treasures of Strokestown, the inimitable Percy French lookalike and incomparable host, Pat Compton.

No joy, I'm afraid in the Percy French Prize. Despite having two entries in the final eight, I failed to make the top three. Judge Declan O'Brien said he scored the results on a combination of the humour of the poems, the technicality of the poems and the performance of the poems. This seems to be a fair way and under those criteria, I couldn't complain about the 1,2,3.
Sean Lyons won for the second year on the trot with his poem Sunburnt in Fuengerola. Perhaps not technically tight, but very very funny and easily the crowd's favourite.
Second was Baffle member Ian McDonald's Nama Sutra (great title!) Well crafted, again very funny and went down very well.
Third place was Dee Gaynor of Kent whose extremely funny fake tan experiences were well recounted in Browned Off.
Both Michael Moriarty and Martin Parker delivered excellent poems very well and if truth be told, second and third places could have gone to either of them.
For myself, I know I lose a lot by the performance. I get so nervous in case I stammer, that I stammer and in an art where rhythm is important, this impinges on the delivery. And looking back, they possibly weren't as funny as I had thought anyway!!
But I've had great success in the field of humorous verse and really I was thrilled to be nominated at all.
Serious poetry report coming later.

Magpie Tales # 12

Cheating this week in the Magpie prompt because I'm really short of time. This was written about 14 years ago!


Round and round and round and round,
Purposeless, without a sound,
Eyes that never seem to blink,
Heads that never stop to think,
Free from any special features,
God! Aren’t goldfish boring creatures?

The Watercats Poetry Bus

Sex or drugs or rock and roll, said Watercats - write a poem on one of them. Well, I only vaguely remember sex and drugs, so it'll have to be rock and roll, spending the summer of 1977 hitchhiking around England following the Clash.


We are also supposed to record ourselves reading it. I've had a go but technology and me aren't yet bosom buddies so it could take a while to figure it out. Until then, the poem only, I'm afraid...



Ode to Joe

Sweaty hands levering on the waist-high stage,
I leapt and thrashed like a skewered fish,
hooked on Simenon’s tireless bass line.
Mick Jones played the guitar hero,
posing and flouncing like a crew-cut Dave Hill,
a bit too uncool for the cool uncool.
Topper bludgeoned the cymbals to death
in a frenzy of manic destruction,
and you,
centre stage,
eyes half-closed,
mouth supplicating the mike,
left knee throbbing like a metronome,
your harsh, guttural, rock and roll voice,
echoing the frustrations of our crappy lives,
wincing as yet another beer can
bounced off your head.

I wore my strategically ripped t-shirt,
daubed with painted slogans,
that shrieked my existence to a world-weary world,
fastened with safety pins filched from the biscuit tin
that ma called a medical box,
in those few halcyon months
before the designer bondage suits
and the coiffured Mohawks
wrested control back to the middle man.
Another shower of spittle
and you lashed out angrily with your boot
and the tension rose another decibel.
Jones rushed forward and swung a fist
at a fat kid with long hair in the front row
two yards but many miles to my right.

And more beer bottles sailed over our heads
and shattered in shards on the stage.
“Lannan’s burning!” you screamed
Staccato drum roll.
“Lannan’s burning!” we screamed back,
corkscrewing higher,
soaked in Saturday night blood and sweat and gob,
till our bodies were drowned in the unrelenting rhythm.

Many years later, driving my Primera to work,
I had to pull over when the young radio presenter
glibly mentioned in passing that you had died.
Hard-faced and stony-hearted,
I never cried when my father died,
but I shed a tear for you, that cloudy morning
and with you, my youth.