Cementgate

Enemy of the state

With concrete truck he blocked the Daíl gate,
a heinous, revolutionary crime
that stopped the lawful business of the state.

Lock him up and leave him to his fate.
The judges should ensure he does hard time –
with concrete truck he blocked the Daíl gate!

Ignore the rapists they’ve let out of late –
it takes a rather special sort of slime
to stop the lawful business of the state.

And never mind the bankers that negate
this country’s hopes and won’t pay back a dime.
With concrete truck he blocked the Daíl gate!

Make a harsh example, less this trait
of viewing Government as pantomime
should stop the lawful business of the state.

You can’t expect our leaders to debate
barricaded in by sand, cement and lime!
With concrete truck he blocked the Daíl gate,
and stopped the lawful business of the state.

Round the ragged ravens

Haven't seen anything about this anywhere, so I thought I'd put it up. Ragged Ravens annual poetry competition. Won last year by KV Skene, so good quality poetry needed to win it. Closing date October 31st. Details here

The cost of entry is £3 sterling for one poem, or £10 for 4 poems. Although there is online entry, it seems that if you want to enter online, you have to submit the 4 poems. Therefore, I think I'll give this one a miss this year.

The Kokatahi Band

Oh, come on, don't tell me you've never heard of the Kokatahi Band. From Hokitika? Well, shame on you....
Interesting writing exercise and free poetry competition. To celebrate the band's centennial, they have a free poetry competition - simply write about the band. Winners will be announced on October 9th if you can make it over to South Island...
Competition details can be found here
If you've really never heard of the band and their bowyangs and lagerphones, you can find out more here

Boyne Berries 8

An evening of seriously good poetry and prose readings is in store for anyone astute enough to make it down to the Castle Arch Hotel in Trim at 8pm this Thursday night. Noel French, the extremely far-sighted poet and librarian will launch the eighth volume of Boyne Berries, edited by members of the Boyne Writers Group and which attracts submissions both local and from around the world.
Launch night is always a good night and there's a chance to chat to the contributors afterwards and see what makes them tick. Personally, I'm still kicking myself that I missed the submission deadline, although I console myself that the quality is so high that I probably wouldn't have got in anyway.

To Castlecomer ...and beyond!!

On Saturday, I drove down to Castlecomer for part of the Black Diamond Writers Festival there. Normally my wife would have accompanied me but she was going to see some glorified wedding singer in the Aviva Stadium that evening, so I went alone. Michael Massey, one of the WOW award winners last year coordinated the festival and they had the presentation of certificates and prizes in the morning. Adjudicator Grace Wells said a bit about each of the 14 listed poems before we read our pieces.
I've realised that in my stammer, I have a particular problem with double-consonant words ie words that begin with pr-, gl-, tr- etc. The end word of one of the lines of my sestina was "glow" and on the first verse, it took me ages to say it. All the while, I was thinking 'Crap, I have to say this word another six times!!'
Spoke to local writer Kevin Connelly afterwards and also the very wonderful Nuala ni Chonchuir
Between the prize-giving and the workshop in the afternoon I went for a walk around the Castlecomer Discovery Park, sat on a picnic table by the lake and wrote what can only be described as the best poem anyone has ever written in a little under 45 minutes.
The afternoon workshop was given by Grace Wells and very infornative it was too. Nuala attended, as did the multi-talented Niamh Boyce who impressed us all by writing a complete Sunday Miscellancy piece in the length of time most of us had done one sentence.
Lots of interesting tips from the workshop - exercises to do when you can't think of anything to write, the importance of trying to write every day, the danger of too much blogging....

The Electronic Poetry Network

Hi, Peter.
Your poems will be featured NEXT WEEK on Shreve Memorial Library's Electronic Poetry Network. They will be running all day (or all weekend) long on an electronic message board at the Main Library in Shreveport, Louisiana (above). We also have a companion location for the EPN on our library's web site:
http://www.shreve‑lib.org/poemofday.htm
If this does not work, go to http://www.shreve-lib.org/poemofday.htm, click on "Services" and then on "Poem of the Day."
The poems are usually posted on Monday morning. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes.
In addition, the "Poem of the Day" is e-mailed to poetry lovers in our 21-branch library system.
Note: on the web page the full week's poems are included. You click on each individual day to see the poems.
I was just idling around and came across this site and thought it was a great idea! My five poems, one per weekday, will be featured all this week. If anyone in Shreveport could send me a photo of one of them I'd be made up!! Seems strange to think that thousands of miles away, people will be staring up at an electronic notice board featuring one of my poems, saying "Jeez, I could do better than that"....

Okeydoke, let's move on

The reason I could not make it to the Classic Beatles show down in Loughrea last night (a fundraiser for Baffle) was because my daughter had bought me tickets for Apres Match at Vicar Street.
And a great night it was too, great seats, the only blackspot the nervous dash down Francis Street afterwards to get to the car before the Dutch Gold heads.
As usual, from Apres Match, it was a hit and miss affair, though with many more of the former. The Tom McGuirk / George Hook / Brent Pope sketch had me doubled up in laughter.
Barry Murphy's Paul Durcan was a howl, delivered totally deadpan "Fat bees/ See they fly / But not very high"
Barry Murphy (left, above) once used a couple of my poems at an FAI awards night many moons ago and he asked me to contribute to a League of Ireland TV programme that never got off the ground.

No joy at Dromineer

Michael Farry has received an email informing him that he has two poems highly commended in the Dromineer Festival poetry competition, a tremendous achievement. Personally, I think that's being a bit greedy there Michael.
In the absence of any email, I presume I have been unsuccessful in this competition yet again. That's how it goes, you lose some, you lose some. Looking back at the poems I submitted, I think they were very strong on subject matter but possibly not poetical enough. I may rework, though I get bored very easily and may not.
I cannot find anywhere on the web that lists the winners and the commendeds. Anybody know?

Back to Childhood Poetry Bus Part Deux

As threatened, here is the second part of my ticket for the Poetry Bus.
I envisage this as a Country and Western song, sung sad and slow. I had thought of doing an audio representation of it but I can't sing or play an instrument, so perhaps someone (Watercats? Pixies?) could record it for me, send it off to Kris Kristoffersen and make us all a tidy sum of money?
Or maybe not...

Where do old cartoon characters go?

In a bar in Muskogee,
Boo Boo and Yogi
are drinking rum with Ranger Smith.
Down the back, Hong Kong Phooey
drains another Drambuie
and orders another forthwith.
Wile E. Coyote,
his voice deep and throaty,
sings songs by Edith Piaf,
while Quick Draw McGraw
lies drunk on the floor
and Snagglepuss orders another carafe.

Where do old cartoon characters go
when network executives call off their show?
Unwanted, discarded,
they sit, broken-hearted,
reminiscing of times long ago.
Where do old cartoon characters go?

Officer Dibble
is starting to dribble
but Top Cat and Benny don’t care.
At the bar, Mr. Jinks
is ordering drinks
but Foghorn’s asleep in the chair.
P-p-p-p-porky Pig tells Bugs Bunny,
“Man, once you were funny”
and Elmer Fudd nods his assent,
and a drunken Dick Dastardly
looks around plasteredly,
wondering where in the world Muttley went.

Where do old cartoon characters go
when kids of today much prefer Mario?
In this bar, like a morgue,
I see Deputy Dawg
and Muskie sing songs deep and low.
Where do old cartoon characters go?

Near the door, Tom and Jerry
share a vodka and cherry,
Woody Woodpecker’s sick in the bin.
And Pepe Le Pew
drinks his own special brew,
the Tasmanian Devil’s on gin.
Spike and Scooby are brawling,
The Pink Panther is falling
from his barstool down onto the ground.
But they all turn to look
when a drunk Daffy Duck
makes amorous advances to Huckleberry Hound.

Where do old cartoon characters go?
Speedy Gonzales has gone very slow.
Sylvester and Tweetie
call everyone sweetie
and ask for a nickel to go.
Where do old cartoon characters go?

Where do old cartoon characters go?
Penelope Pitstop knocks back the Bordeaux.
Professor Pat Pending
appears to be spending
a penny in the communal po.
Where do old cartoon characters go?

Back to childhood Poetry Bus Part 1

The Poetry Bus is currently sauntering up the East Coast of Scotland with the marvellous Rachel at the wheel. This week's prompt is to think of a character (or series of characters) from a children's story, comic, TV series, film or other story source (it can be a new story or something quite ancient). You can stick to one story source or merge different ones.

I'm going to do two efforts for this one - an old one and a new one. This is the old one...

Wishful Thinking

The sky is painted perfect blue,
The cliffs are rusty brown.
Bold Wile E. Coyote waits
To run Roadrunner down.
The ACME jet-skis are turned on,
The catapult is primed,
And every single detail has
Been tested out and timed.
The seeds are scattered on the ground
[“Especially for Birds.”]
And very soon we’ll cease to hear
Those most annoying words.
“Beep! Beep!” Here comes the flying cloud,
A-speeding down the track.
Coyote deftly lights the fuse
And takes a last look back.
“Beep! Beep!” Roadrunner flashes by,
Coyote’s in the rear.
He’s gaining on him, yard by yard,
The end is surely near!
The cocky bird espies the seed
And stops to take a feed,
Our hero’s fast approaching, God!
He’s very close indeed!
Wile whips out a sharpened axe
And severs R R’s head,
Not even time for one “Beep! Beep!”
Before the bastard’s dead.
In every house around the world,
The children dance with glee.
No more to hear that damned “Beep! Beep!”
Roadrunner’s ceased to be.

Not too late for the Kavanagh awards

If you didn't get around to submitting your 20 poems and €25 to the annual Patrick Kavanagh awards this year, then you've still time, because, for the second year running, they've extended the deadline - this time to 7th October.
Hate it when they do that.
Details here

Nuala ni Chonchuir

You know that everybody said that U2 really moved up from the big time to superstardom after their appearance at Live Aid back in 1985.

I do believe that the wonderful Nuala ni Chonchuir (sorry Nuala, I'm too lazy to go into symbols for those fodas!) has just had one of those moments.

Nuala of course is a novellist, a playwright and a poet, and an editor and a full-time mother and a blogger. I daresay she'd make a good job of putting up your extension too, if you asked her.

Her debut novel, You, which I haven't got my hands on yet (couldn't find it in Easons in Blanch last Friday) received highly favourable reviews in the Times and Indo last weekend, notably for the unusual second person literary style.

She recently came second in the inaugural Castlecomer Black Diamond Poetry competition, which would have had me jumping around with joy, but wasn't even worth a mention on her blog!! I believe she's also one of the illustrious names TFE has captured for the Poetry Bus mag.

But surely her elevation to the bigtime is assured now with her featuring in the RTE Guide What I'm Watching section this week. Out of all her achievements, that would be the one my mum would have wanted for me.

Only thing is, I bet she faked it, because I don't believe she has any time to watch telly...

Fibonacci poems??

No, Fibonacci didn't write poems or if he did, none have survived. He invented a sequence. (Bet I could invent a sequence if I put my mind to it)

The Fibonacci poem is a 6-line short poetry form that is based on the structure of the Fibonacci sequence. For those unfamiliar with the Fibonacci Sequence, it is a mathematical sequence in which every figure is the sum of the two preceding it. So, the sequence is 1,1,2,3,5,8 etc
Basically, with a fib (as its colloquially called), the numbers can represent the number of syllables in each line, or the number of words. You don't have to stop at 8, but can go on to 13 and..er..um.. 21 and even further. You can have reverse fibs, you can have ones that go up and then come down again, you can have ones that crawl sideways like a crab (I made the last one up.)
If, unlike me, your imagination is fired by this new poetical form, there's even an online site to submit your fibs to - The Fib Review

The marital poetry bus

Okeydoke. The task for this week's poetry bus has been set by Don't Feed the Pixies who has been mysteriously zapped from cyberspace. Luckily, the bould Argent came riding up on white steed and saved the day.
The task is to write a poem that can be read out at a wedding. It must not mention God, whoever he is, and must not be too tacky or sentimental. Well, I'll try...

Advice for the newly married couple

Go on hikes together,
Do quad bikes together,
Watch sunsets in Ballaghadreen.
Pick flowers together
Take showers together
(The best way to get your breasts clean)
Go out shopping together,
Island-hopping together,
Far away from the maddening crowd.
Pick a sundress together,
Maybe undress together,
Taking care not to snigger out loud.
Squeeze a blister together,
Play at Twister together,
See the latest from Oliver Stone.
Go out dancing together,
Go romancing together
(So much better than romancing alone)
Make a jelly together,
Watch the telly together,
Count up all of your blessings accrued.
Feed the fauna together,
Have a sauna together,
Then jump in the lake in the nude.
Visit mother together,
Watch Big Brother together,
One can wash while the other one dries,
Sip Darjeeling together,
Paint the ceiling together,
Gaze deep into each other’s eyes.

But for two to be one,
There’s one thing to be done,
So prepare – get your cheekbones well supple
It’s a true measure whether
You can both fart together
To determine if you’re a true couple.

Just a postscript, lest one might think I am merely being juvenile. We all share intimacies with our partners but how many of us are comfortable enough in our relationship to break wind with them?

Well done the Post Office!!

I take it all back. The open letter to the guy in Coolmine Sorting Office seems to have done the trick. Posted in Ontario, Canada on July 27th, (and franked that date) Shadowstalking dropped through my letter box yesterday.

What has the Post Office got to fear from modern technology with service like that?

Wow, wow, wow, wow, unbelievable!

Hi Peter

There are just over two weeks left until the closing date for the 2nd annual WOW! Awards in poetry and fiction.

The WOW! Awards are awarded to the best entries in poetry and fiction submitted and will be published in the WOW! Anthology.

The WOW! Awards are particularly suitable for those who have a short publishing record and for more emergent writers.

Full details, including submission details, are here

I was spectacularly unsuccessful in the first WOW awards last year, and indeed never managed to get anything accepted by WOW, but at €10 for three online entries, I may give it a shot again this year. The ubiquitous Michael Farry was shortlisted last year and Kilkenny's finest, Michael Massey was third, so the competition is pretty stiff.
And be warned, the closing date is October 1st.

Costing more than an iota

Received this from Templar Poetry

Dear Peter
As a poet who has submitted work to Templar Poetry (unsuccessfully, I might add) I thought you may be interested in the inaugural Iota Shot Pamphlet Prizes for shorter poetry pamphlets. As you are probably aware (no) there has been a significant resurgence of activity in pamphlet publishing across the British Isles, supported by the work of the British Library, The Poetry Book Society and The Michael Marks Trust which recognise pamphlet poets and publishers in the annual Michael Marks Pamplet Awards. As publishers Templar Poetry has been shortlisted in the publishing category twice and one of our pamphlet poets has been shortlisted.
Templar Poetry is committed to publishing some of the very best new poetry being written today and the overall record of our poets in major prizes since we were established in 2005 is a testament to the quality of the work we publish. We hope that the new Iota Shots Pamphlet awards will unearth more excellent new poetry, as well as adding to the range of opportunities we offer poets to have high quality work published. There are three Iota Shot awards offering publication in our superbly designed and produced paperback pamphlets.
The latest date for sending submissions is 14th November 2010 and the thre three winners will have their work published as an Iota Shot in 2011

So, basically, send them between 12 -16 pages of poetry, one long poem, loads of haiku, whatever.
Then comes the killer - £15.50 online submission fee.
Ah, and it seemed too good to be true....

An exaltation of Starlings

There's something about Doghouse Books that makes you want to collect them all. Maybe its because the format is basically the same for everyone, I don't know, but I imagine they would look good all lined up on a bookshelf.

Doghouse of course publishes the very wonderful Barbara Smith and I was lucky enough to get a poem in their Book of Ballads. They also sent me the nicest PFO from a publisher I have ever received.

Anyway, their latest baby, Tom Conaty's An Exultation of Starlings has two launches next week - firstly in the Unitarian Church on Thursday, then at the Courthouse, Cavan on Friday. The title reminds me of the Not the Nine o'clock News sketch, where a Victorian Rowan Atkinson is trying to come up with collective nouns for birds.

The office of the Taoiseach

The office of the Taoiseach

It is really mystifyin’
That the populace all think
That our charismatic Brian
Was the worse the wear for drink.
The interview on radio that caused this pint-sized stir
Was given in his traditional, laconic culchie burr.
To say he ran his words together – that is just a slur,
A slander on the office of the Taoiseach.

An eight hour drinking session
Wouldn’t leave him worse for wear.
What gives you that impression?
It’s really so unfair!
It’s a new low for the state, he says, confronted on all flanks
And on mature reflection, yes, we all agree it ranks
Much lower than child sex scandals and the business with the banks,
This attack upon the office of the Taoiseach.

The Taoiseach’s hale and hearty,
He doesn’t mind a sup,
(Say supporters of the party
As they try to keep him up)
No fear of any Garda who might ask him to exhale.
Of course he’s stone cold sober after all those pints of ale,
It’s all a fiendish plot that has been hatched by Fine Gael,
A scourge upon the office of the Taoiseach.

He is cultured and well-tutored
And his diction is controlled.
Sure, of course he wasn’t fluthered,
It was only a bad cold.
The aspirins he guzzled down were merely antidotal,
Rumours of binge-drinking, I am told, are anecdotal,
In fact, if truth be told, the man is practically tee-total,
Befitting the grand office of the Taoiseach.

And if he lets his hair down
And starts lurrying the gargle,
Should moral pressure bear down?
To deny him Waxie’s Dargle?
Why should his drink consumption matter to the queuing classes?
Carlsberg is the drink to lead the country out of chassis,
Didn’t Churchill see the war out through a pair of brandy glasses?
Raise your pints now to the office of the Taoiseach.

Sorry, couldn't resist it...

Is this you?

From the Irish Writers Centre, comes news that a Mexican literary magazine is looking for submissions from Irish writers under the ridiculously immature age of 35. Hmm. Is this ageist? Only joking - I'm all for giving the tight-arsed pre-pubescents a chance. God I hate young people - they remind me of my own mortality.

Highly commended in Kilkenny

Dear Peter,

Your poem, Marta Becket at the Amargosa Opera House, was highly commended in the first ever Black Diamond Poetry Competition. Congratulations!

We hope you will attend the Prize-giving in the Discovery Park, Castlecomer on Saturday, September 25th at 10.15 am. to receive your certificate and to read your successful poem.

Grace Wells will facilitate a poetry workshop in the afternoon: 2.30 to 4.30 in the Community Hall and this will be followed by a live mic session in Bollard's Pub at 5.30 to which you are, of course, most welcome.

Please let me know as soon as possible if you will be attending the Prize-giving, and if you wish to reserve a place on the workshop.

Again, Congratulations,

Best Regards,

Oh, I love emails like this!! I'm glad about the poem too because I really liked it - its a sestina about this 80 year old woman who has been singing and dancing in the middle of Death Valley for over forty years now.
For a full list of prizewinners see Michael Farry's post

Does anyone know if 'Highly Commended' counts as being a Prizewinner in regards to submitting it elsewhere?
Also, does anyone know anything about the Magnolia issue of the Derry journal Abridged, which was supposed to have been launched last month? Can't find anything about it on the web.

Dragonfly's Colourful Poetry Bus

This week, the Poetry Bus is being driven in kaleidoscopic fashion by Marion who has demanded a poem on a colour in return for a ticket. Please check her blog for links to much better poems than my bit of doggerel, which is actually my third attempt at this task and I'm starting to get tired.

The colour of love

Black is the colour of my true love’s heart,
Red is the flame of our romance.
Blue is the language when I call her a tart,
Green is the colour of her pants.

And if Seamus Heaney comes around complaining its one of his, he's a liar.

Good Sherry Trifle

If you haven't already got Kate Dempsey's Good Sherry Trifle poetry pamphlet, why not?

I know she's not particularly fond of describing her poetry is 'quirky' but that's exactly what it is. How else can you describe a poem that starts, "One day, when I was thirteen, my mother's hands fell off."? Fifteen intriguing and very different poems, all great fun to read and very modern but slightly disturbing should you decide to dig a little deeper.

My Register by Tom Moloney

Tom Moloney is a poet resident in Broadford co Limerick and a regular at the White House Poetry readings every Wednesday night in Limerick. I have seen his work in Revival and other publications and he was a runner up in the Golden Pen awards in Gurteen in June. Truth be told, I thought he was a more deserving winner than me.

He very kindly sent me a copy of his book of poems "My Register" published late last year by Linden Publishing and which I have shamefully only got around to finishing. Over seventy poems beautifully crafted in 125pp, the book is produced by Linden Publishing and is an absolute joy to read. It is lucid, thought-provoking and, for the philistine like me, it can be understood without reference to an encyclopaedia. A lovely book.

Off the rails

Anyone who has been to the Baffle festival in Loughrea on the October Bank Holiday weekend knows what a great time there is to be had there.
The committee sets a theme and you stand up and read out your poem in a pub in the heats on either the Friday or the Saturday nights. The judges then draw up the finalists, who read their work on the Sunday night, after which the Baffle Bard is elected.
The beauty of it is that you get serious poems, comic poems, poems in Irish, love poems etc from local people who may not have any grounding in poetry to people who have travelled long and far to be there. And when they read, normally in a pub packed to the rafters, you can hear a pin drop.
Anyway, its a great bit of craic so if you're stuck for something to do on the October weekend, get writing. This year's theme is 'Off the Rails.'
(One word of warning - its better to write specifically for the theme. If you use an old poem that might have a tenuous connection to the theme, the judges normally can see through this, as I have found out personally!)

Submissions to Southword 19

A reminder that you have until September 15th to submit poetry to Southword 19. Submission guidelines are here.

Southword is one of the best literary journals in the country and publishes some of the best of Irish poetry and prose around. Standards slipped a bit for Issue 17 when an editorial gremlin decided as a joke to publish one of my efforts. As a result, poetry editor, James Harpur, has been booted out and is replaced by Leanne O'Sullivan (above)

A horror story, all right...

Via Emerging Writer and Michael Farry comes the Bram Stoker Literary Award. Full details here

Both Michael and Kate mention a €20 entry fee but the website mentions €10. Maybe they changed it when they realised nobody was entering. Even a tenner is a bit of a dark, otherwordly amount to be charging for submitting a poem.

Entries by the 15th October (another change...)

Seven things about myself that you might not know

Okay, I'm really not sure I understand the rules of this but two highly attractive and intelligent women - Niamh and Orla - have for some reason decided I should reveal seven facts about myself that are not in general circulation. Be warned - some of these were even unknown to me, they are that far back in time.

1. As a child, I always wanted to be able to put two fingers in my mouth and whistle, but never could, and didn't want to ask anybody else how to do it, in case that gave away how uncool I was. To this day I can't do it, and envy Giovanni Trappatoni when he does it at Ireland matches.
2. As an irritating 12 year old, I appeared in one series of Screen Test, a tv programme hosted by Michael Rodd that tested your powers of observation and general knowledge. I reached the final but finished last.
3. I was heavily into Suzi Quatro before punk came along and wiped every other sort of music (except Bowie) from the universe. I travelled down to London on my own as a 12 year old to see Alice Cooper at the Empire Pool, Wembley. A friend pulled out but I went anyway, spinning my mum a yarn. Seeing a band called Dr Feelgood in concert though was the gig that really sparked my obsession with live music. God, they blew me away...
4. I was the lead singer in a dreadful punk rock band called the 4 Skins. I used to slash my chest and arms with razor blades on stage to compensate for the music. Never made a record, some dodgy live tapes exist somewhere. Not to be confused with another punk band who robbed our name. Sid Vicious once told me to 'F... off" at a Clash concert. I was pogoing on his shoulders at the time. I was also thrown off stage at a Boomtown Rats concert for accidentally knocking over the drum kit.
5. I sparked a bomb scare at Aylesbury Railway Station as a 15 year old, when I mitched off school, left my school bag in the waiting room and spent three days sleeping on the beach in Brighton.
6. In January 1986, I travelled from Dublin to Hong Kong by train, carrying one spare change of clothes in a small holdall, washing my clothes along the way, and spending time in Berlin, Warsaw, Moskva, Irkutsk, Ulan Bator, Beijing, Shanghai, Guangzhou (unscheduled) and of course Hong Kong. I then flew back to Gatwick and caught the train to Holyhead, stopping off to see Crewe Alexandra v Scunthorpe on the way.
7. I smoked roughly 20 a day from around 1976 to April 6th 2003. After reading the Alan Carr book, I gave up and never had the slightest desire to put a fag in my mouth again. As he explains in the book, if your head is in the right place, you don't get withdrawal symptoms.

Yes, some of it sounds interesting but, honest to God, I'm the boringest old fart out at the moment and can't believe some of the above were truly me.

I think I'm supposed to nominate another seven people but I really don't want to, so if you want to have a go, I nominate you.

Chicane

Made a rare foray to the theatre last night to see the World Premiere of Guna Nua's new play Chicane.

Set in a Dublin lawyer's office, the play has more twists and turns than the back road to Leixlip, some of them, it has to be said, somewhat improbable. My wife didn't like it, mainly because of the use of the c-word, which she deplores. The girl who played Julia fluffed her lines a bit and couldn't keep her hands behind her back even though she was supposed to be handcuffed, but I could put that down to first night nerves.

On the positive side, it was a good rip-roaring yarn, plenty of humour, and I didn't fall asleep, as I normally do. And the actor who plays Ray, Emmet Kirwan, was terrific in the role. Although much of the humour comes from his how're ya, head Dublineze, which is becoming a bit of a cliche at this stage.

But I'd recommend it heartily.

Rhyming sestina

I've just completed my first and possibly last rhyming sestina.
When I say finished, I mean I've finally battered it into some kind of shape that I'm reasonably pleased with. I shall need to do some tinkering before I submit it anywhere.
Possibly more crossword puzzle than poetry, the problem with any sestina is how to avoid making the six end words, repeated seven times, not seem repetitious. Punning is quite acceptable, apparently!
I suppose the trick of the sestina is to write the final three lines first, using words that can have different meanings. Not that I'm an expert by any means.
One word of warning, the rhyming sestina has a slightly different sequence to the unrhymed sestina. Mixing the two up can lead to six months to one year in jail, whichever you prefer.

The transformation poetry bus

This week's task is set by the stern taskmaster, Pure Fiction

We have to come up with a poem about transformation, any sort, person, object, whatever. In return, we get to ride the bus. Yee-hah!

Unfortunately, due to pressure of time, this week, I'm going to cheat and dig out a very old (and sadly, very long) poem wot I wrote about six years ago.

The Frog and the Princess

Through the wood the Princess skipped,
Along the brook she lightly tripped,
When down the grassy slope she slipped,
And landed in the water,
The noble royal daughter.

There she sat, immersed and freezing,
Breathless gasps all choked and wheezing,
Shivering in the river, sneezing,
As the mist descended,
When she was befriended.

“Are you all right?” a deep voice hailed her.
She turned to see who had regaled her,
As she turned, her senses failed her,
A frog with eyes a-bulging,
Though seemingly indulging.

“You seem nonplussed,” the frog imparted,
“When I spoke, you surely started,
And but I know that you’re kind-hearted,
I would not have spoken,
But continued with my croakin’.”

“Pl-please dear frog,” the princess stuttered,
“I scarce believe the words you uttered.
When you spoke my heart just fluttered-
My nerves have gone all tinglish.
How come you speak English?”

The frog replied, “Ah, there’s a story!
Full of evil, full of glory!
Graphic, violent, dark and gory!
You should have no aspersion
To hear the uncut version.

“A prince was I and once upon a
Time, I nearly was a goner,
When tragically, young Princess Donna,
A wicked witch deranged me,
Amphibiously arranged me.

“One hundred years I’ve spent here hopping,
Avoiding every rabbit’s dropping,
Waiting for a princess stopping,
Frightened lest she miss me,
Hoping that she’d kiss me.”

“Dear, dear Frog!” the Princess cried out,
“My whole world’s been turned inside out,
I thought that princes all had died out.
Come, let me caress you,
Earnestly impress you”

The princess climbed out of the river,
Gave a very little shiver,
Where the cold had chilled her liver,
And sat down in the rushes,
Startling two small thrushes.

The eager frog hopped down beside her,
Tasted her sweet lips of cider,
A little thrill ran down inside her,
Her mind was all a-fogging,
When they finished snogging.

The frog remarked, “That was fantastic!
Your lips are like a red elastic,
And no, I am not being sarcastic,
You really are terrific,
Greatly soporific.”

Donna said, “What’s the prognosis
About the erm metamorphosis?
Perhaps we should increase the doses?”
The Frog Prince nodded madly,
And so they set to gladly.

When the kissing ran its course,
The frog remarked in voice so hoarse,
“Love is truly wondrous sauce!
I praise your good intentions,
And all your kind attentions.”

“Hang on a sec!” the Princess gaped.
“You’re still amphibiously shaped!
Was it for nought my body draped
Around your clammy features,
Most miserable of creatures?”

The frog said, “You’ve misunderstood.
Your kisses, though they tasted good
Will not affect my froggyhood.
You see, my little treasure,
I did that just for pleasure.”

The princess screamed and ran off blindly,
Spitting all the while unkindly,
As the Frog Prince shrugged resignedly
Indomitably croaking,
Lying back and smoking.

Reflections from The Shed

One book that Coolmine Sorting Office actually managed to deliver to my house was Reflections from The Shed by fellow League of Ireland fan Darren O'Keeffe. I believe this is the first poetry book about the League of Ireland and Darren chronicles the highs and the lows of following Cork City (now of course gone into liquidation and resurrected as Cork Coco Pops Athletic, or something like that.)
With a forward by loquacious ex-Shels and Cork manager Damien Richardson ("I think the team were lacking in interdepartmental choreography, Tony") Reflections from the Shed is aimed primarily at Cork fans, though supporters of other teams will appreciate the partisanship!!
The book will be available from www.corkcityfc.net shortly

A letter to the guy in Coolmine Sorting Office*

Oh, yet another packet has gone walkies,
While I sit here, entombed in deep despair.
I phone you up and all I get are porkies,
But then, why should I think that you might care?
My tax rebate has yet to hit my hall,
You don’t know where my compact disc from Cork is,
No birthday card arrived from cousin Paul –
I feel like some sad character of Gorky’s.

And everybody’s reading ‘Shadowstalking’
(Consensus is – its really pretty good)
Off the shelves, this marv’lous book is walking,
And, if I could get hold of it, I would.
But where is it? In Guildford or in Dorking?
Are Kentish people now immersed in Kat?
Oh let my letter-box, sir, do the talking
And drop the fecking book onto my mat.

*though it will probably go astray

The Lyrical Laboratory

A couple of years ago, I submitted a poem to Forward Press who were compiling an anthology of Children's Verse. About a year later I received an email to say my Chief Inspector Mulligan poem had been accepted and how many copies of the book would I like to pre-order at the special knockdown price of £14.95 sterling. Being a tight git, I didn't take up the offer.
Roughly 18 months on and now they're offering me the book for £9.99. Vanity has got the better of me and I've put in my order - the list of authors is rather like a telephone directory in length and I've no idea of the quality but hell, I suppose I should get a copy.
To order, go here and you need to quote voucher code FPB1001 when the basket comes up.

A poem about John Lennon

"And so this is Christmas, and what have you done?

Another year over, a new one just begun"

As a pedantic old fart, those words always irritated me. If this is Christmas - now - then a new year hasn't "just begun"

Far better if he'd have sung "And so this is early January..."

Or, maybe, "...a new one about to begin in a week or so."

Unless of course he was singing about the start of the old pagan year on the solstice, but then, he wouldn't be having much interest in Christmas, then, would he?

Anyway, nine days to go to submit to the FREE Write a poem about John Lennon competition. To be honest, in his later years, I always found him to be a bit of a wally, though, despite what TFE says, his catalogue of songs is quite incredible.

Not having much empathy for him as a person, it might be tricky for me to come up with something. Wonder if they'll accept a poem about the airport?

Go to Greece on holidays!!

In 2008 we spent a delightful 2 weeks in Plakias on the southern coast of Crete. My brother in law's sister Aine moved out there many moons ago and the life really suits her - loads of fresh air, sand, sea and fresh food.

We enjoyed the holiday so much that we broke our golden rule and went back to the same place for 2009.

Anyway, like Ireland, Greece is suffering financially and Aine is doing her bit for the Greece Tourist Board and wonders if I could maybe broadcast this video somewhere to try and entice any 2011 tourists over to her neck of the woods. I am delighted to oblige, if I can master the downloading thing...

Lighten up online

Lighten up online issue # 11 is out now. This is an online magazine for lighter verse and is always a good read. Compiled by Martin Parker - a finalist in the Strokestown Humorous Verse competition for the past two years - it is just to think to dip in and out of when your brain can't handle anything too strenuous.
This edition's versifications include poems on aerobics, relationships past and present, obese kids, antisocial alligators, having a landlord over a barrel, new-fangled typesetting, refusing Henry V111, England’s M25 Motorway, potted failures and a retiring professor.