Normally, David Mohan wins a major competition of some sort every few weeks, or so it seems. Out of the class of Poetry Introductions Ireland 2010, he always seemed the most likely of us to be destined for greatness and his list of publications and successes leaves mere mortals gaping.
Anyway, he's only after doing it again -
I’m delighted to announce the results of the Café Writers 2011 Poetry Competition. 2146 poems were entered in total. The full results are:
1st David Mohan, Dublin Wildfire £1000
2nd John Whitworth, Canterbury The Burnt Child £300
3rd Wes Lee, New Zealand Surgery Dog £150
Commended £50 each
Angela Readman, Newcastle Upon Tyne Hunting Elmer Fudd
Frances-Anne King, Bath When colour Left the World
Corrinna Toop, Aylesbury Siren
Alan Hill, Edinburgh Mémorial Des Deportations
Mir Mahfuz Ali, Kingston-Upon-Thames The Day God was Angry
Norfolk Prize £100
Merle Colborne, Norwich Fish Dancing in Desert
Funniest Poem £100 Claudine Toutoungi, Cambridge Piss Pot
The prize-giving will take place at our event on February 13th. It begins at 7.30 and there will be a reading by our judge Pascale Petit. The venue is Take 5 17 Tombland, Norwich, Norfolk NR3 1HF.
Congratulations to all the winners and a huge and a huge thanks to everyone who entered. The competition is vital to our ongoing programme and we will again be looking to increase the number and level of prizes in recognition of your loyalty.
My own two entries, of course, remain among the 2136...
The stammering poet
Rambling thoughts of one who aspires to be a poet but has thus far failed miserably
"Seven bums and fourteen legs,
a brazen ecstasy which begs
the question some of us are asking -
is Peter Goulding multi-tasking?"
Martin Parker, Editor, Lighten Up Online
a brazen ecstasy which begs
the question some of us are asking -
is Peter Goulding multi-tasking?"
Martin Parker, Editor, Lighten Up Online
Thursday, July 20, 2023
Monday, December 8, 2014
Patrick O'Connell, the Irishman who saved Barcelona
Back in May 2004, Mick O'Keeffe wrote an article in the Irish Independent about a guy called Patrick O'Connell, whom I had never previously heard of.
A Dubliner by birth, he played football for a host of clubs including Belfast Celtic, Ashington FC, Sheffield Wednesday and Manchester United, also captaining Ireland. But it was as a manager that he really made his mark, managing Real Betis, Santander and Barcelona to great success. In fact he is still glorified in Cataluna for saving Barca from extinction during the early Franco years.
Despite this success, he died penniless and was buried in a paupers grave in London. I found the story so fascinating that I wrote a poem about it - probably more song lyrics than actual poetry - posted it on the football poets website and forgot about it.
Evidently, other people have been struck by the story down through the years for occasionally I get requests to reprint the poem, which I'm happy to say yes to.
I got an email yesterday from a guy called Colm Farry in Seville. He is a fundraiser for a new body called the Patrick O'Connell memorial fund which is trying to raise funds for a proper memorial to a great but forgotten Irishman. He asked me was it okay if they put music to the poem and sung it at one of their fundraisers!
Naturally I'm thrilled and delighted. Can't wait to hear it.
Most of my poems die a death. It's so very nice to have one that seems to have a bit of legs in it!
Sunday, November 2, 2014
We ain't gonna pay for our water
Inspired by Kevin Higgins' highly satirical piece (but is it a poem, Kevin? I think it works as well without the artificial line breaks) on Clare Daly's website, I had to have a go
We ain’t
gonna pay for our water
They’ve tried
to impose this but we’re gonna fight ‘em.
These taxes
keep cropping up ad infinitum.
The long hand
of history’s gonna indict ‘em.
We’ll soon
have no money for porter.
And they tell
us Sky Sports is a luxury item?
No, we ain’t
gonna pay for our water.
They bring
out each new mobile phone far too fast.
If you cannot
keep up, you’ll be left in the past.
My wife has
an S3, the family’s aghast,
but
thankfully Christmas will sort ‘er.
But it’s all
costing money – how long will it last?
Oh, we ain’t
gonna pay for our water.
They tell us
not to spend all our time in the shower,
ensuring the
dial’s not switched to full power.
But our kids
can’t get clean in a mere half an hour –
it’s more
like an hour and a quarter.
They give you
that look that would make grown men cower.
Oh, we ain’t
gonna pay for our water.
We shout at
the telly when the CEO speaks
about giving
the contract another few tweaks.
I don’t think
we’ve flushed the damned toilet for weeks –
the smell
permeates each aorta.
And they’ll
charge us a fortune to come fix our leaks?
Oh, we ain’t
gonna pay for our water.
We’re angry
as hell, yeah, we’re going berserk.
We’re not
Miley Cyrus, we ain’t gonna twerk
while they
roger us roughly with a wink and a smirk,
each mother,
each son and each daughter.
It’s hard
only going to the toilet in work.
No, we ain’t
gonna pay for our water.
We’ve torn up
the forms that this Bord Uisce sent.
The PPS
numbers have garnered dissent.
Our pockets
are empty, the money’s all spent –
it’s tied up
in bricks and in mortar
(and in
sunshine resorts that we like to frequent.)
Oh, we ain’t
gonna pay for our water.
They said of
oul’ Ireland our rivers run free
but we’re
taxed every time that we go for a wee.
It’s a stream
of expense that flows down to the sea,
with no sign
that it’s gonna get shorter.
St. Brigid,
St. Bernadette, please pray for me,
for we ain’t
gonna pay for our water.
So remember
the heroes of nineteen sixteen.
Did they have
to fork out to keep themselves clean?
Or pay when they
sat on the outside latrine
to be
butchered like lambs to the slaughter?
So Ireland
abú, let the masses convene!
Oh,
we ain’t gonna pay for our water.
Tuesday, October 28, 2014
Abilene
Resurrecting this long-defunct blog to post up the poem that won me the title of Baffle Bard 2014 at Loughrea this weekend past. Poem should be read slowly and with a definite southern drawl! (I should point out also that poems had to be on the theme 'When the whistle blew')
When that railroad whistle blew,
I knew just what I had to do –
a rooftop leap to carriage seventeen.
With my dynamite packed tight,
ancient wrongs would be put right,
as I robbed that doggone train to Abilene .
Sitting there above the track,
my memory meandered back
to times when I would work hard for a bean.
And I pondered fate’s dark plot,
which had brought me to this spot,
about to rob the train to Abilene .
It may seem beyond belief
but I wasn’t born a thief.
I worked damned hard and kept my nose real clean.
Way back east, in Philadelph,
I’d built a life up for myself
and had never even heard of Abilene .
I took a wife when I was young,
sharp of wits and sharp of tongue,
built a house and lived a life serene.
I amassed a pretty penny,
had some kids (not sure how many,
but one was Jack and one was Rosaline.)
Then one day, upon my land,
waving papers in his hand,
came a railroad
man, rumbustious and keen.
And he said they’d
bought the deeds
of my house and
fields and seeds
to build a track
right through to Abilene .
He had lawmen
pointing guns
at my daughters and
my sons,
mouthing words
distasteful and obscene.
So, instead of
getting stroppy,
I just loaded the
jalopy,
piled up the
highest you have ever seen.
With the other
dispossessed,
we tipped the horse
and headed west,
hurtin’ bad that
folks could be so mean.
And my wife just
sat and cried
on that long and
dusty ride,
till I was sorry
she was coming to Abilene .
It’s somewhat hazy
in my mind –
I think we left some
kids behind.
Neither of us checked
the damned latrine.
But we still had
plenty left,
so we didn’t feel
too bereft
on our westward
journey down to Abilene .
We lost another kid
or two
when our horse dang
lost a shoe,
tripped and
stumbled into a ravine.
And I lost one of
the girls,
the one with all
the golden curls,
in a game of cards
ten miles from Abilene .
Then the Injuns
swooped one day,
snatched my wife
and rode away.
I didn’t have the
will to intervene.
She’d been getting
on my nerves
that Injun got what
he deserves,
and I jes’ shrugged
and plodded on to Abilene .
There was me and
one small kid,
and I ain’t proud
of what I did,
but I got scared
when she started turning green.
So I left her by a
fence,
because there
didn’t seem much sense
in the two of us
not making Abilene .
I walked into that
there town,
tongue bone dry and
bare head brown,
begging to be
brought to a shebeen.
I was thirsty, I
was broke,
with two lips too
cracked to smoke
and I knew right
then I hated Abilene .
Well, I stole
myself a gun
to right the wrongs
that had been done
and sat up on the
mountainside unseen,
to gain what info
that I could
as that train
passed through the wood
on its way, stuffed
full of cash, to Abilene .
I had to lay to
rest that ghost,
hit them where it
hurted most,
and so I closely
studied its routine.
And I took a little
ride
with my eyes full
open wide
aboard that rich
old train to Abilene .
So the time had
come at last,
the time to even up
the past.
I took a final slug
from my canteen.
The railroad had
destroyed me.
Now the prospect
overjoyed me
of robbing that
there train to Abilene .
Through the tunnel
burst the train,
like a rat out of a
drain.
I counted every
wagon to sixteen.
Then, as that
railroad whistle blew,
shrill and welcome,
right on cue,
I leapt aboard that
train for Abilene .
I woke up in Oklahoma
after three weeks
in a coma,
busted legs and
busted arm and spleen.
I’d been found
there on the track,
lying groaning on
my back –
there hadn’t been a
carriage seventeen.
Now I take my bowl
and wait
just outside the
station gate,
darned grateful for
each nickel I can glean.
But I shudder and I
bristle
when I hear that Goddam
whistle
of the train, as it
heads off to Saturday, May 4, 2013
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.
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.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
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.
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.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
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.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
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.
Monday, January 7, 2013
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)