A Selection of Poems(Published in various magazines and anthologies. All poems except "Hazelwood Pitch" are included in my first collection, Evidence of Freewheeling.)
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Ivy A family’s monument Half-bearded With fluttering scales, Its cut cement Your crutch, Go, creep over Its rough skin, Gather in heaps At gable edges And flail your rage Toward the sky, Craving its fire. Cling to the heel Of a concrete world, Like a warrior unable To accept defeat. But one vast womb Spews out everything, All height gained From grounded roots. You will wrap Round each edge, Cast your veins On newer ground, Obscure the touch Of human hands – Not consume, But embrace. April In memory of Pearse Devins (1958-1967) February crawls. March stands up. April moves at a jog. I hardly remember the white breath of winter, Waking each day as vigorous as a river. There’s always been a sadness in my mother, This time of year. Days like these Are seen through wistful eyes. I never realised why Till now. It was a day like this Pearse died. I’ve seen his face in pictures, The uneven sweep of his curls, The charming grin Of a nine-year-old boy. The football rolled Across the road. He followed. Mum became the youngest child. She never let us play out the front, Said it was for the flowers. But I knew what blooms she sought to protect. By curling balls and bending legs on sunny days We brothers fought and loved. Flat balls still litter the edge, Orange bladders like open wounds. Pearse would be a man now, Too old for games, His curls withered, Chin stubbled, Driving to Ballyshannon. Mum sometimes kicks the ball. She smiles, but her chin hangs low. When I kick the ball in April It goes faster than any car. Timofte Against Bonner He walks up, Places the ball, Approaches slow As a timid antelope. The hunched man in grey Follows the trail of his eyes, The turn of his hips. Green and golden tides Await. Timofte strikes – His posture Betrays. Bonner saves. Black and White I stared at the screen. It was “black and white”, Or, as I called it, “Grey”. (I was a pedantic child.) My parents said they were old films, Images from long ago, So, naturally, I assumed everything Was black and white: The trees, The clothes, The sky, The people. What an amazing world. When did it change? I wondered. Did everyone just wake up And find themselves in colour? Nothing is black and white now. But I want to believe again; I want to believe in these two colours. The orange street lamp glows, Sky grows darker blue, As words fall to the page – Black and white. |
Hazelwood Pitch The bruises of my studs remain in the dirt below this grass. I played here in my driftwood years, through all the seasons’ moods. There, I rose highest, plucked the ball from the air, turned sharp, lost my marker, lashed it to the net. Around the twenty-one, I fumbled and gave the thing way. Seconds later, it soared high between our shivering posts. Here, I was beaten to the ball. In the box, I blocked a goal. I fell to the pain of a sprained foot a few yards from there. Rooneys, Kellys, Devaneys, Flynns, brothers, cousins, schoolmates played. Hugh McLoughlin called our names in a voice that boomed off the far brick wall. On the warmest evenings in June, we sweated hard for each match. rogue balls bounced through flowers to rouse Mrs Fowley’s rage. And once, near the forty-five, without the scent of a thought, I launched it crudely to the air, somehow scored the winning point. The ground comes up in clumps now. New studs mould it down again. That sweat still comes, nearing the posts – at the point where I knew my range. Canines At the Ready Creeping Slowly, Staring Intensely, Stepping, Stopping, Stepping. You Chew, I Am riveted, Cloaked In the silence Of camouflage. I value you in proteins, Lust For your flesh – It is my right To take you. Stepping, Stopping, Stepping. Still oblivious, Still chewing, Unlistening. I Come closer. Ready To strike. I pounce, Wrestle, Open my mouth – There’s daggers in my smile. Welcome To My body. Similarity Those who have shared Many passing years Often bear a close resemblance, It’s said. I find some proof of this, Sifting through my parents’ generation. Rapport is sculpted on cheeks, A story told Like two pages of one book, As though expressions shared Are stored in the rising, dipping, Landscape of muscle. My face may rise in tandem, Playing the slow duet into the years. It may carve its own path, Like chiselled ivory in the moon’s light. There are mountains and valleys In my face. Inspired All the best ideas Are conceived at ease. I’ve written sonnets over coffee, Drifting with its aroma From face to glancing face; Sitting on a rock, Its mossy coat foam-tipped, As a river whispers. Stories have emerged By fire and TV. At half-time, I have penned a lament: Milan 3 – Liverpool nil. A blank book lies by my bed; Its sheets will be filled. From falling apples, Great theories have formed. Idle hours at a patent office Cast revealing light, A king’s dilemma solved In the steam of a public bath. I have no great theory, Just words, Like an old friend returning In new clothes. Some day, I’ll sit with paper by my side. Revelation will play on my face. I’ll reach for the pen, To set the seeds Of the Great Irish Novel, Word tumbling on word, Each letter tipped in gold, The touch of fire in my blood, Then, I will flush. |
Short Fiction
Light Reading and Rusty Tea
(Published in Bicycles with Umbrellas, 2011.)
Lately, I’ve been obsessing over tea. I know it sounds strange for a man aged thirty-five, but I only realised recently, it isn’t easy to make good tea. If I counted all the bad cups I’ve ever had, they’d outnumber the good cups by about 4:1. You know once you’ve poured bad tea – that orange tinge, dead taste. The only word to describe it is “rusty”.
I know the colour of perfect tea: a kind of dark browny-beige, with body behind it. It depends mainly on two factors: the strength of the tea (or squeezing action) and the amount of milk added. Squeeze the teabag for six seconds against the mug. Gentle pressure first, then more assertive. I prefer to add the milk before squeezing: white turns to light brown, darkness swirling through it. Still, it’s not a guarantee of good tea.
One day recently, I was making a cup while reading an encyclopedia. The book was about thirty years old, from a set I’d taken with me when I moved away from home. My parents never used them, so it would’ve been a shame to leave them there. It had taken me nearly a year to get to the letter E, so I reckoned it’d be at least another four years by the time I’d reach the last entry under Z.
Living at home saved money, but the constant interruption of visitors was too much for me. When I first began living on my own, I felt anxious, couldn’t sleep properly for months. My biggest fear was of having a heart attack and not being found for some time after I died. Quite an odd thought for someone who never had any heart trouble, but I do have morbid tendencies.
I was mid-page, just finished my tea, when my brother Andy arrived. He snapped the switch on the kettle, even though there was no water inside. This was nothing unusual for Andy. I filled the kettle and tried to look interested as he filled the room with his boisterous words. Sometimes, I wonder if he thinks he’s speaking to a bunch of people:
“The rally’s coming next week. They’re expecting big crowds. Eddie McGeever’s driving. He’ll be the new Paul Drexler. Mark my words.”
“You could be right.”
“You should come up and have a look, get out of the house. You’ll enjoy it.”
Don’t patronise me, I thought. I’ll spend as much time as I like in the house. There’s nothing wrong with it.
I poured a cup of rusty tea. The second cup looked a little better, though hardly perfect. I gave Andy the first cup. Oddly, he kept looking out the window, as though something was on his mind. Maybe he and Gemma broke up, I thought. They’d been engaged for a few months now. He seemed much less sure of himself than usual, even nervous. Could it be cancer? I wondered.
“Have you booked any holidays?” he asked. Every question was a prelude to what he wanted to say himself.
“Don’t know if I’ll bother goin’ anywhere,” I muttered.
“We’re thinking of Portugal for the honeymoon. Gem’s always had her heart set on Lisbon. She reckons she could live there, even though she’s never been. She’s gas. She has all these travel books for places she’s never been to. It’s cheaper than going there, I suppose.”
“Sounds nice,” I said. I just wasn’t in the mood.
We watched a robin settle on the thin, bare tree in my front garden. It knocked a few raindrops off the branch. Stout little fellow. Big, orange beer belly. It was looking at us, I think. It’s hard to tell with birds, though – their eyes are stuck to the sides of their heads. I can’t help but feel it’s a bit sly. Most people get offended if you stare at them. Andy wasn’t making much eye contact with me, though. It really was odd how his whole body language was so different to usual. What if it’s terminal? I thought. His skin did look a little paler than usual. You only realise these things afterwards. People change so slowly you barely notice. I wonder how long he has left. Only a few months?
“Have you got bread?” Andy asked.
“It’s up in the press.” I nodded so vaguely that he only found it at the third attempt. He took two slices from the pack, wetted one under the tap and tore it into strips. At least he curved his other hand under it to curtail the drippage.
He opened the window slowly, dropped the bread on the window sill. It reminded me of a digger dumping a load of rubble. He stepped back, and we watched as the bird darted in. It hopped over to the bread, tore bits off with a series of precise headbutts.
“Why are robins so friendly?” Andy mused. “Most birds are shy, aren’t they?”
“I don’t know. Strange, isn’t it? Maybe they’re just cleverer. They start off with a brown chest, y’know. It only gets redder after they moult for the first time.” (I hadn’t reached the R encyclopedia yet, but I’d seen a documentary about robins.)
“I didn’t realise birds moulted,” Andy said.
I took a packet of biscuits from the press – digestives, the poor man’s biscuit. I don’t like keeping luscious biscuits with huge chunks of chocolate or layers of jam and cream. If I did, I’d just eat them all. I pressed my thumb against the packet to dislodge the top one, handed the packet to Andy.
Maybe he wants to move in home, I thought, see what I think about puttin’ Mum in a nursin’ home. He’s been complainin’ about money a lot lately…But what if it is cancer? Would I have to take care of Gemma and Jamie? I’d have to give them something, help them to pay the bills. Help Jamie through college. Offer to do things around the house. I’m no good at DIY, though.
Andy ignored the soft biscuit at the top, just as I’d do. The cup wasn’t big enough, but he wedged the biscuit in. A few mouthfuls later, he finally got round to saying what was on his mind. It was something I hadn’t expected, despite all my speculation.
“Anyway, the main reason I came over was to ask you something,” he started.
“Okay.”
“Now, you don’t have to, of course. It’s completely up to you. And I’d understand if you don’t want to–”
“What is it?”
“…but I really would be delighted if you could do it.”
I stifled the urge to shout, “Tell me!”
“Would you be my best man?” he asked.
My first thought was an odd one: If this was how long it took him to ask me this, how long was he down on his dodgy knee before Gemma had the chance to say yes? I know it isn’t strange for a groom to ask his brother to be his best man, but it was strange for Andy to ask me. I’d assumed he’d choose one of his friends.
Before I could even answer, he trotted off on a speech about all it’d involve, as if I didn’t know. There was a stag party to organise. His friend Derek could help me with that. He seemed worried that I might not be able to handle the pressure of the speech. All our family’d be there: aunts, uncles, grown-up cousins with facial hair and faces that were much chubbier than the last time I’d seen them.
I was already writing the speech in my head, and cringing to myself at the thought of it, but I couldn’t keep Andy waiting any longer:
“I’d love to,” I told him, “if you’re sure you want me to. I wouldn’t mind if you asked one of the lads.”
“I know, but family is family. Thanks, bro. I really appreciate it”
I thought he was going to hug me. I was glad he didn’t.
There was a kind of emotion that I’d never shared with Andy before. He talked about when we were younger, how we used to head off together on the bikes for hours, with no particular destination in mind. The pitch of his voice raised as he described the bending country roads, the smell of hay. I never realised he cherished those memories so much.
He didn’t stay for long. Left a half-cup of cold, rusty tea after him. I thought of Andy in a totally different way. It was as if he’d matured a lot in the space of a few minutes. To be honest, I always looked down on him. Not in an obvious way – just subtly – in a kind of natural way, if that makes any sense. Maybe that’s something we older siblings never grow out of, even when our brothers and sisters grow up to be men or women with jobs and families, and all the worries that come with those things.
The more I thought about the wedding, the more anxious I got. Having to make sure I didn’t drink too much wasn’t so bad, but trying to conjure up witty remarks and reminiscing about Andy, those kinds of things weren’t natural to me. I sat down and tried to breathe normally.
After a while, I took a pen and paper to write some ideas for the speech, but I was easily distracted. It’d take me a couple of years to reach the T encyclopedia, so I skipped ahead briefly, and learned some interesting facts about tea.
By the time the wedding came around, I thought I would’ve forgotten these facts, but it turns out I didn’t. Although I’d written more than forty drafts of my speech at this stage, I pretty much abandoned my notes without realising.
“Hi, everyone. It’s great to see ye all,” I began. The edge of the card I was holding was moist with sweat. As I waded further into the speech, I was sure the microphone was gonna slip from my grasp. “Andy and I, we’re quite different,” I said. I could see both Andy and Gemma were nervous about what’d come next. “I suppose that’s normal as you grow up,” I added. “We used to go exploring on our bikes together. Now, we see each other only every now and then. Oh, I don’t mean that you caused it,” I said to Gemma, suddenly realising the implication. At least that provoked some laughter.
I talked a little more about Andy, and then about Gemma, who I really didn’t know all that well. I felt fake, but at least my nerves were loosening. I bet Andy slipped something into my drink, I thought. I took a sip of water, sniffing for the scent of whiskey. Ten sips later, my two-minute speech had grown into a fifteen-minute sprawl though various anecdotes, some of which bore no relevance to Andy or anyone else in the room. I didn’t know why I was telling these things. Why would they care about the name I gave my first bike? A few people left their tables. Then, I got back on track:
“I remember when Andy came over to ask me to be his best man,” I said. “Jesus, he was so serious that day. Not like the Andy we all know. I thought he had some awful news, the way he looked. I was sure he had cancer, or something. He had nearly all his tea drank when he finally asked me.” I told myself it was time to wrap it up, but I found myself telling everyone about the rest of that day, after Andy had left me. I could see a lot of puzzled faces as I informed them of the facts I’d learned from the encyclopedia:
“Tea is the most popular drink in more countries than any other beverage. Ye probably won’t be surprised to hear that Ireland consumes the most tea per person: 1,600 cups per person in a year. And India’s the country that grows the most tea. Apparently, there’s three main types of tea: black, green and oolong. The difference is in the way the leaves are processed.”
There were people bent over with laughter. I could see that Andy wanted to take the microphone from me.
“But I couldn’t see any information on how to make good tea,” I added. A laugh rippled through the crowd. Quit while you’re ahead, I told myself. But I rambled on a bit more, telling them about the best cup of tea I’d ever had, after a funeral, in Aunt Mona’s house. Without even realising I had a cup in my hand instead of the champagne, I toasted the bride and groom, wishing them a wonderful life together. It was only when I saw everyone else lifting their cups that I realised what was in my hand.
“To the bride and groom!” we all shouted, and as we all drank, I wondered how many good cups of tea were out there in the crowd.