My Mother's Hands

I've been very touched by the amount of people who read the story in the Irish Examiner and who've made contact with me in one way or another. 

It got me thinking about a poem I'd written a long time back. It was about my mother's hands. I realised I didn't have a copy of it anymore, but like all words that come from a place deep inside, they never really leave you. 

So I've put the poem below. I hope you enjoy it. The angels referred to are the two children my mother lost. Many others have suffered too, but here are a few small words about her. 

The image below is of my Mom as a young girl. At the very bottom are YouTube links to Mount Pleasant Buildings and the poverty within it. Thank you.

My Mother’s Hands

Her hands held little fingers with cold front door keys,

wrapped a red coat over, 

protecting me from more than rain,

pushed prams, peeled spuds,

no lady hands, but lady owned.

skin like alabaster, soft not weak,

hands of pain, hands of an optimistic soul,

sprouting blood bubbles in pin-pricked old age,

folded quietly in gentle melancholy, 

stolen by her mind’s disease,

in death as in life, 

angels drawn.

Part 1 of 2 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jJhtNOkB07I

Part 2 of 2 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9t3L-FPpd9U

The Inner Voice

I put this poem, 'The Voice' up on the site this time last year. Maybe there is something about being halfway through a year which gets us all thinking about where we are going, and a desire to look inside, wondering what direction the second half of the year will take.

Either way, it must have struck a note with many of you, because over 400 people have stopped by to have a read.

So here it is again in celebration/questioning of the second half of 2012

The Voice

Whose voice is this I want to know,

I hear her,

She is so familiar.

Sounds like me, but not so.

I hear her voice from years ago.

I hear it now,

I want to smile,

I love her spirit and her guile.

Where did she go?

I want to know.

I hear her playing a different tune,

The beat less sure,

The tone less tuned.

To strangers, she's a side of herself,

To family, friends, she's many guises.

To me, she's part of what might be.

I hear her voice,

Incessantly.

The Pied Piper - Magpie Prompt Week 83

The Snake Charmer - Henri Rousseau 1907

This week's Magpie prompt from Tess Kincaid is the image of The Snake Charmer above, and it certainly is an interesting one, so I'm really looking forward to reading other contributors HERE . 

My contribution this week is a poem called 'The Pied Piper'.

The Pied Piper

He met love one day on a bus going into town,

then later on a pair of legs ‘gorgeous they were’.

He flirted with it in a story masked by an unusual blond,

while lamenting it’s loss in his babysitter’s kiss.

Something in my voice he said dragged him in,

witch-crafted words laced in lovingness,

him watching over with eyes of one possessed,

confessing secrets in waves of tenderness.

Like the perfume maker he sought obsessed,

himself lost within the lost things,

deftly playing the pied piper’s tune,

chasing love’s lost dream in raw recklessness.

He told me once that he did care,

that dreams were things worth risking for,

that daring held some sweet gift of pride,

and fragmented pieces hover teasing to explore.

But my favourite song he did not know,

was all about the broken things,

was it within broken things that we belonged,

shattered pieces doomed to fall.

For he must have known only madness loomed,

that what he sought could not rest here,

that here was where it all must end,

buried deep, like all would-be lover’s cruel recall.

A Poem about the Inner Voice

I stumbled across this poem today in search of another!  I've lost quite a few poems in my time due to computer crashes or whatever. Anyhow, I like this one, so now it's on the blog, where it might stay safe for a while.  I hope you like it too!

The Voice

Who's voice is this I want to know,

I hear her,

She is so familiar.

Sounds like me, but not so.

I hear her voice from years ago.

I hear it now,

I want to smile,

I love her spirit and her guile.

Where did she go?

I want to know.

I hear her playing a different tune,

The beat less sure,

The tone less tuned.

To strangers, she's a side of herself,

To family, friends, she's many guises.

To me, she's part of what might be.

I hear her voice,

Incessantly.

Caught in Amber - Pic & Poem

The image below was taken by my photographic daughter and I liked it even when it was just a tiny icon on her computer screen.  I wanted to write something about it from the get go, but couldn't think of anything initially, however this is what I finally came up with. 

(By the way on my PC the image is Amber)

Caught in Amber

A room and bed discarded

bereft of all but memory

of how her breath filled air

and jasmine drifted under sheets.

Amber lights and passing street sounds

infuse and murmur

fragments lingering

of something past.

A place where normality no more exists

but trapped in time

caught by faintest recall
of how her hair spread as wild grass across the pillow

the warmth of skin

and ache

the ancient truth

that wills her back.

When you were small - Memories!

Time to take another trip backwards!  I'm thinking maybe today's post might be a bit trickier than previous ones.  After all, it's fairly easy to remember your first love, first best friend, most memorable toy - but this one took me a while to work out, so maybe it will be difficult for you too.  The funny thing is, once I worked it out, I couldn't understand why I had such difficulty with it in the first place.

Anyhow (fav crutch word), when you think about childhood, if you could only hold onto ONE childhood memory, which one would it be?  Tough - you must agree.

I remember Billy Connolly telling a story about taking his kids to Scotland and how they went to wonderful places, they saw the salmon leap, they had a picnic next to a castle, and he made up stories about Kings and Queens, they did lots of wonderful things, so much so, that by the end of the holidays, he felt pretty confident when he asked them which part was the most memorable.  He was convinced it would be either the salmon or the magic castle, but children are never easy creatures to predict.  'Sesame Street', they told him.  You see, they had one of those mini screens in the back of the car, and as they would drive from one wonderful place to the next, they would watch 'Sesame Street' on it!

Which kinda leads me to my answer.  Now as none of my family read my blog, I am probably pretty safe saying this, but it wasn't a wonderful Christmas memory, or an endearing family moment, or even an act of human kindness or tenderness, it was the Washing Yard.

Okay there you have it, if I could hold onto ONLY ONE childhood memory, it would be the Washing Yard - Why you might ask, or not, but sure I'll tell you anyhow.

I grew up in what were called flats, run down buildings sort of thing.  This meant we had no back or front garden, nor did we have much else either, but we did have a washing yard.  The washing yard was a brilliant place - there would be rows and rows of washing lines full of laundry, the sheets were the best because you could run through them and pretend you were flying.  Plus it had tall poles to hold up the lines, which you could swing around and climb.  Now the washing yard was out the back bedroom window where I slept, and the window was one of those with 3 window panes across.  My brother, sister and I would sit in front of the window and each of us got our own window pane, I know, sad but true.  Anyhow (told you it was my fav crutch word), we would look out the window, and when it snowed we'd pretend we were traveling through galaxies, or at night we would try to guess which window would light up next, because obviously, everyone living in the flats had windows which backed onto the washing yard, and like Christmas lights, at night each of them would switch on and off. 

Often, especially at night you would hear noises from the washing yard as families might fight, a Dad coming home drunk and raising all hell around him, or even worse the banshee wailing.  In the morning, the place filled up with seagulls, millions of them, or so it appeared to me as a child, and again the washing yard took on a whole new image.  I suppose what I'm saying is that more than anything, the washing yard fuelled my imagination, whether from listening to stories from each of the windows, or seagulls, or running through sheets, it sparked off so many things which made my childhood extra special.  My brother ended up becoming a Professor of Physics & Astronomy, which in my opinion was connected to the galaxies we travelled through together.

Gosh this is turning into a long post.  Anyhow, here's a poem I wrote earlier as they say, called 'The Washing Yard'.  I hope you enjoy it, and please, if you can work out which childhood memory you would choose to hold on to, then let us know!

The Washing Yard

Rows of dance on washing lines

Beneath one hundred sheets a child could fly

Curl metal bars and catch blue sky.

Turn snowstorms into a Milky Way

Laugh and play too young to know

As children blow at Jinny Joe.

And as the night light fills its sky

Banshees wail and babies cry.

Strange voices haunt the Washing Yard

Windows switching on and off

Each pane a different story told

A zillion words bound metal poles.

Then in morn all night sounds forced to hide

When from its sky come seagulls high.

Hoards of birds create such clatter

Swoon and squawk discarded matter.

Magic, to a young child's eye

As adults watch their lives pass by.

Buried in some human tomb

A child's joy,

In an adult's gloom.

The Strand - Magpie Tales 71

Image Courtesy of Tess @ Magpie Tales

Above this week's visual prompt from Tess @ Magpie Tales, which reminded me of colourful fish and then the sea.  So here's one from an early childhood memory - Visit Here - for some wonderful takes on the prompt, or even better have a go yourself!


The Strand

I am three years old,

the tide’s coming in,

new sights and sounds,

of an unknown place.

The breeze batters my ears and face,

filling my hair with knots and sand.

Against sea and sky he stands,

trouser legs rolled up,

white chalk skin, unforeseen.

He turns to the sea, his back to me,

I am cold,

the wind cutting out all other sounds.

As he walks away, the blue waters eat his feet,

my mother's hands grip mine,

‘No,’  I roar.

The strand is huge,

swallowing my sobs,

‘shush,’ she says holding tighter still,
as my father turns,
coming back from the sea,

into memory.

Photograph Prose - Poem 'The Whisperings'

Some of you will have heard of Photograph Prose, but for those that haven't, it is a great web site where images by creative photographers are linked up with prose and poetry submissions.

My poem 'The Whisperings' was linked with a wonderful image by Hazel Suttill, check image & poem out here @

 http://photographprose.com/2011/06/05/whisperings/#comments

Whisperings

Have you heard the whisperings?
The doubts and uncertainties that seep and soak,
visiting at unexpected hours,
like in the dead of night,

or just before you take a chance,

Having a language all their own,
one that charms your ear, in silence and in noise,
leaning to the dark, clawing at belief,
with a subtlety of self,
that fools the pupil it knows best.

A sombre thought indeed, that our biggest critic hides within us all,
who consumes with glee and skill of viciousness,
turning us into mere shadows of ourselves,
by slash of minor beliefs, or pride,
enthusiastic wonders that bring a smile,

Hinting one might achieve,
a small or soft or great,
or even gentle murmuring,
that would gather in arms of strength,
harnessing against the dark whisperings of self.

For revenge of this critic is perhaps the sweetest of them all,
for in it lies the secret of success,
think hard how foolish he or she might seem,
if you were not taken by their spell of doubt,
but rather silenced,

The one most feared,
who knows us far too well and yet not at all.

Visit Photograph Prose HERE  , and have a look at the current images available and see if any of them inspire you to write accompanying words!

 

Two In Tandem #7



Image Courtesy of Jinksy



Morning Glory

Early morning frost underfoot,

smell the land,

 with ground twists of turf,

 moss-coated blue rock,

pulsating from this jagged place.

Like a seasoned seductress,

leisurely undressing by the light of day,

and always the bird song,

falling like drops of rain.

See other contributor's words on this wonderful painting HERE

Visit Jinsky for further inspiration!

Photograph Prose - When Newness Fades

Photograph Prose is a lovely new web site, and one that some of you might already be familiar with.  The idea behind it is that prose or poetry pieces are matched with photographs from their current gallery of images, a collaboration of the writer and the photographer.

All you have to do to participate is link into their site and register your details.  Once you are registered, you can view their UP Exhibit and submit a prose piece/poem against an image. 

I sent in a poem earlier this week, (a previous poetry bus one) about older relationships.  You can view it HERE on Photograph Prose.

When newness fades,

and years of being take their toll,

when things that matched,

seem less sure,

perhaps you should discard,

replace, or maybe just renew,

by looking close again,

to see what wasn’t obvious before.

Old patterns fade and fabrics wear,

but shape and form,

a solid base,

can ease together,

and once again embrace.

Moon Change

 





Moon Change

Standing halfway up my mother,

neck bent back, I looked hard at the moon,

heard stories about the man who lived in it,

full of cheese and shaped like a banana.

Older, out the back garden,
I saw it through my brother’s telescope,

all white and round and full of dark holes

that he told me were  ‘moon craters’.

Crossed- legged below the kitchen table,

I watched Neil Armstrong land on it,

bobbling with his flag of stars and stripes,

listening to the men from N.A.S.A.

Later I kissed under it, long and deep, 

dark romantic laneways lit by indigo blue,

falling in love and right back out again,

wondering who was looking at who?

When the kids were small, I swore by it,

wishing sleep would replace lonely nights awake,

whilst now, above the mountains it guides me home,

even in the light of day, teetering behind clouds.

Through the window on the upstairs landing,

it feels closer now tonight,

my neck bends back, just like a child,

as I remember piece by piece, the moon change.

Panther

Panther

Silent moving shadow,

melanin coat,

keenly stalks her prey,

the hunt with slow majestic grace begins,

fixated stare that black-blood curls,

as paw to ground,

a soundless lethal shift,

which calls the wild,

the time to pounce,

as body sprints in rapid flight,

and shoulders glide,

to twist and turn,

from dust and earth, she leaps,

to trap her prey,

whine and wimp,

of throttled throat,

or broken crunch,

to deadly silence,

chase over,

battle won.

International Woman's Day - A poem from the past

As today is International Woman's Day, I decided to post this poem about a woman whom I had the utmost admiration and love for.  The poem was written shortly after my Mother-in -law passed away from a difficult and painful condition, and today seemed like a good day to honour her.

Plus as a woman who still darned socks,  she would get a great kick out of the name of this blog!

The woman who still darned socks

I heard a creature cry down a phone line,

then later the shake of her daughter’s head

that said the pain was still there

to warp, rage and battle against all humanity could bear.

A moment’s respite when sleep came,

when breathing eased with rhythms of comfort,

false teeth hung, worn skin nestled,

a body torn, bruised, stitched and swollen.

No doctor, hospital, death could wane,

a glory which lay and stood triumphant,

painted on the faces of her sons, a daughter, and a man; her husband,

painted on those that knew her for what she was,

laced, threaded, within their bones and memory.

She poured hot kettles on four colours of jelly last Christmas morn,

surrounded by trinkets, thimbles, ornaments within cabinets,

and smiled as she hemmed the final piece of a jig-sawed blue sky,

gently into place.

The happy lady sewing up her dress for the wedding of her eldest son,

the man I married,

who wants to kick every table and chair in every room, out of anger and love,

that she’s being taken, that she’s being pained.

‘I want to go home,’ she said,

her fingers intermingled with mine, soft but firm.

I knew she meant it, for she wanted to wrap me in that need,

so we could go together and I would take her to the place she most wanted to be.

‘I know,’ I said.

An acknowledgement which crossed oceans, lulled all sounds,

the ding and bang of a hospital ward, a loud telly in the corner,

muffles of a crowd; the bleep from some damned machine.

‘I know,’ I said.  It was all I had.

The woman who still darned socks,

she thought me an odd girl studying history,

what was she to make of me?

It never clouded her.

We had such joy, she and I.

We laughed, we lived,

We sat and spoke about the simple things,

woman to woman.

Thank you for being a great woman, and a great friend.

Walking/Photo Journal - Bare

I seem to have developed a fascination with trees these days, perhaps it's because right now they are striped back to the barest of themselves and are as individual as we are.

Old Tree Truck near Featherbed Forest



Bare

Raised from earth,

at first the narrow brittle growth

becomes aged and changed with time.

Branches hither and thither

as if to spread beyond their roots

 whilst others shade below.

On fresh clear days

striped back to barest parts of you

by season’s change

from deep within

new life will surge and prosper through

old trunk that steadfast will

caress their spring and love,

delighting leaves and blossoms grow,

another beauty

before their winter's coat.

Magpie Tales - Four Walls

Magpie 55

The visual prompt this week is very striking and thought provoking, so thanks Tess @ Magpie Tales for getting us all  thinking.  For other Magpies see link HERE

Four Walls

Harsh echoes linger ghostlike,
half-finished dinners lie hardened on their plates.
In an upstairs room,
her white dress still hangs in expectant glory,
a bloody battering having sealed her victim's fate.

Four walls deserted barring recent memory,
retract in anguish drawing in her pain.
The children just a sideshow of a broken union,
saw him hit her many times,
but she remained.

Tonight all players gone,
the TV drones on unabated,
contained within this bloodied space.
Four walls forsaken now except for memory,
in this empty room that's reached the cruelest place.

Caught in Amber - Submission

Below is the submission that I finally settled on for The Leaf Collaboration Competition, using my Poetry Bus Poem 'Caught in Amber' from a couple of weeks back, and a photograph by my daughter.  It probably won't get anywhere, but it was good to work with my daughter. Just click on the image for a better view.

Photograph Prose Submission - Lost Innocence

Like TFE I seen the weblink (http://www.photographprose.com/) for this exciting idea through the Woman Rule Writer blog.  Anyhow, I was delighted when they accepted my poem  'Lost Innocence' and combined it with an image by Mario Jean, (see link to his website  http://www.madocphoto.com/.  You can critique this poem and other prose submissions on their site, leave a comment or cast a vote!

To see the image that inspired the poem just log on to their site http://photographprose.com/phopro/

Lost Innocence

I see my childhood caught in stone,

the aged-child within my bone.

Her eyes, I see them in black mass,

tinged pupils fleeting  from the past.

I see her sometimes on the street,

or late at night when I do sleep.

That day we all went to the park,

swings and noise and air that swept you up real high,

escaping worlds into the sky.

I didn’t know not even then,

that life would not be that again.

A story told, that always stayed,

of loss that never could replace,

the little girl that I had known.

The eyes, I see them in black mass,

the ones that say, they can’t go back,

to five years old, changed in a day,

to stone, clay innocence,

that flew away.

Walking/Photo Journal - Reluctance

I dragged myself out walking today, and pretty soon I felt a bit like Robert Frost when he wrote about the end of a season.

Reluctance

Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.

The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last long aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch-hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question 'Whither?'

Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?

- Robert Frost -

Walking/Photo Journal - Roadway to Glenasmole Valley

New Idea for 2011

Some of you might know that I enjoy walking, so now that we're no longer under four feet of snow up here in the Dublin Mountains, I got an idea.

For what it's worth, I plan to take an image each day while I am out and about and maybe bring some of the beauty and history of the place where I live to life!

So here we begin. The sun was out today, and so was I.  Below is one of the small tracks off the main mountain road which leads down to the Glenasmole Valley.  And what better way to kick start this new adventure than to include a poem by John Lee a native of Glenasmole.

John could write a poem in couple of days or a couple of weeks depending on the length (nothing to you Poetry Bus Riders!).  He lived in Glenasmole his whole life, and died in 1982 aged 76.





Glenasmole

In dear old Ireland is a valley,

Away up in the Dublin hills,

and as for beauty none can compare,

with it's heather clad mountains and flowing rills,

and in the evening when work is over,

how pleasant 'tis to take a stroll,

and bathe your eyes on the lovely scenes,

that surround the valley of Glenasmole.

There is an air of peace in this humble valley

you will match it where 'er you go,

I am certain it can compare with

'Green Killarney' or to 'Fair Dungloe',

it's people too they are kind and cheerful,

they work with zeal to achieve their goal,

You may sing the praises of far off places,

my choice will ever be Glenasmole.

- JOHN LEE -