The word waves intrigues me as it is both simple and complicated.
At its most simple it is both a noun and a verb of course.
The waves roll in and out.
The young child waves goodbye to his mother as he or she heads off to school.
And still the waves roll in and out but the child stops waving.
It is no longer cool.
Paddy O'Riordan was a martyr, not to bunions, not to his bad back, but to his wife Josie.
Paddy was a quiet hardworking Corkman who bothered no one and was bothered by none. Even his Corkconian origins were accepted without remark by all his neighbours.
Josie was a Dub and a loud one at that. She was in fact not just loud but probably the person for whom the word uncouth was coined. Josie was always heard at least a block before she was seen; ever complaining about her lot and the deficiencies of that "ghost from Cork" as she often referred to poor Paddy.
Neighbours nor strangers were spared her tongue and the quicker witted of them would quicklly learn to keep their heads down while suddenly remembering that they had some pressing chore to complete before she had the chance to light upon them.
In spite of Josie's barbs Paddy never rose to the bait, didn't get involved in any public disputes with his wife and had learned to keep his head down too. He also kept very busy. He worked long hours in the C.I.E. Works foundry in Inchicore and signed up for all the overtime he could get.
He had a hobby too, directly related to his employment. At that time C.I.E. owned both the Royal and Grand canals and the land which lay on either side. In a number of places along the length of the canals they rented some land to employees who worked them as allotments at a nominal rent.
Paddy's allotment was a finely manicured piece of heaven on earth and a Josie free zone as it was about half a mile from their house so out of Josie's usual ambit. It was a place of repose for Paddy and a connection to the land he had left in Cork as a youth. Furthermore it was a source of healthy food for his family and, when there was a glut of a certain vegetables or fruit, also for his neighbours .
Without this narrow strip of fertile ground by the still waters of the local canal it is likely that Paddy would have lived an even shorter life than the meagre sixty-six years he was granted.
I remember Paddy with deep affection to this day,
You didn’t
have to come, but you did.
And what
good did it do you?
Did it take
away all those years of guilt,
Those years
of silence,
Those years
when I didn’t know if you were dead or alive?
And now
with your Yankee accent
Like
someone from a TV show,
No hint of
Dublinese left in your speech.
And when
you knocked on my door
In the
company of Matron
What did
you expect?
The fatted
calf?
A slap in
the chops?
Were you
filled with a burning desire
To see your
old mother again,
Or was it a
duty, an effort
To salve
your conscience,
To put
things right
Before it
was too late?
And when
you introduced yourself
With your “Hi”
Did you
think I wouldn’t recognize you?
How would I
not
When you
were and are
Part of me?
And you
rattled on and on
About the
steps you had taken
To find me
here in St. Paul’s,
How Google
was a wonder,
Whatever
that is.
And I only
ten miles from the house
That you were
born in,
And the
whole country about
Knowing well
I was here,
And have
been for nearly
Eight years
now,
Ever since
I caused a small fire
In the
kitchen
And my home
help Agnes
Got carried
away with herself
And informed
Dr. Moore.
And the
stories you told,
Of a family
I have never seen,
And the
great things they are doing
All over
America.
And I learned
for the first time
That I was
a grandmother,
Not once
but four times over
And soon to
be a great grandmother.
And a
little present
In a wooden
casket,
A necklace
your wife bought
No doubt,
But it was
truly beautiful.
And you
left my room not much more
Than an
hour later.
You had
things to do,
People to see
in London,
Business of
course
And very
boring, you said,
But had to
be done.
And I’m
wearing the night blue necklace now
And finger
it’s stones every night
Like my Rosary.
You didn’t
have to come.
But you
did.
I'm from neat terraces
The New State's first houses
With gardens and yards
And spaces to play
And underground tunnels
And the sweet smell of tobacco
From the Players Wills factory
And pealing church bells all
Sunday long
I'm from Community Care
And clips on the ear
From the nearest grown up
When I did something wrong
I'm from May Marian processions
And convent girls in communion dresses
And pipers on the Coombe
Playing lonesome laments
I'm from stories of hardship
And tenements left behind
And hopes for a republic
And hopes that had died
I'm from all of these places
And people and lives
The encouragement of some
And the punishment of Pride
A ghost of a past that visits with me
I'm from a Liberty
I was born free
Feb 2023 - Session with Cathy.
Postcard Piece - take a recent, fresh memory and write it on a postcard. Micro-fiction.
This morning, driving Aoife to work, we creep along the traffic packed roads. We turn a corner into a quiet, narrow street and both exclaim "Oh!" at the sight of frothy blossoms bubbling pink and white on either side. We're a Dublin version of the Japanese blossom admirers who sit on picnic blankets under laden trees and collectively sigh "Aaaah!" with each petal flurry. We non-Geisha girls smile and comment on the loveliness, the delicate colour splash that surprises us as we go round the bend, but in a good way.
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Time piece. Taking an hour in the day and write.
6 pm late autumn sun gold glow, leaf crunching the way home.
6 pm winter dark lit by fire flame, hearty book, hunkering down.
6 pm spring hint of evening stretch, bird concerto, daffodil nodding to good days ahead.
6 pm summer sitting au dehors, sun warm skin, chilled wine, sea call.
Same time, different time.
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Prompt : Confessions. [ From a zoom session during Covid lockdown.]
When I was young,
With my grubby index finger and thumb,
I swiped icing off the side of the cake
intended for visitors
and greedily sucked them clean
and swore the cat
had done the damage.
I have pretended not to hear a doorbell ring
so that I could stay in my book world.
Having given a long lecture on not doing this
I squished an insect under my sturdy shoe.
I have reached into an open cereal box
with my bare hand
and smuggled out
a fistful of crunching satisfaction.
I pretended not to be me
when someone I didn't want to speak to
unexpectedly answered my phone call.
I've used a disposable face mask twice.
I've used a reusable face mask twice before washing it.
I have pretended to be hard at work
on research
and emails
when I'm playing Solitaire.
I made myself laugh
each time
at the right time
when hearing my dad retelling
the same anecdote
countless times.
And I wish I could do that again.
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Prompt : What lies beneath? [Quickwrite - 5 mins 10 sec.]
When I was a child we went to Mayo for our holidays where my bed companion was my granny. During the day I was her assistant as she baked bread, fed the hens, collected eggs, fetched the milk, washed the plates. Sometimes I was allowed behind the counter of the post office in the porch and could use the worn wooden postal stamp with the ink pad, its surface an uneven mountain range from years of pounding, to leave my mark on a postage stamp. I was also one of the respondents to the rosary she gave out each evening as we knelt around the range, except for my uncle who knelt at the chair by the door ready for a quick getaway.
And then bedtime. I had to get in first, next to the wall, and face it, while my granny undressed. A soundscape of sighs, grunts, clicks, clacks, unhooking, unbuttoning, popping, rustling, crinkling, heavy breaths, unclipping filled the room until, at last, the mattress waved with her presence and we had ANOTHER rosary, she and I, while, on the chair next to the bed, all I could see was her dress laid over a soft mound of mystery. What lies beneath?
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Prompt : Sweets. [Quickwrite: 5 mins]
Sweets have been my downfall all through my life. As a child I lost my front top teeth and gained multiple metal fillings all on account of my sweet habit.
A moment on the tongue, a lifetime on the gum. And hips. And stomach.
Why is it that I can always manage to be in the mood for sweets but have to be in the mood for, say, broccoli?
In my childhood I loved fruit pastilles, the hard, sugary texture to crunch through to find the firm jelly that tasted of fruit. I do realise that it was probably more a chemically induced illusion rather than one of my five-a-day.
And wine gums, the hint of sophistication with the word wine, the rubbery, ridged surface, the jaw ache from chewing.
And as for parma violets - tiny, crunchy dies of aromatic joy.
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Confusion
(based on a timed quick write during the summer course)
He struggled to open his eyes. How do you wake up tired he asked himself. But..tired he was. Exhausted. Drained. He thought back to when it had happened. He wiped the sleep crust out of the corner of his eyes. Come on, he urged himself, remember. It was like a plea. He didn't recognise the weakness in his whisper. And yet, the memories kept slipping through his mind, he was like a child unable to hold on to a ball. Each time he grasped at a memory it slipped out of his reach.
They'd been together, of that he was sure. Definitely. They must have been together. They were always together, yet, why was he alone now? He looked down at where his strong muscular arms should be.
Confusion.
Papery, spindly, skinny arms with thin, long tapered fingers. And the blotches and the veins. He couldn't take it in and yet it was familiar. He'd get to the bottom of this. He looked around the room, everything in a soft, blurred focus. His uniform. OH!! There'd be hell to pay. Where was it? One of his bunkmates must've hidden it. Where was it? He was always fastidious, his uniform as clean as a new penny. He needed the security of his uniform. Once he put it on, all would be ok.
He rubbed his hands slowly over his face.
Stubble.
He'd be in trouble if he was seen with stubble. He'd be given the what fro. He'd shaved that morning, using the small broken mirror and resting it on his canteen. In fact, he'd managed to nick his chin in the process. Funny how he couldn't find the scab of it now.
He sat back down on the bed, tired, frightened, a nervousness creeping over him. He knew there was a horrible truth, a reason, a finality just dancing at the edge of his mind...just out of his reach.
He needed to sleep. He'd be late for line out and there'd be hell to pay, but he needed to close his eyes. He lay back and closed his eyes. His eyes dancing under his eyelids as if still searching for his uniform.
She quietly tiptoed towards the bed. He was asleep. His mouth was ajar, snoring softly, his thin chest rising and falling slowly. She pulled the blanket up to his shoulders.
Poor Eddie she thought... an old man of 90 in his body, a young man in his prime in his mind. She shook her head in pity and disgust. Times had changed, but still, young men women went off to fight the wars and some continued fighting them even as they neared the end of their lives, their minds forever trapped in no mans land.
As she closed the door to Eddie's room, she thought of a poem she had learnt in school "Dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori"- it's a sweet and good thing to die for your country. She wondered if Eddie would agree with it if he could.
Thoughts on time.
