I WAS ON THE POINT OF GIVING UP ON THIS BLOG.....

 ....when I saw two responses today that weren't totally off the wall and irrelevant, as most of the previous responses were, sadly to say.

The first was a beautifully relevant appreciation of my sonnet, 'The Heart in the Wall', with some questions which I tried to answer. I was somewhat late in getting back to the pseudonymous enquirer, as the appreciation was published on 05 January last! Coincidentally, I have just come back from a poetry festival in Italy in which I read the same poem with an Italian translation by Rita Castigli. 

I am encouraged to post the same poem again, as it is one very dear to me.

THE HEART IN THE WALL

In the boundary wall of a convent school

close to my home, there’s a heart-shaped stone

beneath hanging leaves. Half-meshed in sleep,

I’m waiting at a bus-stop by the wall

to join the Monday morning's obsequies, 

and notice that the stone has been redone 

bright red, the scrawl of teen initials gone:

a valentine shines nameless under boughs.

A boy once loved a girl who took the veil,

choosing the ghostly company of saints.

An old man now, at night he travels still

once or twice a year to rejuvenate

the heart contained within the convent wall.

Somebody holds a torch for him; he paints.

The other query was from a secondary school student in London asking some probing questions about 'Please Hold', which is on the EdExcel A Level English Literature Course. And as the fella said, 'If ya haven't heard of it by now, you're not really in the loop.'

POEM FROM NEARBY WHERE I LIVE

 

This sonnet from my latest collection Angel Hour (2021) is based on a heart-shaped stone in the wall of a former convent school on O'Connell Avenue, Limerick City, not far from where I live.

Who keeps re-painting the stone bright red?

I suggest an answer to this question in the second part of the poem.

THE HEART IN THE WALL

In the boundary wall of a convent school

close to my home, there’s a heart-shaped stone

under hanging leaves. Half-meshed in sleep,

I’m waiting at a bus-stop by the wall

to join the morning rush-hour’s obsequies, 

and notice that the stone has been redone 

bright red, the scrawl of teen initials gone:

a valentine shines nameless under boughs.

A boy once loved a girl who took the veil,

choosing the ghostly company of saints.

An old man now, at night he travels still

once or twice a year to rejuvenate

the heart contained within the convent wall.

Somebody holds a torch for him; he paints.

© Ciaran O'Driscoll 2021

AREN'T POETS GAS ALTOGETHER!

 THE CATCH IN THE  SNIB

A fellow poet once conversed with me

about opening a door, telling me

how to open a certain door

after I had given a reading

at the Cork Spring Poetry Festival.

He went to great lengths to tell me

about the catch in the snib,

an Irish Oxford poet who ought

to know the art of conversation

but I think he rather overdid it.

I suppose it was his way

of being helpful: not wanting

to be poetically helpful in terms

of my career advancement,

he told me about the catch in the snib

of the door I was about to go through,

the door of my exit from the lounge

of the Long Valley in Winthrop Street

towards the closest toilet in the pub.

At least he was expecting me to return

and not wishing me to be on my way

because I was merely on my way

to the bathroom. But boy did he go

to great lengths explaining the catch in the snib!

He could have explained to me the catch

in the snib of getting an Oxford reading

or the catch in the snib of a reading tour

in the Ivy League Colleges but instead

he explained the catch in the snib

of the door on the way to the Jakes

of the Long Valley Lounge in Cork,

and he was a Cork Poet himself

who lectured in Oxford and could 

have invited me to give a reading 

in Oxford University but instead

he bored me blank-faced with details

about a trick to open a rest-room door. 

Perhaps it was meant as a metaphor

for my ostracised condition,

a cryptic exhortation to wise up.

And indeed, reflecting afterwards 

on the intensity of his admonishments

concerning the importance of knowing

about the catch in the snib 

of the door that led to the Long Valley Gents,

I came to the conclusion that

it was a coded communication

somewhat along the following lines:

You need to find a bogus mode of discourse

That deflects things. Tell it slant.

The slanter the better. Whatever you say

Say nothing. Well of course you have

to say something, but don’t be a dipstick.

The snib on the door of Oxford University

is particularly difficult. Always was.

Begin with the snib on the door that leads to the Jakes

 from the Lounge of the Long Valley Pub

and work your way up from there.

COPYRIGHT © CIARAN O'DRISCOLL 2024

POEM REMEMBERING A COLLAPSED LUNG

 

MY POST-OP CASE

For days I carried about

A case containing a whirlpool

When I exercised my battered frame

Walking up and down

The cardiac recovery ward.

Inspectors came at evening

To observe the swirling liquid.

Well, is it slowing down or not?

I asked when one of them

Had stared for far too long

At my body’s agitated humours.

But they found it hard to call,

Like watchers for the shape

Of Proteus in the waves

That tumbled on Grecian shores.

© CIARAN O'DRISCOLL 2023

KNUTE SKINNER POET AND HUMANE SPIRIT, RIP

 

QUEUING

(i.m. Knute Skinner)

Oh yes, there is queuing beyond the grave

And sometimes it spills over to this side.

Take the example of Knute Skinner, poet,

Whose voice was stolen by a stroke and who

For two years queued in silence, not quite gone

Beyond the world but inching onwards. Once                                                 

I published a piece of his about a driver

Stalled in the top spot of a traffic queue,

But yesterday his family, friends and neighbours,

Assembling in a tumbled Clare graveyard,

Saluted him for getting the green light.

O'Brien's Tower, Cliffs of Moher

Poem © Ciaran O'Driscoll 2023

MY SOUTHWORD POETRY PODCAST

 

ABOVE IS A SOUNDBITE OF MY SOUTHWORD POETRY PODCAST, IN WHICH I DISCUSS MY POETRY AND READ SIX POEMS FROM MY MOST RECENT COLLECTION, ANGEL HOUR, PUBLISHED BY SURVISION BOOKS 2021.

CONTRARY TO THE PERCEPTION IN SOME QUARTERS THAT I AM SOME KIND OF RECLUSE, I AM AVAILABLE FOR READINGS, DISCUSSIONS OF POETRY, INTERVIEWS ETC, BOTH IN IRELAND AND GLOBALLY. I HOPE THAT BY LISTENING TO MY SOUTHWORD POETRY PODCAST YOU WILL FIND ME BOTH FORTHCOMING AND OF INTEREST.

THE PODCAST IS AVAILABLE ON MOST SITES, APPLE, SPOTIFY, BUZZSPROUT ETC ETC.

GOOGLING ."SOUTHWORD POETRY PODCASTS" SHOULD GET YOU IN.

YOU MAY CONTACT ME BELOW AT "COMMENT" OR THROUGH MY MEMBERSHIP OF AOSDÁNA, VIA THE IRISH ARTS COUNCIL/ AN CHOMHAIRLE EALAÍON, TELEPHONE +353 1 618 0200, OR EMAIL AOSDANA@ARTSCOUNCIL.IE

A BOOK COVER BY DAVID LILBURN (RIP)

 Below is the cover of my poetry collection The Old Women of Magione (1997) designed by the late David Lilburn. I am currently writing an essay for an Arts Council Blog (related to their 70th Birthday Celebrations) on my various collaborations with this brilliant artist, untimely gone from us.