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.

A POEM FOR MY GRANDSON, OSCAR, NOW 16 MONTHS OLD

 

GRANDSON

(for Oscar)

I sit on the sofa beside

My one-year-old grandson

Watching midsummer showers

Speckle the window pane

His warm hand in mine

I think of Kavanagh’s poem

‘Every old man I see’

And know I’m one of them

I show my face on the mobile

To the offspring of my son

And then show him his own.

He slips my hand and is gone

Taking me through the rigours

of a mad merry-go-round

He’s a yacht out on the bay

I’m a hulk that’s run aground

But the foc’s’le of the spirit

on the wreckage of my hope 

still boasts a live transmitter

towards which my fingers grope

And from perdition’s shell

Till the channel disconnects

I’ll sing him songs of culture

and its enlightened texts.

Copyright Ciaran O'Driscoll 2022 

LENDING HANDS IN LISBON

LENDING HANDS IN LISBON

"The duty of a writer is to remind us that we will die.

And that we aren't dead yet." Solmaz Sharif

I fell with my chair outside A Brasileira,

slumped to flagstones as it tipped a ledge

beside the coffee shop frequented by

Fernando Pessoa. A woman near me

was sipping a clear drink I thought was schnapps

until she told me later it was port.

As for Pessoa, he sat there impassive

under his trilby, taking nothing in.

  

But others reached out to lever me from 

my prone position: half-a-dozen hands

descended towards me in slow motion, faces

full of solicitude looked down on me. 

A voice called Gently, gently, lift him gently. 

Out of nowhere, a doctor declared himself, 

inspected the wrist which bore my tumble’s brunt,

said I was fine and recommended ice.

I felt well enough to finish my brioche

despite some pain and discombobulation,

but I thought it churlish of Pessoa

to sit there dandily indifferent,

a simulacrum, while a fellow poet

plummeted on a ledge-forsaking chair

to possible perdition from the platform

I visited in portly pilgrimage.

It was mid-morning. Not having touched a drop,

even of clear port, I was clear-headed

enough to catch Pessoa’s quiet response

to my hasty umbrage at his disregard:

Beaten in bronze and far beyond the year

of grace I was given to ghost through Lisbon, 

I, too, would have liked to lend you a hand.

My dilemma was, and remains, that I am dead.

© Ciaran O'Driscoll 2022