IT'S 9th FEBRUARY AND ROSES ARE BLOOMING. WHAT???

While the rest of Europe, including the UK, is in the grip of ice and snow, the western half (at least) of Ireland is mild and damp. I did a bit of a double take this morning when I looked out at the garden and saw the rose bush below beginning to bloom. Is this Climate Change or am I a Dutchman?

Perhaps my brother Donal, a keen gardener, would care to comment? Or anyone else for that matter.

THE SULKY – A METAPHOR FOR IRELAND'S WOES?

SULKY IN THE RAIN

Oh I’m drivin’ me auld sulky in the rain
Yes I’m drivin’ me auld sulky in the rain
The seat it bites me ass
But I’m feelin’ kind of class
‘Cos I’m drivin’ me auld sulky in the rain

Oh I’m drivin’ me auld sulky in the rain
But you’ll never ever hear me complain
In any kind of weather
Long as I can hold together
When I’m drivin’ me auld sulky in the rain

Yes I’m drivin’ me auld sulky in the rain
And I’m not too sure which part of me’s me brain
Me feet are way up where
Me head should be but I don’t care
When I’m drivin’ me auld sulky in the rain

Yes I’m drivin’ that auld sulky in the rain
Not a bother to occupy me brain
Though the seat’s gone up me hole
And I’m signin’ on the dole
I’m still drivin’ that auld sulky in the rain

Oh I’m drivin’ that auld sulky in the rain
And there’s no room for a missus or a wain
So I say ‘Thank God for that’
As I speed along the flat
Drivin’ me auld sulky in the  rain


© Ciaran O’Driscoll 2012

ON THE FLAGGY SHORE OF POETRY

Participants in Limerick City's Cuisle International Poetry Festival stop at a spot near Fanore on their way through the Burren to Linnane's Pub, New Quay, for a plate of oysters and a pint of Guinness (or whatever you're havin' yourself).

Above: John Davies of Brighton who later in the evening (15 October 2011) won the annual Poetry Grand Slam.

Poets negotiating the grykes between rock pavements, L to R: Lee Harwood (UK), Iztok Osojnik (Slovenia), John Davies (UK), Thomas Zandegiacomo (Germany), Clare Best (UK).

The Group, L to R: Tom Lewis (Driver), Valerie Laws, Lee Harwood, Clare Best, Iztok Osojnik, Thomas Zandegiacomo, Yours Truly, John Davies, Tom Quinn (Driver).

Waiting for lunch in Linnane's with New Quay pier in the left background. My wife, Margaret Farrelly, who took the other photographs, is at the end of the left side of the table, raising a modest glass of Guinness.

Afterwards, the sun came out and the problem was to get everybody back from the idyllic setting in time for the evening events: the launching of Catalan poet Joan Margarit's latest collection, Strangely Happy, translated by Anna Crowe (I cannot recommend it highly enough), and a powerful reading by Margarit with Dublin poet Paula Meehan. 

This difficult task of keeping to the schedule was accomplished through the ancient art of gathering and herding poets into mechanically propelled vehicles.

EINE KLEINE NACHTMUSIK PLEASE HOLD

PLEASE HOLD

This is the future, my wife says. 

We are already there, and it’s the same 

as the present. Your future, here, she says. 

And I’m talking to a robot on the phone. 

The robot is giving me countless options, 

none of which answer to my needs. 

Wonderful, says the robot 

when I give him my telephone number. 

And Great, says the robot 

when I give him my account number. 

I have a wonderful telephone number 

and a great account number, 

but I can find nothing to meet my needs 

on the telephone, and into my account 

(which is really the robot’s account) 

goes money, my money, to pay for nothing. 

I’m paying a robot for doing nothing. 

This call is free of charge, says the mind-reading robot. 

Yes but I’m paying for it, I shout, 

out of my wonderful account 

into my great telephone bill. 

Wonderful, says the robot. 

And my wife says, This is the future. 

I’m sorry, I don’t understand, says the robot. 

Please say Yes or No. 

Or you can say Repeat or Menu. 

You can say Yes, No, Repeat or Menu, 

Or you can say Agent if you’d like to talk 

to someone real, who is just as robotic. 

I scream Agent! and am cut off, 

and my wife says, This is the future. 

We are already there and it’s the same 

as the present. Your future, here, she says.

And I’m talking to a robot on the phone, 

and he is giving me no options 

in the guise of countless alternatives. 

We appreciate your patience. Please hold. 

Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. Please hold. 

Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. Please hold. 

Eine fucking Kleine Nachtmusik. 

And the robot transfers me to himself. 

Your call is important to us, he says. 

And my translator says, This means 

your call is not important to them. 

And my wife says, This is the future. 

And my translator says, Please hold 

means that, for all your accomplishments, 

the only way you can now meet your needs 

is by looting. Wonderful, says the robot 

Please hold. Please grow old. Please grow cold. 

Please do what you’re told. Grow old. Grow cold. 

This is the future. Please hold. 

© Ciaran O'Driscoll

Note: Originally published in Southword literary magazine (Cork), 'Please Hold' was selected as one of the Highly Commended poems in the Forward Book of Poetry 2009, and was published this month in Poems of the Decade: an anthology of the Forward books of poetry 2002-2011. 

CUISLE LIMERICK POETRY FESTIVAL 2011 SCHOOLS' PROGRAMME

CUISLE LIMERICK CITY INTERNATIONAL POETRY FESTIVAL 2011

CLIFFS, A VOLCANO AND A FISH-EATING MAMMAL

The last time I was in Tenerife, a friend of a friend from Limerick, who lived on the island for half of every year, took Margaret and myself in his car to see Mount Teide (El Teide), one of the highest volcanoes in the world if you start from the sea bed. In the tourist complex below the volcano, I experienced a brief period of acute shortness of breath. I began to think, This is it, until I realized I was over 2000 meters above sea level. The volcano is still active, though the last eruption was over a century ago, in 1909.
That is not a cow grazing to the right of the volcano's mouth!

We were also taken to see Tenerife's answer to the Cliffs of Moher – Los Gigantes, near the resort of Puerto de Santiago.

And here I am, a fish-eating mammal, back at sea level.