Wednesday, 21 May 2014

THE HORSE IN THE DISCOURSE OF THE RUBBERBANDITS

Limerick is well-known for its horses. They can be seen all over the place harnessed to sulkies, with a single driver holding the reins and leaning almost horizontally across the skeletal, one-seated frame. Horses can be seen grazing in fields within and on the edges of the city boundaries, piebald and roan and patchy and thrown-down looking.
    The Rubberbandits, a comedy hip-hop duo from Limerick, have taken the horse to their hearts. Is this because the horse might be 'a metaphor for a community centre' as one of them asks in a prank call to a psychotherapist? But as the psychotherapist says, humans are very complicated and it's hard to know exactly why the caller constantly dreams of horses as a result of a dog 'having sex with his head'. If his head was made pregnant by a dog, the caller wants to know, why is he dreaming of a horse, shouldn't he be dreaming of a puppy?
    'Horse Outside', a single released by the Rubberbandits in late 2010, had phenomenal success and led to the duo's being catapulted into fame. The phrase reverberated in the English language as spoken in Ireland. It was even alluded to in an article about an architect in the Arts Section of The Irish Times. On You Tube its fame went viral and global. I remember how much all three of us loved it in my home. It struck some truly resonant chord for us. As it did for hundreds of thousands of others. I want to suggest why this might be so in the following few paragraphs.
    First of all, 'Horse Outside' presents a traditional, animal mode of transport in the midst of flashy mechanical modes of transport which have become status symbols in a pathologically status-conscious society. When the sexy young woman mentions the alternative modes of transport available to her from rival suitors, the Spar-bag-masked swain dismisses them all in favour of his equine means of conveyance:  'F**k your Mitsubishi, I've a horse outside....'
    This admirer of female allure comes into a highly artificial and class-conscious society like a blast from the past, like a healthy force of nature, full of primordial, unselfconscious confidence. He doesn't give a damn about the claims to a woman's heart represented by ownership of flashy cars; he believes (as I think we all do deep down) that a horse is a far superior being to a mechanically propelled vehicle. This cocky wooer is making a claim for a true gradation of status: the superiority of a living being over a piece of metal.
    Not only that, but the image of a horse outside is a powerful one. The horse which is outside the door of the church is also outside our society, outside the wedding feast, outside the pale. It conjures up in my mind the Ancient Mariner, the Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth, An Inspector Calls, The Green KnightDeath the Leveller, the Eumenides, the Reckoning.
    I don't think it is too over the top to say that the Rubberbandits' horse outside also conjures up death and judgement. In one of their sketches, a claim is made that the only things that ghosts are frightened of are horses. There is also the echo between 'horse' and 'hearse': 'I have a hearse outside'. The church is a scene of funerals as well as of weddings. First Love, Last Rites is the title of a book by Ian McEwan.
    Not only does our society shut out the horse, it also blanks out on death. In the old days, it was a horse that drew the hearse to the final resting place. This is still so in the case of travellers, who are like the horse in that they are also 'outside'.
    Class distinction, sex, death and disparity are, of course, the life-blood of comedy.
© copyright Ciaran O'Driscoll 2014





Friday, 2 May 2014

SONNET FOR MY WIFE AT EIGHT-FIFTEEN



EIGHT-FIFTEEN



Laden with desk diary, handbag, lunch pack, 
raincoat, umbrella, an extra pullover,
my wife is going out the door to work
on a windy morning in late October.
I watch and recommend myself to take
this snap of eight-fifteen across her years
of nine-to-five: the way she bends to put
the key in the ignition, settles herself,
then takes a moment to survey the street.
The engine stirs and she who is my life-
companion, my momentous one, who grows
with the advancing days more weather-proof,
has driven off and left a parking space,
a jackdaw preening on the opposite roof.


© Ciaran O'Driscoll 2014


Friday, 18 April 2014

Friday, 21 March 2014

A POEM (AND PICTURE) FOR WORLD POETRY DAY



HOPE

If it hadn't been there from the start... But it was,
and this is what it means to you: morning,
no matter, without reason, above all.

Morning no matter, if it hadn't
been there without reason above all,
you huddled in an overcoat and gone.

Against the rain, against the wind, with this,
no matter you huddled in an overcoat
and doing the morning without reason.

Rain raking the trees, tattooing the windows,
the changing of the light, the distances
of sky and shore, this irresistible.

If it hadn't been there above all from the start,
no matter the changing of the light,
you with an overcoat covered and gone.

But it was yours and this is what it means:
morning, and doing these rainy distances
of sky and shore, you irresistible.



From Life Monitor © Ciaran O'Driscoll (2009)

Thursday, 27 February 2014

POSTWOMAN




POSTWOMAN

Postwoman, ply your metier
from door to door and street to street
in balmy sun or when it’s wetter
in rain and fog and slushy sleet.

And leave your bicycle to stand
outside a local pub or grocer’s
except where things are out of hand
and thieves ignored by law-enforcers,

then you must wheel it as you pop 
from letterbox to letterbox
resting it everywhere you stop, 
which slows you down like when you knock

at homes that lack postal access,
or when you deliver bulky parcels.
Once, as you chatted at a house,
I saw your cycle seized by rascals

complete with mailbag. Luckily
the theft turned out to be a prank
by youngsters on a cider-spree.
Postwoman far from being a crank,

you tongue-lashed the culprits, then set to
your task again, a pleasant hike
because the man you were talking to
kindly offered to mind the bike.

Whether bliss, indifference or woe
the tidings in your missives meet,
postwoman, ply your valued chore
from house to house, from street to street.

In a uniform labelled Post
that’s slate-blue and whose badge is green,
in summer plod through heat and dust,
through ice and snow in winter’s spleen.



© Ciaran O'Driscoll 2014


Tuesday, 11 February 2014

FLOOD-POEM



THE DELUGE

What happened to sympathy and compassion?
We don’t even ask these days, it wouldn’t be
too bad if we did. One after another
calamities, and then disasters, come
numbing us, while charity bosses line
their nests. This afternoon I watched a bird
for half an hour – or was it this morning?
I forget what struck me about the bird,
its compact size, feathered fragility
or aerial prowess? All three, perhaps.
Yesterday the Shannon burst its banks,
and a man from the city council appeared
on the news, staring into the face of doom. 
The highest tide on record, he said. Seven
inches higher than the previous one. 
Noah’s Ark, I thought, that’s what struck me about 
the bird, sent out to look for landfall from 
the Island Field, simultaneously 
a bird and symbol of deliverance.
Today, all of a sudden, climate change
is a fact, no longer open to debate:
politicians have begun to use the phrase.
Seven inches up from the previous high,
said the man from the city council on TV,
gaping at the future. Lucky so far,
I live on high ground, on the other side.


The Island Field: St Mary’s Park, a housing estate in Limerick which was very badly flooded during recent storms.

© Ciaran O’Driscoll 2014



Friday, 18 October 2013

CUISLE, LIMERICK CITY'S ANNUAL POETRY FESTIVAL, IS HERE AGAIN



WED 23 OCTOBER: 

8pm Launching by artist John Shinnors, Flannery's Bar, Catherine St.

9.30 pm Garbiel Fitzmaurice and Open Mic at the White House Bar

THURS 24 OCTOBER: 

1.00 pm Reading by Ron Carey, the Hunt Museum

7pm Launch of The Stony Thursday Book, 69 O'Connell St (formerly the Belltable)

8pm Jo Slade, Marco Viscomi, Adam Wyeth at 69 O'Connell St

FRIDAY 25 OCTOBER:

1.00 pm Reading by Kerrie O'Brien, the Hunt Museum

7pm Ciaran O'Driscoll celebrating 70 years, 69 O'Connell St 

8pm Biddy Jenkinson, David Wheatley at 69 O'Connell St

9.30pm Poetry Films, 69 O'Connell St

SATURDAY 26 OCTOBER: 

1.00pm Tribute to poets no longer with us: Dennis O'Driscoll, Pearse Hutchinson, 
Nobel Laureate Seamus Heaney, 69 O'Connell St

8pm Anthony Cronin, Hugh Maxton, 69 O'Connell St


COME AND JOIN US AT CUISLE!