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.

POEM INSPIRED BY TRADITIONAL MUSIC SESSION

WASPS IN THE SESSION

There’s a wasp in the session, zig-zagging

among the dancing fiddle bows. I can see

the hills of Clare from a window behind

the keyboard accompanist, who’s annoyed

by the presence of the wasp. Neophytes sit 

with instruments en garde, in expectation 

of doing battle with a jig they’ve learned.

Nattering non-stop, another wasp 

plonks himself in a chair reserved for players:

music has pressed his talk-button. Praise

in this culture is reticent, addressed

to the instrument – That whistle is going well

for you – or to the time and toil devoted

to the craft –  It’s not today nor yesterday

you took up the fiddle. A stout countryman

pauses on his way from the Gents and stares

at the lead fiddler as if staring could

yield up the point, the mystery of the music.

When the global economy collapses,

these tunes will still be played – wasps or no wasps.

A dozen or so digital recorders,

some of them so small they must have been

designed by Flann O’Brien’s Third Policeman,

are planted near the session. The wasps have gone,

one through an open casement, one through the door.

Somebody calls for a song. The Clare Hills

are looking good: I see them through the window

as if for the first time. It’s not today

nor yesterday they learned to play the light.

© Ciaran O'Driscoll, 2011

Note: I wrote the first draft of this poem in Feakle, Co Clare, during a Sunday morning session at the annual Traditional Music Festival, on August 7th last. The 'lead fiddler' in the poem (and in the session) was Vincent Griffin.

THE RIVER RIVER

Reka is the Slovene word for river. There is a river in Slovenia which is simply called Reka. Hence when we call it the Reka River in English, we are calling it the River River. An interesting idea: is there a River River, the essence of all rivers, the Platonic Idea of Riverdom?
The Reka rises in Croatia, flows through western Slovenia and enters the Skocjan Caves, where it disappears beneath the caves to re-emerge eventually as one of the springs that feed the Timavo River in Italy, hence makes its way to the sea as part of the Timavo. Many lives were lost in the nineteenth century by volunteers with inadequate equipment and experience who tried to find the path taken by the Reka when it went underneath the Skocjan Caves.
A strange river, but looking at this photograph (taken very close to where it enters the cave) you wouldn't think so!

river don’t cast me aside

in a mood-swing of your psyche 

we are passing the time of day

together, let me stay 

crouched here listening

to your pure palaver