The Irish Cycle: Lord Malahide

Fourteen years. Two children.
One miscarriage; her racking sobs in the night.
Her eyes reveal nothing; I hardly know her.

Her eyes are hazel with flecks of green,
She has noble carriage, a proud woman’s gait;
Her black sweeping hair has a blueish sheen,
She stands before me, my wife and mate.

- Dear wife.
- My lord husband.

Why have I ignored her all these years,
Under the one roof, food from the one table;
My voice when I speak holds back the tears:
Can I bridge this chasm, am I still able?

- The children?
- Quite safe, My Lord. They sleep.
- I have need to speak with you.
- My Lord?
- Come, let us move into a private chamber.
- Shall I disrobe?
- No, no, no, no, no – it’s not like that at all!
- Have I displeased you in some way?
- Not at all, my dear, quite the contrary.

O’REILLY !!!

- Sir, yes sir?
- Bring us some wine, like a good fellow.
- Very good, sir. The usual, is it?
- No, no … bring in the good Spanish.
- Not much left, sir. Are ye sure?
- Just do what I tell you, dammit!
- Rightyo, sir.
- And don’t say rightyo!
- Righty …very good, sir.

We move into the wind-cooled room,
It has Italian marble walls and floor;
There is a passing chill, a hint of the tomb,
I softly, firmly, shut the door.

- My Lord?
- My dear, I cherish and respect you.
- My Lord is most gracious.
- O, stop that! The fact is I love you.
- Love, my Lord?
- Perhaps I haven’t made my feelings plain.
- Lady Agnes, Lady Jane,
Lady Patricia, the parlour maid,
and that little blonde wench in the kitchen?
My Lord has made his feelings plain enough.
- O, come now, that means nothing!
- My Lord, I think it does.

Knock-knock

- What now?
- The wine, sir.
- Bring it in, blast you!
- Rightyo, sir.
- And don’t you bloody well …
- Ah, sorry, sir.
The good Spanish, sir.
Not much left of it, mind,
I was just after telling the cook …
-Would you kindly pour the wine, O’Reilly?
Pour the wine, man, and clear off!
- There was fourteen sat down to breakfast
and every one, sir, was dead before dinner.
- What? Not now, O’Reilly.
- Tis a vision, sir. I saw it clearly.
These things will come to pass.
- I’ll wring your bloody neck, O’Reilly.
How’s that for a vision?
- Rightyo, sir.

A pause. A tasteless sip of priceless wine.

- My dear, the situation …
- I am aware of the situation.
The enemy has marched from Dublin.
We will soon be under attack.
- Yes, well, I suppose the whole castle knows.
- And now my Lord is … afraid?

When she spoke those words, love drained from my heart,
I gazed at her coldly from across four hundred years;
Like my forefathers I too could play my part,
I would never, could never, succumb to my fears.

- You misunderstand me, my Lady.
- I think I understand you well enough.
- I see. You will stay with the children.
Neither they nor you will come to any harm.

There was a glint in her eyes, a hint of derision,
a mockery in those hazel, green-flecked eyes,
and I could suddenly catch a glimpse of myself
as seen by this woman through all those years.
Upon this, not the battle, I reflected, ruefully,
as I strapped on my nearly new armour
and called for my old but sharpened sword.

Soon came the enemy to the gates:
dear God, these brazen, upstart English!
Well, it was the usual confused affair,
a lot of noise and dust and private agony.
We were deemed to have won since we didn’t quite lose,
the traditional form of Irish victory,
and our lives settled back to the normal round.

I continue to live at the castle,
Richard, Lord Admiral of Malahide
and the adjoining seas surrounding,
with my lady wife and children.
She looks at me now with apprehension.
O’Reilly has a brother, a prosperous smuggler;
we have twenty new barrels of good Spanish wine.
Upon occasion, as a means of diversion,
I ride to Dublin with a light escort,
there to visit certain friends of mine.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Malahide Castle was built by the Talbots in 1185 and remained in the family until the death of the last in the male line, Sir Milo, in 1973. On the morning of July 1, 1689 (by the Old Calendar) fourteen men of the family sat down together for breakfast and by nightfall all fourteen had fallen at the Battle of the Boyne. The castle and surrounding parklands were sold to the Irish State in 1975 and are a popular picnic destination for Dubliners. The pleasant seaside village bearing the same name is now home to Adam Clayton and the Edge of the rock band U2.

Japan

Japan
is a neon tangle
of buildings and streets
and black-haired people
scuttling among
indecipherable signs
flashing flashing
with vending machines
on every city block
dispensing
condoms and coca-cola and coffee
beer and cigarettes
farm-fresh eggs
whatever you want but don't really need
in a never-ending
mechanical amoral hedonistic
cornocupia



















Japan
when you step off the plane
for the first time
overwhelms your senses
and makes you
think seriously
you are on some other planet
nobody understands a word you say
but when you
leave the "gaijin" cocoon
tentatively, slowly
full of misgivings
as when you first do something unusual
you can't help smiling

Japan
sucks you in
even Tokyo
a frenetic urban nightmare
with a whiff of drains
entrances
your roving imagination
enhances
your sliding divorce
from familiarity
this country
this whole damn archipelago
is
Disneyland on wheels
and when
you get food drink and shelter
(a job)
you start to think
hoo boy!



















Japan
revolves around you
spinning
because
you are a drop-in from Mars
you can't understand
you can't speak
you can't read
and you sure as hell can't write
so
you wander about like
an amiable impressionable
idiot
and this is when
the first great decision comes
you either
seek out other exiles
to complain to commiserate
to criticise
or else you
jump into the strangeness.















Japan
is surprisingly
tolerant
of opinionated loudmouths
from overseas, but
when you crawl out
from under that shell
you start to discover
a different country
in which delicacy
of feeling
sensitivity
and a strong reverence for ancient traditions
still exists
in a quiet restrained
understated way
as if the people
were shy to share
age-old convictions
with yawping barbarians.

Japan
is umbillically attuned
to each passing season
festivals and family gatherings
are faithfully observed
from generation to generation
but done so casually
so confidently
you sense
with a surge of sudden knowledge
that you are walking
in the presence of the past
and the long-dead generations
look down benignly
and with fond affection
on the children of the present
you can feel that
and after a while
want to be part of it

Japan
is almost wilfully
misunderstood
we think of them
as a nation of worker robots
in a way that repairs our pride
and appeases the pain
of Pearl Harbour
Bataan, the Bangkok Railway
and puts them down
belittling the fangs
of a former enemy
(a formidable people
when aroused)
who scared
the living bejesus
out of our grandfathers
but you wouldn't know it
now, with everything
so clean so polite
so efficient
you can drop your wallet on the street
and pick it up next week.















Japan
begins to open
its inner doors
after fearful painful struggle
when you start to crack
the hard nutty core of language
in the first three years
sweating blood
you think you are doing well
in the next three years
you come to realize
you know nothing
so when I saw
that fashionable movie
Lost in Translation
I thought: what these people
are doing is celebrating
their own incomprehension
their alienation
in the hope
of getting back
to the Real World soon

Japan
is
equally real

19:89

In the spring of 1989 it became apparent that something new and strange was happening in Eastern Europe. When the Hungarians opened their border with Austria a flood of East German refugees poured into Hungary and then on to the West. That summer I went to Vienna and travelled from there to Budapest, Prague and East Berlin. Change was in the air and you could feel in your bones that it was only a matter of time before the whole system of puppet states collapsed. In the late summer and early autumn the great marches and mass demonstrations began; by the end of the year nearly all of the nations of the former Soviet Bloc had toppled their governments and opened their borders. It was as though an Ice Age had come to an end ....



As one they came,
a manyheaded multitude,
determined, not particularly brave,
impatient just to brush away
the webs and cords that bound them,
to find their way to freedom.
All changed, changed utterly
( "the words of a dead man
are modified
in the guts
of the living . . ." )
a terrible beauty is born.
As when in the hushed and hardwon chamber
one soft imprinted kiss
brought a tingle of bloodborne life
to the silent frozen form
and a world awoke
as it now awakes
to a shy but troubled dawn.

Joe McInerney

Who fears to speak
Of Easter Week?

Late that April morning
I was just coming off
my shift, when suddenly,
who should rise up before me
but young Jimmy Docherty
in crisp unaccustomed
splendour: Jayzus, Jim,
where in the name
of all that's holy
did ye ever come by
that ... that uniform?

All bought and paid for,
says Jim with a grin,
amn't I after paying
two shillin's a week
to the Countess, like.
Ah, the Countess, says I,
would that be yer wan?
O, the very article.
Fierce woman, I'm told.
O, dreadful indeed.
No chance of a look-in?
Haha, laughs Jimmy,
put that thought behind you,
la di feckin da!

Ah, the likes of them, says I,
but what has yourself
abroad, so resplendent,
on this fine Easter Monday?
Tis a parade, says Jimmy,
ourselves and the Volunteers,
a march from Liberty Hall
with a stop at the GPO.
One in the eye to the English,
says I, here in the midst
of their great big war?
God send they lose,
says he with a serious look.
Sure, let them all get kilt,
says I, more power to them,
the less o' them the better.

Is that what you believe,
says Jimmy, half smiling.
Well, and why wouldn't I?
Will you come with me so?
Whereabouts? Around the corner,
a leisurely stroll to the GPO.
Ten minutes will do me no harm,
says I, then it's home to the flat,
to the rashers and sausages.
O Jayz, you're a fearful man
for the feed, says Jimmy.

Is that a real rifle, says I,
or just a bloody good imitation?
O, tis real enough, says he,
with real bullets inside it.
Down with the British Empire!
says I with a happy grin.
Upon which the sun never sets,
answers Jim with a laugh.
For God, we roared out together,
won't trust them in the dark!
Well, tis a fine day for it,
says I ; O, today, says Jim,
is a day that will live forever!
Are ye cracked or what, man,
today will run its course
much the same as any other:
the gentry will go out to the races,
and I’ll go home to me tea,
and we'll wake up tomorrow
under the same oul' Union Jack.

We might, says Jimmy,
and, then again, we might not.
But will ye look over there!
Who in the name of Jayzus,
says I, is that precious article?
Tis Patrick Pearse, says he,
known to himself if none other
as “Padraig O Piarsach” in Irish .
Go ‘way! Aye, the very man,
says he, some half-caste English
sleveen, teaching the Irish nation
how to be more Irish; well, sure,
isn’t that the way of them, boyo?
See yer man there, have a gander,
shaking at the knees, suppressing
his Southside accent, reading out
the Proclamation of the Republic!

A peculiar chill came over me,
slim icy fingers of apprehension
clutched at my heart: Jim, says I,
is this an act, or is it the real M'Coy?
Tis as real as ye like, Joe, says he.
I’ll be leaving ye now, so good luck,
and get yourself home to your tea.
Will ye hang on a sec, Jimmy …!
I watched as he crossed the road:
the windows were being smashed in
and an armed company of soldiers,
Volunteers and Citizen Army,
came to a crashing halt, broke ranks,
and rushed into the building.

I hesitated, sorely puzzled,
then slowly and reluctantly,
started to walk away:
I had gone three steps
when I rushed in after them.

-------------------------------------------
This is a dialogue poem based on actual events in Dublin on Easter Monday 1916. Here are some notes and links for the interested:

'the Countess' - Countess Constance Markiewicz, doyenne of the Citizen Army

the GPO - General Post Office, the main Dublin post office on O'Connell Street and HQ of the rebellion.

Liberty Hall - HQ of the main Dublin trade unions.

For general background on the Easter Rising, check the following links:
dublinerinjapan, BBC History, Easter 1916

Finally, a commemorative poem by WB Yeats:

Monsieur le Marquis d'Angouleme

being an Epistle to his young Mistress, January 24, 1763

Dear little thing, come down no more,
There is nothing further I can do;
I have gone on a limb, I have tried everything,
I have done everything for you.

The bright parade of life proceeds,
I was thrilled when you squeezed my hand;
When it came to my deepest, darkest needs,
My dear, you could not understand.

The end of the lengthy road approaches,
And my spirit slips away, unseen;
I am subject to your bitter reproaches,
I depart, as though I’d never been.

You will come, I know, and stand at my grave
And, dark-eyed, shed some tears;
In the core of your heart you will always save
Sweet anger, all those gentle years.

Ezra Pound in China

To the memory of the T'ang poet Li Po
who drowned in the year 762 AD,
drunk, and with his spirit all over the heavens,
diving to embrace the harvest moon
shining on still waters.





Bright moonlight falling on my bed
gleams like frost upon the ground:

Lifting my head I remember
how silly, how human you were,
immortal now, made part of the splendid folly
with which you died: the beauty
lingers, I smile and salute you,
raising (again) the parting glass
to the true-man of Shi-yo,
to the undimmed voice.

China -- delicate, unreal, as distant
as the rattle of teacups in the soft
sunlight of vicarage gardens,
enshrouded now in fragile sepia
with other dull unbending times,
and a thousand times a thousand
passions, sweaty battles and couplings:
the strain, the hopes, the failure.

But you, your China chose you well,
and armed with its lean and lucid tongue,
you set off for distant cloudcut mountains
with wine, and with close companions,
over roads that were twisted like sheep's guts,
until the red-faced foreman of Kan-chu
came staggering out to greet you
at the river bridge.

Then the path led on to the willow temple,
to food on jewelled tables
to the sound of flutes and drums,
and the crimsoned girls were getting drunk about sunset
by waters as clear as blue jade,
rippling . . . softly rippling.
And all this comes to an end (you said)

All this comes to an end.
And it is not again to be met with

Lifting my head I see the bright moon
I lower it, thinking, thinking . . .

-----------------------------------------------------

The first two and last two lines are my own translation of a poem by Li Po known to every homesick Chinese in the world. The title of the poem is a nod of recognition to a dated anthology of translated poetry edited by Ezra Pound (now out of print), in which I first came in contact with Li Po, known as 'Rihaku' in Japanese.

Nagasaki

White light
on my way to school,
blinding,
then sudden heat:
sometime later
I awoke,
saw shadows of people
imprinted
on walls;
rubble, twisted
spectacles, sandals,
my lunchbox
gone.

I went home,
there was
no home:
no mother,
father,
sister, no-one.
My skin began
peeling, like
an apple, an orange;
I sat
under warm
black rain
alone,
feeling nothing.

(translated into German by Sybille Castens)

Weißes Licht
Auf meinem Schulweg
Blendend,
dann plötzlich Hitze:
irgendwann später
wachte ich auf
sah Schatten von Menschen
eingeprägt
in Mauern;
Schutt, herumgewirbelt
Brillen, Sandalen
meine Brotdose
fort

Ich ging heim
Da war
kein Heim
nicht Mutter
Vater
Schwester, niemand
Meine Haut begann
Sich zu schälen wie
Ein Apfel,
eine Orange:
unter warmem
schwarzem Regen
saß ich
allein,
nichts fühlend.

(and into Spanish, by Adam)

Luz blanca
en el sendero a escuela,
cegando,
entonces calor repentino:
alguna vez luego
me desperté,
vi sombras de personas
impreso
por paredes;
escombro, gafas
torcidas, sandalitas,
mi fiambrera
se va.

Fui a casa,
no había
casa:
madre,
padre,
hermanita, nadie.
Mi piel empezó
pelar, como
una manzana, una naranja;
me senté
bajo la lluvia
negra, tibia;
solo,
me sintiéndo nada.

the usurper with trepidation contemplates his image within the mirror

Listen
to the sound of impatient waves
beating upon the rocky shores
within your brain :
insistent, commanding,
not very soothing at all,
a reminder of your sudden rise,
and a slow mocking premonition
-------------------------------------
of failure, oblivion, perdition,
as you, sinecure of all eyes,
await the impending fall.
Persistent, demanding,
envious of gain,
your enemies plan to lock the doors,
pound you to death with staves.
Listen.

artifacts

In a glass case, enclosed, displayed,
I saw with horror for the first time,
a ten-year-old observer, that life
was not only strange but dangerous.

Teeth and hanks of hair stared up at me,
a recognizable human figure, a silent
scream across a score of centuries:
Sacrificial Victim, circa 400 BC.

The eyes were gone but the teeth were not,
teeth that had bitten into hunks of meat,
into grains and beans, sustenance,
that had grazed on the lips of a woman.

So what was that world you lived in
under the same old sun and moon,
among rivers and fields and mountains,
human faces, your harsh compelling gods?

My father came along and took my hand.
It does no good to look on these things.
There is nothing we can do, he said,
Not now, not then, not ever.

Derry

The Irish Cycle: An Doire
Derry City, 1968-1998














The streeling wind
blows in from the west
with the smell of the smokestacks
and ingrained poverty;
the sudden tears, unwelcome,
sting in my staring,
unblinking eyes: I see
the same old streets, unchanged,
the rain-streaked heartless
bricks and stones, the geography
of sorrow. From here, No. 21,
Aunt Molly kissed Uncle Pat good bye
and never saw him again;
Pat was drowned in the freezing seas
on the Murmansk run, back then
in the cold dark days of war,
days before I was even born or thought of,
a war that was being fought
for freedom
for democracy
and for the rights of the downtrodden;
a war, I am told, we won,
and which never changed
local conditions
one little
bit.

O there was laughter there
in the soft Derry air
and me Daddy
met me Mammy
which was an all round
good move, considering
I might not be writing
these words; nor, gentle friend,
you reading them otherwise.
I cannot pretend
that we lived in comfort and ease;
we could not, there could be no surprise
that we were all so poor in money.
Everybody, same as us, was poor,
subject to the same old squeeze.
In the latter end, dear honey,
my Mammy would always say,
we have love, thank God above.
But no such thing as freedom,
or none my Daddy could see or smell.
God rot these people, may they burn in hell,
he'd say when the whiskey took him.
Look at me brother, Pat,
drowned for their feckin Empire,
and there with poor Molly beyond,
evicted from the house after forty year,
Empire me parliamentary arse!
O, says Molly, they gave him a medal!
Well, you can't eat a feckin medal, darlin' dear,
when the landgrabbers start actin queer
and tear the roof down over yez!
Ahh, ye'll come in and bide with us.
So she did.
My Daddy could be loud and quirky quare
but he had good bones within him.
Growing up, in the meantime,
was a noisy, happy, skeltery affair
of music, friendship, football and girls,
The Beatles and the Stones,
Lulu and the Searchers,
Marianne Faithfull,
Donovan, the Animals,
Jeff Beck and the Yardbirds.
Girls, football and music,
with school and the parents
and the bloody old priests
interfering. That was until
we saw Martin Luther King
on our black and white TVs
and thought,
if he can, why can't we?

That's how it started.

I don't know how
things became so bad so soon:
peaceful marches
became angry demonstrations,
and when the police attacked,
demonstrations became riots.
Vicious, horrendous beatings
moved on to murder.
It was hard, at first, to understand
the speed of regression
to age-old ethnic hatreds,
but at the time, I well recall,
it shocked and surprised us all.
The long sullen decades
of second-class status
in the north of our divided nation,
the apartheid little mini-state,
the bit that refused to become Irish,
didn't quite prepare us
for the overwhelming violence
with which that state reacted
to the hopeful, local imitation
of events in the USA: No way
was it ever going to work.
The people in power
were not dull-minded or stupid;
just like the planters
of the Old American South,
or like the whites in South Africa,
they were quite well aware
that their lives of wealth and privilege
were based on social injustice.
But they did not care.
This system was their system
and they would do anything,
anything and everything,
to keep it in place.

In Ireland, the unresolved past
never never goes away:
memory becomes a living thing
and rarely ever fails to bring
back red-eyed living demons.

Enter ... the IRA!!

But ... there was no IRA,
or hardly one to speak of :
"I Ran Away", was the local jeer.
In Belfast, the mobs were raging out of hand
and the police were siding with them.
Every long night was a night of fear.
Something, obviously, had to be done.
So, if you forget everything else
you hear, just please remember this:
the IRA didn't start this thing,
it was the local communities, reacting
to mobs, and the out-of-control police.
I know, because when
I tried to join the so-called IRA
with pals from pick-up rock'n'roll bands
and local football teams,
the queue stretched along the street
and around three corners.
It was the strangest thing:
when you finally got to the table
they wouldn't swear you in
unless your Daddy was in it before you
or a teacher or a priest said something for you.
Keeping out the riff-raff?
Jayzus Christ, God Almighty,
how in the hell can we win a war
with this crowd of bozos?
The Provies (Provisionals)
took care of that, kicked out
this useless shower and took over;
but it was still several months
before we finally had enough guns,
and it wasn't till early seventy-two
that Irish-America at last came through
and sent the first AR-18 Armalites:
deadly, sweet, and oh so neat!
Now we had better assault rifles
than the British Army. And they knew it.
(The Brits had come over in late '69
when the police had been beaten back.)
They said they'd come over to Keep the Peace
and everyone, at first, believed it:
well, not for long. They'd been sent in,
wouldn't you know, to maintain the status quo,
and put down the fuckin Paddies.
Same old, same old story!
Look at these people. Just look at them!
(I don't mean the professional British Army,
they are the military Premier League),
but just look at their political leaders....
The Americans bring out the National Guard
to support the civil rights movement.
The Brits send over their well-trained Army
to support the corrupt local state.

As far as the fighting went,
the tactics were pretty simple:
hit them and hit them and hit them again.
What the logic requires,
relentlessly, cold-bloodedly,
is to hit the occupation forces.
They symbolize the oppressive State,
everything you despise and hate.
Hit the soldiers. Never let up.
Each day, lads, you can kill a few!
(But ... you start to sympathize
with the bastards: they are,
after all, the same age as you).
Then, perhaps more wisely,
you focus on economic targets,
blow up the financial heart of London
with ten-thousand pound bombs,
and scare away all the foreign banks.
After a few painful hits in the pocket,
the "suits", the enemy civilians,
initiate reluctant "talks".
You win if you can just hold out.
You win if you refuse to lose.
You win if you keep hitting back.
It seems to me that terrorists
are the midwives of ex-colonial nations:
the Old-IRA, the Mau-mau,
the Haganah, the Irgun,
the FLN, the Viet Cong;
and, of course, the Minutemen
of Lexington and Concord.

That's how it started.
Now, we're told, it's ended

Thirty-some years later
you wonder
was it worth it?
All the dead pals, the funerals,
all the bad things
we did ourselves.
I don't know.
This, however, I do know:
when you begin to rationalize
murder, so-called military action,
there is, for want of better words,
an abstention of guilt: people
call it patriotism, or the national will,
but this is just mental novocaine.
It is lies and evasion. It attacks
only symptoms, not the source of pain.
Today, for example, when I look at Iraq,
at the endless, hopeless murder,
I can't help but remember
our own little war,
bad enough at the time.
Should you ever have the misfortune
to take part in a war at first-hand,
always, always bear in mind
that the politicians and all the other people
who send you out to fight
sleep at home at night,
and each, for all his thunderous rage,
never once sets foot on a battlefield,
and dies, in the end, of old age.

And bear in mind this, too,
that the memories
will continuously come back at you.
The awful memories
will always keep coming back at you
again and again and again.
They will take on a life of their own.
They will never leave you alone.

-------------------------------------------

An Doire (the oak grove) dedicated to St. Columb, one of the early Irish saints, was anglicized into "Derry" and later became "Londonderry" when the guilds of London subsidized 17th century Protestant settlements after the local Irish residents had been displaced. The city was subject to a famous siege in 1689 when the Williamite garrison held out against the forces of James II. With a population more than 70% Catholic (Derry looks to Donegal in the Irish Republic) it still retains an iconic hold on the Ulster Protestant mentality. They will never let it go, which leads to all kinds of problems.

Derry City information:

--------------------------------------------------

Flower Child

You were so beautiful,
but, at that time, so was I:
I smiled for you, and only you,
and knew it couldn't last.
The past is a foreign country
and we will never see it again.
Memories of who and what and when
are sharp as diamonds,
sharp as the knife
I have learned to carry.

I could never marry
although sorely tempted
as long as you were alive,
as long as there was still an outside chance;
you have led me a merry dance
among your last three husbands,
each one richer than the last.
I recall the edgy past
and the railway station at Vincennes
and the look of madness in your eyes,
dressed all in white, a flush on your cheeks,
blue-eyed, blonde, adorable.

Within weeks, back in England,
you married some idiot aristocrat,
"O Darling, I will always love you!!"
and that, my dear, was that.
I went off to the war in Ireland
half-cocked, and then fully committed,
and later, when it was permitted,
you wrote to me in that dreary prison
where I spent five years;
there were fresh tears
on the mauve scented envelopes
but you never once came
(you were now on Hubby Number Two)
although you said you flew
to Bali and to Marrakesh.

Sweet dreams are made of this:
champagne, cocaine, the early Stones.
I can feel it in my bones --
So lovely, so lonely.
We shall sail to Majorca,
then ski in Gstaad.
You were the best thing I ever had.
I remember the metallic sharpness of the pain;
I doubt I shall ever feel it again.
The hard dumb beauty of fleeting youth
has no answer, no resolution,
except in death or suicide.

Many of us fatcats now reside
in elite sequestered quarters,
with or without our first-shot wives
and sometimes sons and daughters.
A bit of golf in the forenoon,
a glance at our jolly accounts,
then a long lunch in the clubhouse.
Mr. Taxman, you can never trace
the enigma of my strange arrival,
the stigma of a shark's survival.
I shall allow the sun to rise and go.

Let you rise, red ball, I cannot stop you.
I cling tight to the earth with prehensile toes.
Anything goes. Are ye drunk, says a voice from Heaven.
Is that you, God, talking to me at last?
Nah, it's the hum of the radiators,
and the ghosts of longdead aviators
in this lonely reckless room.
I can no longer zoom in on my life,
I don't believe in anything any more.
as I stand, fat and unlovely,
here upon the ocean shore,
watching the waves come in,
watching the waves come in, go out.
The sea, I have decided, is futile,
and so is so much else.
The guns in the street go pop-pop-pop.
Nowadays, really, nothing is new.
I remember the platform at Vincennes,
the white dress, the flush on your cheeks,
but nowadays nothing is new.
Living goes on until you stop:
I know. I knew.

Delia Byrne/ Francis O'Halloran

Poem 11 of the Irish Cycle
London/ East Anglia 1943

Delia Byrne/Francis O'Halloran

Everyone says there's a war on,
and I know that, for goodness' sake,
but there's no excuse for the way
they throw up their hands,
as if that's some excuse, sure, it's no excuse,
and they do nothing for the old people.

I've had three elderly people, not well at all,
moved out of my ward to clear the beds,
to make way for the wounded soldiers.
But the soldiers will never be sent here,
and, sure, everyone knows that, so I don't know
what this fuss and bother is about at all.

-------------------------------------------

I came over on the boat, there were jobs to be had,
and didn't they start roaring at us,
Jayz, from the first minute we landed:
Get in line, ye feckin Paddies, and the rest of it.

I came over to work, not to be yelled and screamed at,
but all they can seem to think to say, is
"Why are you not signed up in the bleedin' Forces?"
I can think of sixteen good reasons.

----------------------------------------------

The Ward Sister is Irish, she remembers the First War,
and she tells us not to mind these people.
Your main concern, ladies, are your patients,
and you'll answer to me, not a one of these others.

She's a very competent person, from Athlone,
and she knows well what she's doing.
I'm ready to listen to every word she says,
since she knows this country, I certainly don't.

------------------------------------------------

They shoved us into trains, sent us down to London,
handed out cards with numbers and ration books,
then they sent half of us in trains back to Liverpool:
I don't think they know what the hell they're doing!

I've been sent out with a gang to East Anglia
where we are meant to work on the airfields,
to extend the runways, laying down concrete,
the most miserable place I have ever seen.

-------------------------------------------------

We've had a slow trickle of soldiers, at long last,
since the empty beds, I suppose, were a disgrace;
they are convalescent cases, we do no surgery,
and I can't help thinking of the ones we threw out.

In the evenings the girls are so exhausted
that we don't do much of anything.
They've given us billets way up in the attics
and we're meant to be in by 9 Pip Emma.

--------------------------------------------------

The weather is depressing, but familiar,
and the work is hard but what you'd expect.
We have a barracks beside the airfield,
and there's a local pub, the beer is bloody awful.

That's where I first met a couple of Yanks,
same age as myself and dacent oul sticks,
killed telling me how they were "Ahh-rish"
and mechanics for the bombers at the field.

---------------------------------------------------

I am so tired and nervous and homesick.
I think of Daddy and Mammy all the time,
and although I'm not really afraid of the bombs,
I can't help but wish I were home.

I went out with some of the London girls ,
and they were so cheeky with the boys!
One lad came over and he tried to kiss me.
Horrible! Neither name nor introduction.

---------------------------------------------------

The first payday was a shambles,
with deductions for this, that and the other.
The lads were boiling, right on the edge,
ready to fight for what was theirs.

The squaddies backed down, on orders,
and not because they wanted to.
So we went to that awful bloody pub
and stood drinks for the Yanks.

---------------------------------------------------

I've been feeling very down these days,
and Sister even took me aside.
She said to me, Delia, what troubles you?
And, do you know, I couldn't tell her.

You could use a little holiday, she said,
You've been hard at it for the last six months.
Would you not think of taking a break?
Sure, where could I go, says I.

----------------------------------------------------

One Yank was Joe O'Brien, his family from Limerick,
the other Brian Cassidy from god-knows-where.
And the two of them were so grand and friendly,
unlike our "hosts", whom we all despised.

"Y'gotta come to the States", says Joe,
"because one day all this crap will be over!"
That's how the little seed got planted in my mind.
I'd never dreamed of that. But why not?

-----------------------------------------------------

Sister arranged a travel pass to Norwich,
to a place they call East Anglia.
It's supposed to be restful and nice,
and I could do with a bit o' that!

When I arrived it was damp and horrible,
and I settled into a dreary guesthouse
run by a yellow-toothed dragon called Mrs. Cunningham.
O God! This is not at all, at all, what I wanted.

-----------------------------------------------------

Brian and Joe became pals, they had a jeep,
so we'd go off on spins on Sundays
all around that flat damp country,
ending up in pubs, good pleasant craic.

One day, all wet and bedraggled,
who should walk in but an Irish girl,
short-tempered and snippy, as cross as a cat,
said her name was Delia Byrne.

-----------------------------------------------------

I was going mad in this awful place,
and I took to walking through the town.
One day the rain came down in a shower
and I ran for shelter to the Royal Hotel.

There was a young Irish lad, I could tell straight away,
sitting cool as you please with smooth-faced Yanks,
who enfolded me, bought me a drink, took me over,
and I didn't like that, but was cold and unhappy.

-------------------------------------------------------

When I saw Delia, I knew, she's the one!
But my teeth got in the way of my tongue.
Brian and Joe, in tandem, oozed with charm;
she was sulky at first, but soon settled down.

God, how I hate this place, she cried,
and we all fell over laughing.
"Oy, remember there's a war on!" said Joe,
and we all collapsed and laughed some more.

--------------------------------------------------------

The American boys were very nice,
but we all know what they want.
Francy, I thought, was very sweet,
so shy and well-mannered, reminds me of home.

As we left, he blushed and stumbled,
asked if I had an address or telephone number,
said he'd like to, well, keep in touch.
I hesitated, then thought, why not?

---------------------------------------------------------

God, she gave me her phone number!!
I don't know what on earth to do.
Should I ring her, then what the hell do I say?
I am destroyed, sweet Delia. Dilly, I love you!!

Ahhh. Maybe not. Hold back on that plan.
It might not go down so smooth.
Think, for Jayz' sake, help us out here, God!
I don't want to lose this girl.

----------------------------------------------------------

I thought Francy would ring me by now,
but it just shows how wrong you can be.
He's just like the rest of them, I suppose.
Still, I thought he was a nice lad from home.

God, I am so lonely. I don't really know
if I can carry on with this job much longer.
Sister still holds us together, God bless her,
but the English treat us like skivvies.

-----------------------------------------------------------

There's a phone box in the village
and it's become my second home.
I stand in the damn thing every day,
and I can't get my fingers to twirl the dial.

I have written a dozen scripts:
"Hello, Delia, how are you?" No, no, try again.
Can I see you again, please, please,
if you say no I will damn well kill myself.

------------------------------------------------------------

He hasn't tried to ring, I was just a plaything.
It's so sad because I really thought he was nice.
I thought ... well, never mind what I thought.
I was so lonely, and he was a touch of home.

I find myself crying at night,
not because of HIM, for goodness' sake!
But because it is all so meaningless,
so lonely, so tawdry, such a waste!

--------------------------------------------------------------

I got talking over beers to Brian and Joe,
and I'm afraid deep feelings tumbled out.
They grabbed the phone number I was waving about
and they bloody well rang her, just like that.

"Delia!" yells Brian, "is that you, darling?
Hang on, here's someone just dying to talk to you!"
"Delia ... Dilly, it's me, I'm so bloody sorry. I just, I just ..."
"Shut up, Francy, when can we meet?"

--------------------------------------------------------------

I'll have to take this boy in hand.
Typical Irish, can't put his socks on by himself.
In the end it was his friends who came through,
but the flood of relief is unbelievable.

I know what he feels for me, you always do,
so I'll just have to work around that shyness.
An Irish woman knows how to take the lead.
We might go to America. Yes, I know we will.

Street Ballad

O Lord we lived in lovely times
along the Liffey shore,
and when we were told our time was up
we asked for a little more,
demanded bloody more.

Me daddy was out in Easter Week,
he went out with an old Boer gun,
me mammy tore him in ten little strips
when the shootin' and killin' was done,
when the English had finally won.

Have ye no thought at all for the childer,
and the rent at five shillins the week?
Bangin away, couldn't ye've saved a few bullets
and sold them for sixpence each,
flogged 'em off for a tanner each?

Ah sure, Dolly dear, wasn't it revvylution,
wasn't it history, girl, ye can't count the cost!
What was I to do, them bowsies firin' away at me?
Couldn't ye bleedin' well think of the cost, says she,
couldn't ye count up the pennies we lost?

One bullet, says she, buys four pints of milk,
instead of paper the babbies'da had a nappy,
yer rifle'da been sold right back to the Brits
and the bleedin' lot of us'da been happy,
all of us, some of us, some time.

Jane Austen (a sequel)

After the wedding,
great joy: Elizabeth Bennett
is now Lady Darcy.
Her mother can die of happiness.

Darcy is gentle in the bed
on the first night; in fact,
nothing happens, no stained sheets
to delight leering servants.

Slowly, gradually, the lovers
discover love, such a fine
unexpected revelation:
the wonders of physical difference.

Mr. Collins would be scandalized.
Pornography is grist to the mill
for the uncertain clergy:
but marriage is blessed by God.

A jolly good f---
is an act of worship.

Elizabeth meets the servants
and the cook, in particular, thinks
who is this jumped-up little snip?
but the ancient, hooded-eyed butler
with his tip of five guineas in gold
safely stored in his mattress
teaches them all to behave.

Mr Darcy goes away,
Elizabeth remains behind.
The servants seek their chance.
There is no chance.
Elizabeth is sweet but tough as nails.

Mister Bingley and Jane have a girl
and the village rejoices.
Mister Darcy and Elizabeth
have nothing to show
for all their passion: oh, dear.

Years proceed.

Bingley and Jane have another five
but Darcy and Lizzie have none.
They try (energetically) but bye-and-bye
Stop. The servants murmur
and years proceed.

Darcy spends more time in London.
On business, he says. There he meets
a beguiling lady. Matters entangle
and soon a b------ son is born.
Darcy sees his only child and loves him.

Oh dear, oh dear.

Elizabeth resides at home,
sole mistress of a Palladian mansion.
She is barren, lonely and suspicious.
When mud-stained Darcy
on his exhausted horse returns
she makes the natural mistake
of accusing him.

Darcy dismisses the servants,
sits in a room with candles,
gazes, compassionately,
on his 25-year-old wife
now haggard and gaunt,
and says
This didn't ought never to happen.

On the Run

Damien was not an evil man
But he kept himself
To himself: this was expected
For the times that were in it.
When he said to me, we need you,
I smiled and said I can’t.
He smiled right back and said
We can do this the easy way
(producing the gun)
or we can do it the other.

So that’s how I joined ‘The Lads”
As a technical engineer;
My university education co-opted
To make better bombs.
I made very subtle bombs, so that
When Damien got blown to shreds
(thou shalt not mess with me!)
I found myself on the run.

After Munich and Prague
I went to ground in Vienna.
They will never find me here
I said to laughing Ilsa, so sweet,
So feminine, we had met in Schoenbrunn,
At the outdoor café, how was I to know
She was working for the Russians?
She had the grace to say she was sorry
When I was forced to go to Beirut
Under strict controls
To meet a guy called Hamid Ali.

The strangest thing about
Fanatical political idiots
Apart, of course, from their politics,
Is that they live in such
Stunningly beautiful countries:
Take Lebanon, for example.
I escaped, none too easily,
And made my way to Syria,
Intent on reaching the Turkish border.

Thanks to a few
Regrettable armed robberies
Things went rather smoothly
Until I reached Aleppo
With the Mossad hot on my trail.
I don’t know what it is with the Israelis,
Why can’t they leave well enough alone?
A couple of nerve-wracked incidents later
Shamir, Farouz, my exhausted self,
Went straight from the frying pan to the fire.

The guides who took us over the border
Pocketed the money, turned us in to the Kurds,
At war with the Turkish Army
And on the brink of a major action.
Nothing to do with us, you might think,
But the local lads thought otherwise.
Help us out or die. Unreasonable people.
So we helped them lay out a classic ambush
Knowing full well that government retribution
Would decimate all the local villages:
But they were so young and jumpy
And their elders not much better.
The ambush went well, why shouldn’t it?
Forty or fifty 18-year-old Turkish recruits
Blown to pieces. Can we go now?
Promises broken, as usual, in the end
We had to shoot our way out
And poor old Farouz got wasted.

Shamir hijacked a taxi
Which very quickly ran out of gas,
So we stopped a horse and cart
And good old Shamir traded stories
With a grinning, gap-toothed farmer.
Pleased to have such entertaining company
As we trundled across Anatolia.
Later, in Istanbul, at Sirkeci,
We parted with dry, knowing promises,
And my second or third passport
Brought me through to Athens,
Source and centre of our Western Civilisation:
Ahh, freedom, where the smog came down like thunder
And nearly killed me: I’d forgotten that.
The Greeks eventually would have roused themselves,
But you can count on at least three weeks;
I was long gone within days on the ferry to Brindisi.

Keep moving. Night-train to Venezia.
Jayz, this city looks just how I feel,
Sad-eyed, proud, passed-over, sinking.
Switzerland is always dangerous, they persecute
Transient unmoneyed foreigners, act as servants
To megarich depositors, never mind the source.
They have the best intelligence service in Europe
But refrain, typically, from sharing knowledge,
So you have 5 to 8 hours from border to border,
Once gone, deleted, they simply don’t care.
Bavaria. Not quite Germany, but German,
Friends took me in, assuaged my battered soul,
And for two weeks life was relaxed
With Max and Baerbl, with barbecues,
With cycling, mushroom picking, tennis matches,
And all the things that normal people do.
But then the black Mercedes came around
And when I saw it for the second time
I knew that was it; it was time to leave.
No more trains. If they are that close
It’s time for a change of plan. Aha!
Le bicycle, n’est pas? Two weeks later
I arrived, leg-weary, in the port of Sheveningen,
Coast of Holland, England just over the sea.
Ferry no good, so cycle down the coast
And walk into a little bar and meet Joost.
He looks astoundingly like my father.
“Well, my friend,” he says, “how much?”
“Let’s say 3000 Dollars ….”
He fell over laughing, said some things in Dutch.
“You are a bad man?”, he grinned.
“No, of course not, but … maybe, I am.”
We spoke. We drank. I told him everything.
I don’t know why. He resembled my dead distant father.
“OK”, said Joost, “last drink. Tide coming in. We go”.

Later in London, I never felt quite safe.
I was abruptly summoned to a club in St. James
And amid swirls of cigar smoke and breaths of brandy
The jovial Minister chuckled with sharkcold eyes:
“If all these things you say are true, dear boy,
“This might present HMG with a bit of a pickle”.
He gazed out the bower window with unseeing eyes.
“Yes, a pickle. Indeed, one might say it could be bloody awkward.”
I chased with my fork the remains of the Dover sole,
Cold upon arrival, now gelid and almost malevolent.
Why do they insist upon these meals from the nursery
Washed down with such exquisite expensive wines?
“They do a rather good bread pudding, by the way”,
Said the Minister, suddenly animated, almost human,
“With cold custard. Too rich for me. Can I tempt you?”
“You are most kind”, says I, “but what do you want me to do?”
“Do … DO??” He glared at me. “Do nothing, of course!!
“And above all, don’t even think about going to the bloody press!”

And I knew in that moment that this was the end.

“We can still reach you at the same address and number?”
“Yes, of course”, I lied, “but I’m running low on cash”.
“Ahh”, said the Minister, with an expression of weary contempt,
“That’s what it all comes down to in the end, doesn’t it?”
“Only when you don’t have it, Sir, I’m thinking of expenses”.
“To be sure”, he growled, “here is an address. You will be
expected here at 9 pm, and your … ah… financial needs will be met”.
He slipped a piece of paper across the table.
This was one address I would never visit.
It was now 2:36 pm. I had six hours and a bit.
“You don’t seem to be very curious about the amount?”
“I am sure, Sir George, you will be more than generous.”
“Quite. Won’t you change your mind about the pudding?”
“Not today, thanks. Perhaps the next time we dine together.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” he chuckled, instantly restored to humour,
“I look forward to that, my young friend, with keen anticipation.”

b------.
Out in the street I can’t see them.
I know they’ll be running a six-man team.
There is no way I can spot all of them.
The thing is to lose them slowly,
To try to make it not look too obvious.
Perhaps I can spot two or three of them
Although I know they’ll be changing clothes.
This is going to take at least three hours.
I have to hope they won’t try to pick me up
Since they think I have to wait to get the cash.
The minute I walk in that door tonight they’ll have me.
This is what they expect, that’s the only good thing.
I amble down the Mall towards Trafalgar Square.
Let’s be having you. I circle the fountains
And inspect the Landseer lions at very close range.
OK, I’ve nailed two of you. A quick duck
Down into the Underground to buy a Day Rambler.
Back out at the southwest exit, circumambulate
The Square, feed pigeons, then across the street
To the grey sombre sadness of St Martin’s-in-the-Fields
With homeless care in the basement and a side exit
Down the sloping street to Charing Cross Underground
With a sharp left through the public gardens
Just south of the Savoy, and a quick dart into the Temple.
Nobody behind me, a quick sprint for the Strand, slow down
In the crowds, head for Holborn, Tottenham Court Road.
Into the Underground, quick, quick, shove in the prepaid
Ticket and disappear in the tunnels. Knightsbridge
Here we come: Muhammed Al Fayed’s emporium.
There are several ground floor exits from Harrod’s
And one of them is from the lady employee’s lounge.
Today being Saturday, Notting Hill is next, Portobello Road.
I’ve shaken three, maybe four, but all it takes
Is one relentless b------ to call in my location.
I stop for a pint at the Rising Sun. Thirsty work.
Time to amble down the market.
Time to buy new clothes.
I do that. There are several filthy pubs
With convenient side exits. The thing is to
Time it right and find a gypsy cab.

I’m beginning to get angry. These people have decided
To dispose of me, I am of no further use, Have the pudding, dear boy.
Right, there’s a taxi office across the street, an Asian saunters out,
Walks into a coffee bar, sits down alone at a table.
I walk in, sit down, and put fifty quid on the table.
“You’re a driver, right?” – “What’s this all about, then?”
“I have need of rapid transport and I’ll pay for it.”
“I don’t wanna know, mate, I don’t want no trouble.”
“Look, my girlfriend’s husband is chasing me down,
“I just need to move quick and here’s the money.”
He didn’t believe me. I could tell. It was too much.
“Orright, I’m lying. Here’s a hundred quid. Just get me out of here!”
“What you done, mate?” – “Been an incident, orright?”
“Right, then, give me that fifty to start and I’ll bring the cab around.”
“Will ye f---. Around the corner outside the video rental. Five minutes.”
“I don’t want no trouble, mate” – “Just get on it, OK?”
I grabbed him by the arm as he rose to leave and mumbled
“I’ll be wearing a blond wig and a yellow shirt and purple flares.”
“Y’what, mate, what f---in planet you from?” – “Just go!”
I made him drive for an hour or more, feeding him
Fivers when he flagged to keep him keen. In the end,
Like most Indians, he couldn’t help but lose the acquired London tone.
“Are you a major criminal, sir?” – “Yes, I am”
“O, jolly good, sir, may I be having your autograph?”

I thought it had been pretty slick and quick,
But you never can be sure. “Kumar, drop me here at the tube station.”
Back in the Underground, three trains, three platform changes.
Kilburn, at last, the side door to Paddy Doyle’s.
“What’ll ye have?” says the young lad, fresh off the boat.
“I need to see Paddy”, says I, “like, now, please.”
“O, but Mr Doyle’s gone home for a wedding, like.”
Yerra, f---. “Well, is Fergal here or Donal?”
“Sorry, sir, I wouldn’t be knowing dem fellas. I’m new at the job.”
“Listen, my name is …”Michael Clancy” …do you hear me now?”
“Tis a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Clancy. Was that a Guinness you were wanting?”
“Yeh, right … OK … listen, is there a package for me?”
“A package, sir? Jayz, I wouldn’t know an’ting about that, sure I wouldn’t.”
“Well, could you bloody well have a look!”
I couldn’t believe it. I could have shot him,
Fresh-faced young mammy’s darling and all as he was,
Because that was the whole point.
There was a gun, a passport, and five thousand pounds
And without it I was dead, gone and finished.
It would only take hours for these people to catch up with me.
“Would you look for the bloody package,” I snarled at him,
And he looked back at me with an open young lad’s face,
Innocent, concerned and deeply stupid.

“Is it yourself, Malachy,” said a voice at my elbow,
And I turned to see dark-eyed Sinead O’Riordan,
Skimpily clad, all decked out in her London warpaint,
This pious virginal Child of Mary
in her previous life in Ballinasloe.
“Ah, sure, it’s great to see you, Sinead”, says I.
In the face of disaster politeness is all.
“Paddy left me a package for you”, says she,
“Would you know anything about that, Mister Michael Clancy?”
“Isn’t that your name?” says the barman,
“So why is the lady calling you Malachy?”
“Ah, sure, I’m Malachy Michael,” says I, “and I never cared for it.”
“O, right”, says he, “I’m Francis Mary but the lads call me Frank.”
“You’re a credit to your nation, Frank,” says I,
“And could you bring us two large drinks?”

Scottish fishermen got me back to Ireland
With a reasonable chunk of money intact.
I live quietly out in the West
In a village where strangers are immediately noticed.
I have three dogs and several illegal weapons.
I don't really think they'll try to come.

The Gathering Storm

Bahadur Shah Zafar II (1775-1862), last Mughal Emperor of India.


Ghalib

My dear Ghalib, you are exceedingly arrogant,
and seem to think you know it all:
I cannot follow your obscure ghazals.
Zauq is more the man for me, he is also
the chosen poet of our discerning king.
People say openly you should learn from him.
His language is limpid, pure, and clear.
Ahh, the son of Channa Lal, the moneylender,
I do believe. Forgive me, I am not mistaken?
Run back to your counting house, young man,
and do not presume to pass ignorant comments
on things you cannot comprehend. I am
the Light of Delhi, a star in the firmament,
and you, no more than a smoking guttering lamp.
I think we shall not speak again. Good day.

Captain Collingwood




Jennings wants to convert the locals
and they seem to resent it, even our
own people think he is pushing too hard.
We have more and more of these Blue Light
religious chaps, even in the Army, and I can
tell you that can become hard going.
I met Elizabeth Skinner the other day,
very gentle-mannered and perfectly charming.
She's quite light-skinned but her father's half-black.
Her grandfather came out in the last century.
Some of these early Company men
married into the best local families;
these days, of course, it's not the done thing.
Indians of the better class can be perfectly polite
but dreadfully backward and behind us in many ways.

Ghalib



Bahadur, I thank you for the basket of mangoes.
The royal poet is walking with his patron
on the Raj Ghat, along the banks of the Jumna River.
Now that Zauq has passed on, I am conscious of your favour,
but I feel you have yet to show me the same honour.
The Emperor, known to the Angreezi as the King of Delhi
walks slowly on, a smile comes and goes on his lips.
My dear Ghalib, perhaps you did not enjoy the kite flying?
It can be rather tiring to watch an old man behave like a child.
No, My Lord, it was enthralling; it was a pleasure and an honour.
I perceive it is an even greater honour that you seek, Ghalib?
In truth, My Lord, as your court poet it is no more than my due!
I see, Ghalib. You could never understand why I favoured Zauq?
I could not, Bahadur. His poems were too childish for my taste.
Childlike, Ghalib, but not childish. Therein lies the difference.

Captain Collingwood

Take the King of Delhi, that poor old codger,
surrounded by fifteen wives and at least forty children:
a museum piece, really, ensconced in the old Red Fort,
the last of the Grand Mughals, descendant of Timurlane,
living in the lost nostalgic grandeur of the past
with hardly ten rupees to call his own. They say
the last great public procession through the city
with elephants and fireworks and marching bands
put him firmly in the hands of the Jain moneylenders,
and our own people will do nothing for him.
The Punjab is ours, we overran Oudh last December,
and the general feeling about the poor old chap
is that he is the last of the line. Surprisingly, he is
still greatly admired, not only as the figure on the throne,
but as a subtle and accomplished native poet.

Hakim Asanullah Khan




Asanullah Khan stands in the doorway with worried eyes.
My Lord, this is not wise at your age, you must know that!
Yes, I know, but I am in my eighty-second year, old friend,
and must not pretend I can live forever. And I like the kites.
A great deal more than you care for the proud Ghalib?
Now, now, Hakim. I take an old man's pleasure in teasing him.
Why do you look at me so? O God, is it the concubines again?
I fear so, My Lord. Young Lalkoti with the Captain of the Guard.
Whip the damn scoundrel and send him off somewhere.
Should we execute the girl? No, of course not. Put her
in the kitchens for six months, no, make that three.
My Lord, the punishment seems hardly sufficient, if I may be ...
Yes, but I may not be alive in six months! I could be in three.
Send for Chaman Lal. A skilled doctor, even if he has lost his wits.
I need my feet attended. Converting to Christianity at his age!

Emily Metcalfe




My poor father was poisoned by the emperor's concubine,
the scheming Zinat Mehal Begum. All Delhi knows .
These people are so beastly and corrupt, I hate them!
My dear good father spent his whole life among these heathens,
and he brought them Justice and the Blessings of British Rule.
My Uncle Charles, and my brother Theo, along with dear father,
have forged a family tradition within this benighted land.
There is no such thing as gratitude among these conniving people;
and they might just as well have killed my brother's wife.
I was there, I saw with my own eyes how my father wasted away
on the very eve of his first holiday in seven years; within weeks
my dear sister-in-law followed him, having given birth to a child
to the boundless joy of my brother. It was unbearable to see
his grief at her death, the wracking sobs that tore his frame apart!
Injustice feeds the flame of vengeance in my upright English heart.

Hakim Asanullah Khan

Bahadur ... jaldi, jaldi ... come here to the window, My Lord!
What is happening on the Bridge of Boats, what is that smoke?
What is the meaning of this, Asanullah, at this ungodly hour?
It is nothing good, My Lord. I fear the Army is in revolt.
But that is the army of the Angreezi. We have no army.
Nevertheless, they come to Delhi, My Lord. They come to you.
To me? Whatever for? What can they expect from me?
You are the King, My Lord, the descendant of great kings.
They want you to lead them against the Angreezi.
O God, first the concubines, now this! Can I have no peace?
Look, they have crossed the bridge, they approach the Fort,
they are calling out for you. My Lord, you must show yourself!
I have no intention of showing myself, Hakim Asanullah Khan.
Send these people away. Send a messenger under cavalry escort
and tell this rabble to go back where they came from!

Lieutenant Smythe-Pickering



They weren't bad soldiers, by and large, but times had changed.
They all came from the same villages as their fathers before them
and they thought we should treat them as our sons and nephews.
Maybe that was the way in the old days, but those days are gone;
they are in uniform and paid to obey orders, and that's it, really.
We knew the words of command but didn't really take to the lingo
because we were hardly going to chat with the black bastards.
They were always ready to make trouble of some kind or another
and it would always start with some nonsensical religious taboo
about beef or pork or some bloody thing. They were trying it on,
I thought, in the midst of the overpowering heat and the general
short-tempered atmosphere. We issued the new cartridges
and set out to train this surly lot of peasants how to use them
but do you think they would listen? In my opinion they were just
looking for an excuse, and that's how the whole thing started.

Hakim Asanullah Khan

Forgive me, My Lord, for disturbing your repose.
Sawars have arrived, rough soldiers, and will not go away.
Also, I fear, they have entered the city gates
and have engaged in a slaughter of Angreezi civilians.
Riots have started and local Christians are under attack
and many, perhaps all, have been killed. The poor
have joined with the soldiers and wholesale looting has begun.
The banks and the moneylenders were the first victims
but now they are plundering the havelis of the wealthy.
There is no force to prevent this, the kotwalis are deserted
and the Angreezi do nothing, they seem to be in disarray.
Ah, the moneylenders, said the King, with sly satisfaction,
but such badmash lawlessness cannot be condoned.
The English Resident must be informed and order restored!
Alas, that gentleman, My Lord, now flees for his life.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Glossary of Indian terms
ghazal - an intricate form of Urdu poetry, much admired.
Bahadur - Emperor, King of Kings
Angreezi - the English
jaldi jaldi - quickly, quickly
Sawar - native Indian cavalry trooper
haveli - a walled home with enclosed gardens and courtyard
kotwali - police post
badmash - hooligan

Kalidasa

Arrows let loose from a thousand bows
spread like a stain across the skies:
a thousand arcs of danger descending.

Waiting and watching, the army defending
raise their shields with worried eyes:
Who will survive? Blind fortune knows!

A poem, cousin to such lethal darts,
can land, unexpected, in our hearts.

Karl of the Corporation

circular arguments
bedazzle rigid minds

I was reinforced in my dominion
by ignorance and by stubborn pride,
by a belief in only one opinion.
Stand out of my way, sir,
if you know what is good for you.
I lied,
because I could not tell the truth.
Bare facts, an abomination,
lacked the salt of imagination.
I tried
to explain things always in a way
that would meet some expectation.
Unwelcome possibilities
got themselves shot down
like darkies in a cornfield,
like wetbacks in a river.
The bosses didn’t care:
never shouldn’ta oughta bin there.
Mow them down, rat-a-tat-tat
jump in the car and hit the town,
then talk of Rembrandt and Cezanne
and try to fondle Sally Anne.
Do the same old thing tomorrow,
a well-dressed man of constant sorrow.

***
Many versts across the barren fields
from the shining palaces of Petersburg,
a girl with snow-white arms upraised:
O Bog, she says (their word for God),
O Bog, get me out of here!

***
As an unwanted child,
lonely, destructive, anti-social,
I had no trouble believing
that God was indeed a special friend.
Little then did I know
what I've come to know in the end.
The Church, as ever, opened its arms
and welcomed my delusion;
it prays and preys upon
adolescence and confusion.
My son, do you have a vocation?
Get away to fuck.
(Get away to fuck, Father ).
I was not in the habit of talking to strangers,
unless, of course, idiot tourists,
eager and uncertain,
looking for a place to spend hard cash.
A furry masculine moustache
began with the hairs around my groin,
it would join in the fortunes of those parts,
the intricate lies, the broken hearts,
the additions, loans, debentures,
the many cold-eyed cheap adventures.
I held one truth to be self-evident,
that all men procreated
pretty much continuously,
so in order to stand out
one had to be a bit of a bastard.
In fact, I mastered the mechanics
at about the age of six,
an enlightening heady mix
of bluff and certain knowledge,
so that all the blows and cuffs and kicks
of the ambient adult world
became a poor boy’s college.
I’ll tell you one thing,
you can forget the rest:
those to whom evil is done
do certain evil in return.
They burn
with righteous and amoral wrath
they cleave a hard and frightening path
between the innocent and the innocent.
Stand out of my way, sir,
if you know what is good for you.
The guilty they leave well alone
(those boys can be dangerous).
I never really fell in love
until seven years ago.
I had a carapace of immunity,
ready-made, form-fitting,
born of the arrogant impunity
of treating people as things.
But I find love brings
little happiness, less relief.
It is my sad and certain belief
that love can never be learned
nor earned
when a loveless child becomes a man.
My plan
was to rule the world
or at least my little bit of it.
Then the whiskey got in the way.
God bless the whiskey;
pity it wasn’t tears instead.

Weeping Statues

One night as I lay sleeping
the feckin statue started weeping
and I thought that this was odd
that the Blessed Mary, Mother of God,
should start this awful bawling
just as I was slowly falling
asleep. Oh, Jayzus, I thought, what now?
When my wife, a cute but gullible cow,
leapt up and landed upon her knees
and thumbed her blessed rosaries
with that glassy-eyed metallic stare
that shows how much they really care,
them ones who really do believe
(even when us others want to heave)
but that's more or less the local rule
and we send our kids to a Catholic school,
so you shut your gob and spread a grin:
let your wives analyze your lives with knives,
it's too late, mate, it's thick and thin.

I whispered to Paddy and Donal and Teague
do you think Man U will win the league?
Oh, God, that's a matter for disputation,
and we'll have to adjourn for adjudication
of the ins and the outs and the serious nub,
comfortably seated down in the pub.
But that's when my Mary gave me an awful shove,
and grabbed at my arm, and said, "Heavens above,
"It's a visitation of the Holy Ghost!!!"
(I could see my life would soon be toast)
"We'll make this house an open shrine!"
She's mad, she's married, and she's mine.

"Half Dublin will be walkin in the feckin door!"
"Well, sure, isn't that what Our Lady is for?"
"They'll be traipsing on the carpets, willy-nilly!"
"Ah, for feck's sake, don't be so feckin silly,"
says Mary Assumpta Dolores Brigid,
my convent girl, tough, and rigid.
"God and His Blessed Mother," says she,
"have showered down blessin's on you and me,
"they've come down here to our humble home".
(humble, me arse, amn't I still paying for it?)
"And can't you see," says she, "we are chosen?"
My smile is tight and bright and frozen,
when I think of them feckers in Rathgar
with their mobile phones and the latest car,
so why can't the Virgin feckin Maria
come down on them like diarrhoea?

"But just think of the crowds of non-believers,
"like the BBC and them other deceivers!"
"Sure they can kiss me arse," says she,
"them feckin Brits get on me tits".
I was away with the fairies, I forgot,
the wife's a raging pay-triot:
Wrap the Green Flag Around Me,
tighter, ye bastard, tighter,
she's nothing if not a fighter.
Ochone, ochone, just let me die
upon the fearful gallows high,
let me stretch out me neck for Oireland.
"Listen, now," says I, "me darlin' Mary,
"I'll not have you acting so contrary!"
"Baaa," says she, very wickedly,
but she listens all the same;
"Won't the Blessed Mary be just at home
next to the plastic garden gnome?"
"Is it mad you are," says she,
"are we to throw her out of the house
"and plant her next to Mickey Mouse?"

Right, so, it was just a passing thought,
I'm an aisy man, I can be aisily bought.

"Well, would you not think to put her down in the hall,
"so very close and convenient to one and all?"
"I would," says she. "Well, grand," says I,
so I called in the engineers,
(Paddy and Donal and Teague).
Now we've been living for years on Our Lady's tears
since the lads in fine style
installed a turnstile
and the coins of the visitors pay for the beers.

Terrorists on a Coffee Break

We were told
to stay off the booze
and to run five miles
across the feckin fields
when we had,
as it were, the time.
Everyone snorted
and fell over laughing,
and then Dinny ups and says,
Are we to be running
in our Welly boots, sorr?
to the hard-eyed runt
come down from Belfast.
He looked pinched and peeved,
having to deal with us rustics,
but he'd brought us guns.
Nice guns, too,
Armalites, greased-up, new.
We were better tooled-up
than the sad sallow boys
in the fearful British Army
(you can take that both ways).

They were just walking targets,
doing useless patrols.
We'd do a little ping
once a week, shoot one,
then let them drag the body home
to think and brood about it.
They took their anger out on the locals
which was exactly
what we expected them to do:
the classic, fatal mistake
of ALL occupation armies.
Safe houses, money, food,
they all came pouring in,
and morale was right up there.
That's when we thought
we were winning the war.
We were doing grand
in East Tyrone, but the cities
were a different story.

They started picking us off
one by one: dawn raids,
roadblocks, security checks;
all the technology
efficiently brought to bear.
We were driven into the hills and woods
like the clansmen
four hundred years before.
We lost the M-60 that way.
Some young lads, recent
recruits, seething with frustration,
raced through the town
with the gun set up on a flatbed truck
and battered the hell
out of the local police station.
The SAS were waiting
and shot the lot of them dead,
even shot them
after they were dead
(to make sure, like)
there in the parking lot
in front of the church.

Cartridges like peanut shells
everywhere you walked.

That's when I went
to America, after the cops
beat up my little brother,
hassled my mother in the street,
and swore I would never
be captured alive.
We had lost, as they say,
the initiative.
When it came, the "Peace Process"
was grudgingly welcomed.
We were losing, it was that simple.
Nobody will admit it to this day:
"The Undefeated Army" ---
(that was supposed to be us)
was barely functional, nearly licked,
and mostly on the run.
I was scared of my life
in New York -- Jayzus,
you think Norn Iron is dangerous?
Try Brooklyn. There I was,
bartending, what else
do Irish illegals do (construction)?

Then the word came through
it was safe to come home.
It is never safe to come home,
not if your home is my home:
it's been on the frontline
for the past four hundred years,
and I don't want my own kids
(if and when I have them)
to go through the same thing.
Still, we all must do our little bit,
measured or unmeasured, for Mother Ireland.
Do chum Gloire De
agus Onora na hEireann*
but the time slides around
when you have to think
about doing a little something
for the nerve-wracked jangling creature
that dear old Mother Ireland
has made of you.

-----------------------------------------
* For the Glory of God and the honour of Ireland

NB - this poem is NOT autobiographical. I can occasionally get into a lot of trouble for mixing journalism and poetry ....

Lance Corporal

There’s nothing further to be said.
Lookit, lads, I’m nearly dead.
Will I have a drop of whiskey? I will.

Ahh, God, that’s good. Simple and plain.
Down the red lane.
Tell me, lads, yer names again?

Is it Tom and Dick and Harry?
Hee-hee. Listen, never marry.
Never marry the first lass what asks yer!

Wheeze.
Wheeze.
That were a joke.

I do be old, decrepit and bollock
Naked under this here sheet,
Just like the Scots under their kilts.

Hee hee hee,
Cough, cough. Spit.
Where’s that bloody whiskey?

The parson went out after the battle,
Large and pious and smarmy,
And used his little officer’s cane
To flick over the kilts
On the bare dead buttocks,
To make it decent, like.

I had no time for him
When I were in the Army,
Nor his Tory religion.

We was sent to France
To fight for King and Country.
King never did bugger all for me,
And Country did fook all as well.
I went over because I were sent
And because of the lads, of course.

I’m a hundred fookin eleven, m’dear,
Here in this bleedin hospital,
Not thinking of heaven,
Not thinking of nothing much.
Been trying hard to forget
For ninety fookin year.

“Last Survivor Succumbs!”
The television crews
Want to put me on the News.
Them lousers ...
Let them suck their bleedin thumbs,
As me heart falls down me trousers.

Not that I’m wearing none
Under this sheet, like. Hee hee.
Are ye hiding that whiskey?

I have nothing to say.
I have nothing to say to that shower
Of cunning runts, what we call
The Highborn Ladies Running Team.
Hee hee. Pass over the bottle.
That were a joke in the Army.

I have nothing to say, lads.
I have nothing to say to them.
I have nothing to say to youse.

I have a lot I’d like to say
To Bert and Tich and Tommy G,
To Jimbo, to Fishface, to Bumblebee,
And to that pink-faced young Leftenant.
All killed. Killed dead ninety year ago
In front of me eyes. No surprise

Since it were war. Happened long ago.
So why can I remember their faces
And forget what happened yesterday?

Is that bottle dead? One last
Drop won’t kill me, but if it do,
I won’t be sad. I’d rather be dead
When reporters hover round me bed
Like carrion crows. God knows
I’ve been hanging on too long.

Whenever I close me eyes
I still see them grey Flanders skies,
And I can still see their faces.
They were so young. I was so young.
I want to sleep, ye young lads,
I want to sleep and wake up beside them.

It’s me, I’ll say,
No need to be afraid.
So sorry, boys,
I were slightly delayed.

Maureen Rua

This is a recycle of a previous post ... ages ago, lost in the mists of time .. but it's been on my mind for the last three days and I've rewritten a lot of the central part of it. I think it's because I've been listening to a lot of really good Irish music (the real stuff) thanks to Paddy & Bridget and their friends back in the County Clare and now I can see where it wasn't quite on the button the first time around. No guarantees it's "on the button" this time either, but it feels and reads better ...........

The character is a composite of several well-known beauties who lived on into the 1920s and 30s, women who had been much celebrated in story and song among country people during the latter part of the 19th century.



















Them lands beyond
belong to strangers now,
says Maureen Rua
bringing the tea
over to the table,
the large pot in her
withered shaking hands,
and herself getting on
to a rare old age
now that Dinty's gone,
but with the scraps
of her wild red hair
still showing, and her eyes
undimmed: they had made her
the belle of five counties
back in the days
when the world was young.

Maureen Rua!
Some farmer's sons
fell close to self-destruction
for the love of you,
but they recovered
the run of themselves
after many stout blows
from the sticks of their fathers,
and through the blessings
of Holy Mother Church,
and the less blessed
but far more fascinating
smiles and enticements
of local sweet colleens.

There was the land
and she with no brothers.
It was the land, they said,
but it was never just the land:
it was you, Maureen Rua,
that had them so bedazzled,
you, with your sparkling eyes,
your soft full figure,
your tumbling, tangling
wild red hair.

O Maureen Rua, how my heart
would have gone out to you
with the song of the lark
in the clear morning air;
and in the bee-buzzing afternoon
my same heart would have stumbled,
then lazily lingered
with sweet honey thoughts;
and in the evening, yes,
I would have sung along, softly,
with the shy nightingales.

All for you, Maureen Rua.

You are old now, a widow,
saddened, past innocence,
awaiting your final repose;
but you are still the finest
among the Mna na hEireann,*
champing on your false teeth
and not so sure of your gamy legs,
as you bring the tea this very minute
with uncertain steps
here to the table.



* M'nah nuh Hay-rinn- (Gaeilge) the Women of Ireland. They pretty well run the country from the President on down -- perhaps not such a bad thing .