We All Have Temples

We all have temples and they're all in our heads.
They are intersections and delicateness.
Not a vital organ, not like the brain
but you'd notice if one of yours got mislaid.
We all have temples, we're all the same.

We all have temples and they're of the Sikh.
Gurdwaras offer welcome, regardless of creed.
Walk in through any of the entrances four
because serving humanity is at their core.
We all have temples and they all have doors.

We all have temples and they're everywhere
They provide protection in the face of despair.
When obscenity seems to be gaining ground,
look for the helpers, they'll be all around.
We all have temples, we're altogether bound.

(On 13/11/2015, Paris was hit by terrorist attacks in which more than 100 people died. It was horrific and I'm sure it still is and will forever be for those who were directly affected by it. There were two shining lights for me in the midst of all the horror:

1. I read a quote, attributed to Fred Rogers, that was shared on social media:

"When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, "Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.""

2. The hashtag #PorteOuverte trended on Twitter so people needing help in the crisis would be connected with those who were willing to open their doors and provide that help. It just shows how humanity wins out even in the most dire of circumstances. I read a tweet, from @RohanSinghKalsi, letting people know that the Sikh temples were open to anyone needing shelter. I was moved by this and my subsequent research into the Sikh's open-door policy at all times. But, I was further moved by Rohan's reaction to all the positive messages his tweet received: "Sikhs are here to serve humanity at all times."

I will be passing both of these quotes and the wisdom they contain on to my children.)

The Fault Of The Fairies

Her claims don't much alter, there's not one that varies
from the story that it was the fault of the fairies.
Straight after a bang or a shattering sound
she'll say she thinks little folk must be around,
the far-flung remains of a dolly dismembered
she explains by the invisible wand of the offender,
a tent made of tape, wrapping paper and strings
is when she insists she heard very small wings,
marker on walls showing sunny beach scenes
leads her to elfin tracks that only she sees.

When your suggestion is that it's the work of a child
she'll say, "I don't do messing, I'm nearly five."

Opening Act

I asked the wind to take it easy,
to keep it mild, light and breezy,
I said, " I thought of you this morning
when I saw the shepherds' warning,
I know you'll bring a stormy trail
and curtain call in full-on gale."

The wind replied, full of disdain:
"I'll do what I want with the waves and rain.
And I can make the air malevolent,
that's where I'm in my element.
I won't commit, I don't contract,
these gusts are just my opening act.
Just to confirm, as you might have guessed,
I'm a force of nature, I don't do requests.
It's October, you know, it's my time now,
I am the wind, I go anywhere anyhow.
What do I care for the plans you've made?
You can't regulate me any more than night and day."

The rain weighed in with a haughty-taughty sense,
"you do need some moderation, please temper yourself,
why are you so brazen, surely you can see,
you're not part of the equation, you're just a shelf for me.
And you're master of nothing, you don't swell the ocean,
that's down to the moon, you are full of lofty notions.
You're never in the right place at the right time
you're a law unto yourself on the ground and in the sky.
When forest fires are raging wild why don't you bring my rain?
Why insist on flying high just to fan the flames?"

"And when she takes her children kite-flying,"
the wind said, with a sigh,
"who is it makes the moment, who is it brings the smiles?"
"And when your washing's on the line," he said,
looking straight at me, "who do you rely on then?
The wind, that's who, that's me.
It's not I who sets the seasons, nor I who makes the dates.
I don't coin the reasons for festivals and fêtes.
That's all you, assuming that by the year dividing
you control the blooming, the wilting and the dying.
It's not I who builds the walls, nor I who digs down deep
I don't raise spires and sprawls of rock solid concrete.
That's all you, convinced of these lavish needs
neglecting that trapped draughts require release
and we'll go where we must to find that ease.
I am the wind, I blow where I please.
I won't bow out, whatever you say,
I know I'm the star and I own the stage."

(It's October, it's windy, not too bad yet. It's been 2 years since my 'incident' with the wind: I saw our recycling flying all over the garden so I went out to the bin. I was just out the back door when the wind picked me up and lobbed me against the bank around our yard. You'd say something if I wasn't a bit overweight!
I used to love the sound of it around the house this time of year but now I listen for what destruction it's causing.
Where we live we have to accept strong gusts as par for the course and I know when we build tall concrete structures we're forcing the wind to gain momentum but I hate it! I fear a rough Winter ahead.)

Note on 04/10/2015: I had originally scheduled this to publish on 01/10/2015 but, because I would then need that date for my poem about my uncle's funeral (because I wanted the date stamp for his month's mind), I bumped it to 2nd October and forgot to edit it (I always have multiple drafts saved). So, it published but it wasn't finished. Today, I added some missing text and may still add more as I look through my drafts. Sorry if you thought it was disjointed, it was!

Cast His Mark

And there, afresh, cousins playing.
Second cousins test the gaming
from the edge. The smallest one
offers sweets to the tallest one,
a voucher to join the fun.
As we were at funerals,
the leveller of youth
brings the young to run
and settle chasing rules.

A man who knew he was but mortal
cast his mark in a concrete portal.

Timmy would have been
clasping a bunch of nettles
to make young ones scream
at the prospect of the pointed petals.
Guilt swept over me:
Did we have more of him
through nature's chicanery
than his six grandchildren?
And how lucky they are
that they could possess
even a micro part
of his loveliness.

A man who knew he was but mortal
cast his mark in a concrete portal.

No Kilmichael or Seán South
and later his favourite niece, by marriage, said
with sorry eyes and shaking mouth
that this was the first death
of someone she cared about.
He would be again alive
if it were that the deceased
could be to themselves revived
by family kissing cheeks.
And there, adults, cousins saying
about the second cousins playing
and those of them now fully grown
and those with children of their own.
How we must call. Wills and cans
exchanged, unsettled plans.

A man who knew he was but mortal
cast his mark in a concrete portal.

(My uncle, Timmy Walsh, passed away on 01/09/2015. This poem is about his funeral. When I looked at my children playing with my cousins' children I was reminded of when I was a child at the funerals of much older relatives. 
Timmy was my uncle-in-law but I can safely say I'm not the only one who considered him right up there with our biological uncles. He was the loveliest man. We have memories of him chasing us with nettles when he and our aunt, Rita, would call to visit. Our entire neighbourhood of children would descend on our house when they'd see the Walsh's car coming up the road, they were all there for the chase and the bags of jellies Timmy would dole out afterwards. He used to also call out whenever he was driving a trailer for work and would take us and our friends off for a spin in it. Today, that would be impossible, it's illegal. There was one day that I remember a man in the car behind us blowing the horn to get our attention. He had a camera and we all waved for him. What I wouldn't give to track down that photo now.
I have many memories of Timmy but two popped into my head when I heard the news of his death:
1. Being very young and seeing my mother wearing lipstick. She never did and never has worn make-up so I questioned her about it. She started laughing and said she had been heading out the Walsh's door with Timmy and Rita earlier that day when Timmy told Rita to give her a bit of lipstick because "women should have a bit of lipstick on." She and Rita had been in stitches at him but she put a bit on anyway.
2. Being in the Walsh's house one day when Timmy and his eldest daughter, Mary, arrived back. Mary was a little annoyed at Timmy because he had just scratched out 'Tim Joe' in fresh cement up the road. When I suggested it didn't matter Mary said, "it's not like nobody will know who 'Tim Joe' is"!
That last memory is one meaning of the "concrete portal" reference but I also mean that he lives on through his descendants and the memories of the rest of us.
RIP Timmy, 14/01/1941-01/09/2015.)

The Ape Of The Locks

I felt renewal in my brain from giving up shampoo.
Imagining a jewelled mane, I vowed to see it through.
Three weeks on and satisfied, but heeding oily tresses,
keeping to the plan to hide if grease became excessive.
All was fair 'til I was pawed by a monkey on my head.
He twisted first and then he clawed and moved me to see red.

I roared for my husband,
"there's an animal in my hair."
I thrashed and bashed and crashed and lashed
and the bloody thing stayed there.
At one stage I felt it,
not an ape, but an epic nit.
More finical to get than a simian pest
and stubborn as sh*t!

My daughter, just turned six, walked in,
ignoring the conflict with the giant tick,
took water from the fridge and petitioned
for a previously denied wish,
"Can we have crisps?"
"Get Daddy," I hissed.

I nearly had it down, I could see long black legs
but it raced back to my crown and I thought it may lay eggs.
Then I got it out, praying it was a one and only,
I laced it to the ground and saw a hideous, unholy
extended beast, inky black.

When my other half arrived the 'roach arched up its back.
"It's a scorpion" I cried,
corrected by a chuckling spouse,
holding his sides,
"A devil's coach horse," he pronounced.

A monkey is superior
to things of mini status.
It can't invade my nose or ears
or hide within my mattress.

And so concludes my brief undertake
for no shampoo and no non-primates.

(This is a true story. And I cannot tell you how much I hate creepy crawlies!!! About a year ago, I woke in the middle of the night with a feeling that a needle was being pushed into my forehead and, it turned out, there was an earwig sitting up there pincering me for some sort of insect laugh. I hate them so much and, obviously, the feeling is mutual!
Back to the poem: I was trying out giving up shampoo by washing my hair less often and using healthy, natural alternatives when I did. There is a blogger to blame for all of this (hee hee): I read this post at Kate Takes 5 and felt inspired, it really does make sense to me. I had washed my hair four times with beaten egg when the incident in the poem happened. I was on about day four after the last wash and my hair was getting oily but I accepted that that might be part of the process of my hair getting healthier.
Anyway, my hair was actually kind of manky when the devil's coach horse (oh, why does it have to be called that?) took up residence. However, my husband did say that he could have been in my hair for weeks...aaaaaaaggghh and then he said "maybe he likes eating egg" which drove me straight to the bathroom and my shampoo. I may try again in the future...or I might shave my head.

The monkey thing is a joke in our house. When I hear my husband or one of my children shouting, "yuck, look what I found" I always say that I hope it's a monkey and not an insect. Petrified though I am of monkeys, at least one couldn't hide on you.

There are two references in the poem that I think I should mention:
1. The title is a reference to Alexander Pope's The Rape Of The Lock
and
2. The opening line is a reference to Emily Dickinson's I Felt A Funeral In my Brain.
I love both poets and both poems.)

A Shining Light

We know that you are falling,
we know that you're not safe,
we know that you are calling,
we know that you're displaced.

Liam Neeson, or his equivalent,
being the hero on the screen:
It's us he represents.
We hope the slave is freed,
the persecuted saved,
the danger fleed,
the exploited spared.

Like coffin ships never bore
Irish trips to death or foreign shore.
As if it's not something we know.
Work permits and unofficial go
hand in hand in our past
and even now we ask for more
for our undocumented class.

We commit to judiciously go
hand in hand with the rafts
and now let us show
welcome, welcome in, at last.

My youngest wants to be a magician.
Or a cowgirl. Or the two.
These are the things I listen
to from my girls. Not cries for food
that may never come. And it
is nothing besides dumb luck
that their lives are full of health and fun,
as is the right of every child on earth.
I can say with certainty
that my children will never be
gasping for their last puff
in the back of a locked truck.
Lucky, lucky me:
A total accident of geography.
From the same misadventure
their progeny may not be secured.

If I ever have to seek
basic needs
please see me
please feed me
and then permit me to live in peace.
I won't have fled my territory
to upset your serenity.

I will have fled in terror.

When they read about our days
let it be that history says
that we were all in the one boat,
that we made a way to float,
that the movies were real life,
that Europe was a shining light.

Let it record at every page:
We caught you. You were safe.

(I started writing this on the night of 27th August 2015 after I had caught the report of the deaths of a number of people in the container of a lorry abandoned near Vienna. This is only one of the many sad, sad incidents in the waves of people fleeing their own countries to get to Europe. In the report they couldn't be sure how many bodies there were, because of the amount of time they had been decomposing. Twenty was the initial estimate. In the last few days the number has been given as 71 people. This is beyond shocking.

It is purely an accident of geography that we are alive, well and safe while others hand over exorbitant amounts of money to traffickers in efforts, often failed ones, to just be allowed to live. It's disgusting.
I find it offensive when I hear the voices of my privileged peers (and we are privileged just to be living here), saying these people should be kept out. I really hope Europe can help, that we give food, shelter and dignity. I think we have to help. I hope that, someday, those same people will be empowered to tackle the corruption of their native countries.
On the 27th August, after the news report I heard Angela Merkel say a few words. I thought she spoke very well, with genuine compassion. As far as I can tell, Germany already offers a lot of assistance to refugees. I hope we'll be able to say the same about Ireland).

Two Abreast

"Get in," he shouted, "two abreast," the man in the dicky bow.
We giggled as he stressed but we did as we were told.
He marshalled with precision, we heeded and obeyed,
there was no intermission in his grand parade.

Then others joined the line and it swelled across the path
and he nearly lost his mind when 'breast' set off a laugh.
The queue most often reached from outside the cineplex
to Oliver Plunkett Street at two to four abreast.
We wore backpacks to the 'filums' because those were the times
when it was forbidden to consume food from outside.
So, we queued, in rain or shine, loaded up with Tayto,                             
penny sweets, Wham and Dime and Cadet red lemonade, oh,  
it was a production for sure (and that was before even                                 
you got indoors to the sticky floors for the movie screening).                          
No messages about turning off your mobile phones.                                 
Questions about dates of birth, smokers in the rows                                
and speakers that faithfully gave up their ghosts.
The chain barrier was manned and when unhooked
racing feet and clawing hands dashed and shoved and pushed.

A treat of treats to go to the Capitol
and you might eat in Mandy's afterwards.
In a slatted paper hat, recount the show
and take off the man in the dicky bow.

(Cork's Capitol Cineplex was the cinema of my childhood. It closed in 2005 and there are now plans to redevelop the site. I really wish I knew the name of the man in the dicky bow, he was such a character. He used to also shout "no loitering" to people who tried to wait in the cinema porch rather than in his line out on the footpath. He didn't discriminate either, he shouted at my dad to get in line just as he shouted at us children.)



This poem featured in the 2015 edition
of Cork's Christmas magazine,
Holly Bough.
Find the Holly Bough
on Facebook & Twitter.

Noising

"Oh, I love your wooden floors." "Yes, I love them too,
but I would so love carpet more for just a year or two."

"I like the ceramic tiles." "Yes, they're great, I know,
but give me cork or lino until the children grow."

It's the noise that drives me spare, shoes and toys that startle,
that dragging din of chairs and a bag of wayward marbles.
The tumbling as the Lego box is emptied down the hall,
the dumping of a box of pens and bouncing tennis balls.
The sound of dice, giant wooden ones, (I bought them the damn game),
bashes through my brain like drums until I feel insane.
At just the right sky-diving height my piano is the ledge
where Elsa and her friends unite and jump the keyboard edge.
Then heads and arms and dresses, hard plastic, but of course,
crash down to ground level with eardrum-bursting force.
The ponies, all those ponies, it's like they can't stay still,
canter at highest decibels as if they have free will.
Books are made of paper so you'd think that they'd be silent
but knock them from a four foot height for a bang that's violent.

It would be futile, really, unless, as well as floors,
I pad the walls and ceilings, the windows and the doors.
And, lets be fair, the children are behaving as they should
I'm the one who despairs that the floors are made of wood.
There is another way I think, it might just change my luck
to get some underlay and block my ear canals right up.
Could I get a quote for insulation, how much would it be
to kit me out with soundproofing on my two auditories.

But, wait, what's that? Could it be? I'm starting to feel scared.
Now my nerves are really shot, there's quiet in the air.

(I'm sure this needs no explanation. However, I do want to point out that my children are great! And, that we can't have rugs or carpets, etc. because Holly, our four-year-old, has a severe allergy to dustmite so we try to keep soft furnishings to an absolute minimum. This summer in Ireland is miserable and that doesn't help: Normally, we spend our Summers outside all day. 
I really like how West Cork people (my husband is a West Corkonian) make verbs out of nouns, 'noising' is something Martin says for 'making noise'. When he asks the children, "what is all that noising about?" they fall around the place laughing at him.)

Blue Moon

Goodbye, goodbye to wet July,
you can't be gone too soon.
Hi and hi, please comply
with an August warm front new.
It's true, it's true, Blue Moon, Blue Moon
you hold a kind of magic.
You do, you do produce monsoon
but you also strike galactic.

Please cease your clime unravelling
I need the dry and warm.
Thank you for the time travelling
but not for July's storms.


(Today, 31st July 2015, is, technically, the end of Summer in Ireland. We have had the wettest and darkest July that I've seen in years. Today is also the date of a blue moon, the second full moon in one calendar month. It happens when there is a discrepancy between lunar months and calendar months.)

Five And Three Quarters

A bird spotter extraordinaire:
Oystercatchers here, tree sparrows there.
Starlings busy on the bank,
wagtail chicks with you to thank;
all that banging at the windows
saved those eggs from hungry crows.
Your bird book is dog-eared and worn,
taped up neatly where it got torn.
Some nights I pry it from you,
fast asleep envisioning curlews,
great tits and grebes, grey herons and rooks.
Winged creatures of gardens and woods,
farmland, upland, bogland, and waters.
Just the right dreams for five and three quarters.

(This is an ode to my little 5.75-year-old, Sadie, who is fascinated by birds. She has her own bird spotter book but has now graduated to two books I have had for years. She knows every bird in those books and watches out like a hawk for birds wherever we are. On a recent trip to Dublin, I saw what I thought was a cormorant and pointed it out to Sadie, who replied, "no, that's a shag."
I recently wrote Four And A Half about my other daughter, Holly.)