Rich Pickings

Rich Pickings

Not much change

an overcoat or two,

tumbling about

the place.

Bones.

Picking at small talk

Laissez-faire.

Different tunes,

words,

out with the Mollies,

the Ribbonmen.

Clipped it to Boston

or the Union had ye.

Scraping at drills,

digging with your fingers.

There but for the grace

you say.

Reading the inscriptions.

Ploughing them into

the ground now.

Eaten bread.

Photograph: Newtown Trim

From across

the Boyne/2007

The Hell I Will's Fine

The Hell I Will's Fine

The pictures on Sunday

The posters and signs

When the land of the free

Was just states of the mind.

Where the legends and stories

American dreams

Played it out on the streets

Of the cinema screen.

An admission paid in

As the credits begin

Will Kane walking down Hadleyville

And the train coming in.

When the law west of Dodge

Some indefinite place

Was a Colt 45

Could beat aces and eights.

The heroes and outlaws

The duel in the sun

With Jesse and Cole

And "Pa, Shane's got his gun".

From a seat on the Boardwalk

The back of the hall

Saw Wyatt and Doc

At the OK corral.

And what made it all great

Well it's hard to define

But just mosey on out

Or the hell I will's fine.

And the old picture house

Now the ghost of a town

I watched them all pulling

America down.

Picture: Pathway through

The Sloping Trenche

Tara Co. Meath 2007.

The Class of Fifty Seven

The Class of Fifty Seven

Back for summertime vacations

Paid for Confirmations made

Last year's Debs

Or school reunions

With the shovel and the spade.

The whole schoolyard assembled

With the writing on the wall

The class of fifty seven

And the boat train called.

Danced round tunes

Played on a sunday

Whiskey talk of going home

On the streets off

Kilburn High Road

Cricklewood

Or Camden Town.

The mission fields of Asia

The States, the sessions

And the craic,

The ones who made it famous

The ones who never made it back.

Photograph: Euston Station London.

The arrival point for

many of the emigrants

who left Ireland.

Ballads and Balladeers

Ballads and Balladeers

The modern literary ballad has its origin in the narrative. Part of an oral tradition whose style

according to the Encyclopaedia Britannica "crystallized in the Europe of the late middle ages".

A musical form. Often derided for its simplicity it is difficult to imagine how western culture would have evolved without its influence.

The travelling minstrel or balladeer was not just an entertainer, but a bearer of tidings. A wordsmith, he could fashion his own truth. Every half decent war or social movement left its songs. As a public record, however skewed, they have left a more lasting impression than anything the historians would have us believe. Songs of a lost love or a grievance are as popular now as they ever were.

The literary ballad though is not favoured today. Nor is traditional verse. Poetry needed to go somewhere to reflect the contemporary. It managed it. The modern prose poem manages to throw reflections at what it once played upon. The air of conversation maybe, but nobody's listening.

Photograph: A view/Carbane East

Loughcrew Co. Meath.

Zeitgeist

Zeitgeist

More games

The mad rush

Capture an age

The spirit of the thing

A new pyramid scheme

The cutting edge

Put something up front

A Bull maybe?

The brass neck

An eye for the

Main chance.

And Bob's your

Uncle.

Photograph: Statue of

Oliver Goldsmith

Pallas Co. Longford.

June 2007.

Recipe

Recipe

Canned laughter

Went down fine

The bit of soap

Light dressing

Swallowed the lot

Sauce for the goose

And the the crosswords

The after dinner mint

Charades

The party line

Usual tip.

Head around the

Smokescreen

And the hot air rising

The smell of content

And the feathers

In your cap.

Photograph: The Fair Green

Navan Co. Meath

Summer 2007.

Tin Pots

Tin Pots

Signs everywhere

Up ahead

"New School of Thought"

Get in the right lane now

Due deference

And the hours put in

Spinning.

Shaving the percent

Or two

Here or there

The bottom line

Probity.

And the moral compass

Gone south

With the Bag-Man

Trumpeting,

Until the walls fall down.

The same mistakes

Until they're perfect.

Photograph: Bective Abbey

Co.Meath Jan/2007.