POETRY LIKE SUNSHINE IS FREE
{The intangible essence}
Peter returned home to his life on well-fare
Armed with a pile of library books, He went
To the local tech to see about a creative
Writing class, he showed the tutor a list
Of contemporary writers he wanted to read.
Kavanagh, Lowell, Kerouac and the beat poets
Yeats etc. the girl said the course centers on
Classical literature like Virgil, Shakespeare etc.
He said he had read them at secondary
School and walked home feeling down.
Walking along kicking stones he thought
Go to the library and self-teach yourself.
From negativity came a spark of capability.
His step fell into the stride of confidence
like a man on a mission. The cogs of his mind
were in motion. In his mind he could see
an office of bookshelves a desk in the box
room, he almost ran like a kid buzzing
to the library. This could be a great day
he thought he felt like a writer.
He felt bad for all those 9-5, night shift zom-
Be’s trapped in capitalism in debt up to
Their eyeballs. Tinseltown and axe-mas
had wrapped around their being.
He felt great passing the dole office
he winked at well-fare no regrets he thought.
This was something he had dreamed
Always wanted, he remembered back
To when he was a sixteen-year-old
on the dole in his family home living
on £5:90 a week.
He gave his mother a fiver and had 90p
for roll ups. What more do you want?
A roof over your head food in your belly
And fags to smoke. Mum always
Gave him a few bob to go out with
His mates for a bottle of Buckfast
Underage on black path underpass.
I think this attitude stems from my
father not giving me pocket Money
for whatever reason to make me
stand on my own two feet but
I don’t think so I reckon he was just
Being the cunt, he was.
I loved to hate him and him me.
When we were together you could
Cut the atmosphere with a knife but
those days were the best days
of my life apart from wedding
and children.
The world thought I was mad
to leave my job to be a writer.
I said to my wife we would be ok
Give me two years Kitty they never
understood his Negative capability
even his kids thought he was mad
Coming home with a arm full
Of library books, taking the box
room door off to make a desk
for his typewriter and books.
On the end of his desk he put
a portable tv and playstation..
he wasn’t shutting his family
out they were the reason he was
doing this but they wouldn’t
understand.
Everything he wrote was auto-
Biography, he began to write
Seriously when his father died.
He was a deep secretive man
Who took it to the grave?
They Never spoke or made eye-
Contact, he knew his father
Had something to say.
His Father was a bastard left on
A doorstep in Belfast.
A Brit who became a top I.R.A. man.
He knew he had a story in him
And his father.
Before his death he tried to put
lyrics together like his hero Lou Reed.
He set about writing his bleak reality
his dark past was giving him hope but
Only a few seen it.
His friends and family didn’t understand
at times It hurtto rewrite his past and his
fathers, turned out he dug so deep found out
he abused his siblings but he was torn.
His sister and brother were
alcoholics, who do you believe?
YOU can be a bastard but
Don’t ever be a cunt.
He was happy in his own skin even if it grim,
he had no regrets. The first poem he had published
Was called bastard life, for him. It was as if his father
gave him a gift with grief,
He sent the poem to a Submissions of poetry in the library.
He tidied up three poems and sent them to the poets House
in Port muck where James and Janice Simmons ran a poetry re-
treat and Masters Program.
He was set on Self teaching, the idea of self-teaching
Was inspired by Kavanagh: ‘you dabble in verse and it be-
comes your life with a basic education’.
His friend Swan was the only friend who
understood his literature leaning. They spoke
of music, poetry and a dole hoppers life.
He lent him a book of poems by Raymond Carver,
‘Fires’ he put the book with other writings that went
right over his head, he’s different said his friend
you’ll get a lot from him.
It took him six years of writing and rewriting
Reading to reread that book from a trailer
Park trash spoke to him like it spoke his
Language. A mid-western American
And an Irish English man but dole hopper
trailer park trash and Kavanaghs basic
education, a triangle of hope.
That book still blows me away today.
When my friend left I read the blurbs
on the back one stood out by Salman
Rushdie it said read everything Carver
Wrote, as simple and wonderous words.
I flicked open the book and stopped at
Aerialist supreme a poem for Karl Wallenda
I read the poem as if Carver’s breath was
Holding me up sky walking, I read the poem
In one breath when I read imagine that wire.
I gasped for air it gripped like no other poem
Ever did, to this day I believe that Carver held
My hand on that tight rope walk and that gasp
Was the gasp Carver felt when he finished?
Such a magic poem, the power of poetry.
From that day Carvers words made me a writer
There’s no one like him out there.
My poems were accepted by the poets
House, was invited to a two week poetry re-
Treat wow how cool was that. Before
I left I was asked to study for an M.A.
A degree on creative writing. My poems
Were accepted by two publishers, chap
Book by lapwing and first collection by
Lagan press.
I still can’t fathom this, I pinch myself
Every day thirty years later and seven
Books later those three writers were
With me and still with me every
Step of the way along the Ray River.
RAY RIVER
For Jimmy and Janice
Although I’m here in Donegal and not Yakima,
Washington state or in Dublin reclining
On the banks of the Grand Canal.
I feel a sense that Raymond Carver
And Patrick Kavanagh is here with me
Following the Ray River to the sea
of this poem. The winds sway the reeds
reflected on the rippling water, on a bend,
a stream flows into the Ray, cascading
on the rocks.
I love the music of this place, the silent
Harmonies of the source, the spring
Falling from high on Muckish mountain
To where I sit translating nature to poetry.
Further on another stream flows in, ever
So quiet secretly subtle, like the clarity
Of wonder in the undercurrents.
I’m here at the sea, the reservoir.
Tory island looms black, remote above
The wild white waves, poetry echoing
Across the golden strand.
The colors of a rainbow rise from the sea.
The intangible essence that lingers here,
THE blending colors fade to blue
And I feel a slight tingle on my fingers.
I look down to see a multicolored spider
Crawling across my hand and the open
Pages of this notebook as if that
Were its only purpose.
FOOTNOTE
Strange writing about something you can’t remember but
You knew that you were there in the intangible essence.
I really felt alive at the poets house, met some wonderful
People you know who you are, I don’t. makes me cry
Tears of joy.
