Archive for the ‘ History ’ Category

Curragh Camp (Clarke Warrant Officers Homes)

 

Blood red brick walls slowly crumbling
like megaliths of a long dead empire.
We, the children of a poets dream,
make them our own.
Sun-faded kitchens, smoke washed wallpaper
and worn down carpets that seem to whisper
‘We are.’ No more.No less.

 

Women watch the work of this world unfold
like the sheets that flutter on the backyard line.
Granite steps and sills are scrubbed
to signify ‘this home is ours’.
Tank tracks rumble on down the road
as they pass they roar
‘We are’. No more. No less.

Soon the winter rain will wash the dust
away and autumn shall weaken and fade.
The dead shall speak in strange and secret
tongues our homes will no longer bear the young
then who will write of the life that we made
if nothing now is to remain?
‘We are.’ No more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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A whisper in a storm

Did you know
that everything we ever were
was only a whisper in a storm?
A candlelight in the pouring rain?
That when you pick over it
nothing real remains
Do you know?

All those words
and all those empty pages
were only childish wishes
the ink is all gone dry,
Everything is gently stained
with all the lies we said
nothing else remains.

Thinking bout it now
ain’t it funny how we see
that you belonged to you
and I belonged to me.

Be honest
and admit it’s a game we played
let’s tell each other there will be another
and go our own way.
That means letting go
coz we can’t be the same
dragging our hearts around in the rain.

Where swallows sing: psychogeography, lament and loss.

You probably don’t think of the crack of rifle fire and the rumble of tanks when you think of home. Growing up on an army base you might think I would, and I do somewhat, but more than that I think of birdsong and the trees when I feel home. I say feel home because I think of home as an emotion, a geography of the psychological. Psychogeography is the way in which an environment plays on the emotions and behaviour of the person. Strictly speaking it had its roots in the situationist urban landscape but whenever home returns to me I think of the psychogeographic.

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Karl Marx once said that people can see nothing around them that is not in their image, everything speaks to them of themselves. In the Curragh Camp I see myself in the animate and inanimate objects of my youth. They form part of my being and my being forms part of the Curragh Camp. The patch of land where the barbed wire coiled like a snake ready to bite with its rusty teeth. We would tie a rope around the branch of the giant tree, pulling it taut, letting it go then we would swing upwards and outwards over the wire. I was always terrified. Not too far away there was an old toilet, bald on top from the collapsed roof, we held contests to see whose piss could reach furthest up the wall. Urine spraying everywhere.

As the brightness of a summer night gave way to purple tinged dusk the cawing of hundreds of crows settling in for the night would assault the ears. A great cacophony that heralded bedtime was near. Swallows would nest in the eaves of the houses, swooping dangerously close to the roads in between the blocks. As summer sneaked away school sauntered in. Who remembers now the little path where a gang of us walked as we wound our way out of MacDonagh? Memory pain.

Teenage years spent in the disused houses as the old lady began to creak under the weight of a new world coming. We kissed in the shadows, cigarettes glowing in the dark winter nights, love was proclaimed on Lover’s Rock and the plantation bore silent witness to the fumbling hands of lustful youth. Bon Scott RIP AC/DC graffiti on the laundrette wall. Traces of an empire fading in the pencil lines of men that would go off to see the blood of Europe spread on Flanders field. Some never to feel the warmth of home again.Sitting on the hill of the ranges with Kildare spread out under your feet and the sky stretching forever. Everywhere I see my image: our image.

It is the stillness that gets me now. Noise only existing in my half-formed memories and fragments of dreams. Home populated by absence rather than wholeness. Each time returning I promise it will be the last, however we are forever linked. It is a symbiosis. It is dreamtime. We are a people fading. The last of us receding. I wonder did the migrating swallows think: ‘where did we they go’ when the terrace that was ours and theirs disappeared?  I wonder where they sleep now? I wonder do they dream of us like we dream of them?

Dedicated to the memory of my childhood friend Anthony Frahill 1976-2017. Rest softly in the dreams of our hometown.

Flickerings

A cathedral for a forgotten god
its altar bare
prayers and incantations unknown,
maybe unanswered. Maybe.
Upon the uneven, undulating wall, a human hand, imperfect man.
‘He had a broken finger’ an anthropologist intones.
Traces of art scattered in the recesses of the land
passively watching the rotting bones.

What is real? the shadow cast or the light?
The physical manifestation or the dream?
God in man or the man in god?
The cave (the Freudian interpretation is clear) wet, but also warm and inviting.
The shadow play sings a song:
man seeking an answer
(there is the obvious Jungian one)
but they knew no Freud, no Jung, no Christ.
Just the cave bear and the dark and the sacrifice.

In the gloaming heart

 

In the child’s field, before his fame
innocence and experience stake their claim
the soldier’s path is chosen
blood signifies the man.

Love, it finds it’s own sweet voice
and echoes out across the void
that riddle rests within the heart
forever to remain.

From Dun Sgathaich the warrior rides
to crest the heights of a morning sky,
three daughters raise the sounds of war
three sons to kill the kings.

Strapped upon a rock to stand
to hold back that dark grasping hand
yet, Black Morrigan’s cacophonous caw
heralds the fading day.

Den Haag

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Den Haag Centraal heaves as we wait
two lost men hanging on to loss
condemned to share these days
trains slip by.
Fast food left festering on a plate
cigarettes on an endless loop
life passes in a gradual way
time slips by.
Both of us on a road outward
running from a thousand cliches
in the crowd we stray,
two alone.

That feeling in my gut
facing down a past
in which I nearly, ever so gently,
drowned.
That feeling in my heart
head on at last
that nearly, ever so violently,
saw me down.

Den Haag Centraal a beginning of a full stop
two men trying to find themselves
jigsaw souls cast upon a floor
rain passed by.

Last orders.

Human beings love order. In fact our brain actively seeks order in chaos, for example it is one of the reasons your mind sees a face in inanimate objects or on patterned wallpaper and it is more than likely why we are always looking for a superfood to destroy cancer (I eat this therefore, I won’t get that). It sounds reasonable to look for that order but it can have a negative effect. Here is one that annoys me: be positive and that will help you survive cancer! Great isn’t it? Except when you do that, and it doesn’t matter whether you mean it, it means that you are saying that the person who dies of cancer wasn’t positive enough and ergo it is their fault that they died. Order like that isn’t so friendly anymore is it? Which brings me to history. We love order in history. The example that springs to mind is Hitler. We have all asked: ‘Why did he hate the Jews?’ Off we pop looking for order and we look for the pattern. Hitler was a failed artist, he was probably picked on by a Jew, he had one testicle and a micropenis and hypospadias.So, that solves that (Jesus must have been a fantastic artist, been hung like a horse and had polyorchadism though cause he was so good) of course, this lets humanity off the hook. Everyone knows it was all religions fault (because there was never a political ideology that was atheistic and sent people off to, oh a gulag or had show trials or ran over people with tanks and had a one child policy…ever because if there was well you know there would be memes about it wouldn’t there?) Realistically, the reason that Shoah occurred was due to religious, economic, social, political and cultural issues and prejudices that had existed in Europe for centuries. Making a snappy YouTube video explaining that is difficult, looking at the genital deformities of Hitler isn’t apparently. Human beings like the answer to be in the recent past as it is more ordered.

So, why am I writing this? Let’s be frank this is the Internet and I lost about 60% of the five to six people that read my posts already. Well you know why I’m writing it, you’ve seen the news. I also want those that are more moral than I to see that I care, I swear I do, I know stuff too I didn’t mean to change my picture to add a French tri-colour there a while back I’m like you too. I watched that YouTube video I promise I did, I know it was Rothstein or Rothschild or whatever Berg that started it all I know Israel is the real bad one, damn it lads and ladies I swear I knew it was them. They took land that didn’t belong to them, of course their people were gassed, starved, left to rot in their own vomit, shit, piss, castrated, mutilated, shot, buried alive etc etc shush now though dear reader I won’t point out that most Europeans didn’t want them, we mustn’t look too far back or our sense of order gets eroded.