Archive for the ‘ Ireland ’ Category

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 ther 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 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 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 my 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.

Never end.

It is wise not to force a dream
I believe that now, I found your smile.
Let us call down the stars
and make eternity seem but a while.
For all things melt away and we two need not pretend
but your eyes have lit a fire deep in my soul that I never want to end.

We lived in dreams always.

There was something in the night
it seemed alive, you could almost feel it breathe
the animal mind of my age, afraid to rest, to sleep
for in stopping it might miss, moments that may never be.
A deep hurt ran through the dark
silent eyes watching for a movement, waiting
ready to pounce upon the weak.
All is lust, blood, venality and the stink of corruption
it seems that nothing can break out.
Where are the words that lift the soul?
Where are the songs to make a hand a fist?
Where can the restless run?
Why are the ignorant content to wallow in the filth
and the piss of all that is profane?
Oh it seems that hope can flounder in the debris that remains.
And yet….and yet…a spark can make a flame
and love can grow in the light her fire creates
and in that way nothing has ever changed
and in strange ways we lived in dreams…always.

The Fear

 

https://shespeaksmusic.bandcamp.com

imagehttps://shespeaksmusic.bandcamp.com

 

Hey all, just a quick plug for our debut single ‘The Fear’ we would be most grateful if you could give it a listen. Just click the link above. We are all very proud of it, hope you like.

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.

Watches

The digital watch flashes
catching my eye.
A nurse whispers to you ‘it means he’s not blind’.
All the seconds from here to then are taunting the living,
a death’s head moth flies to the light.

Hearing again the beep on the hour
(It means I’m not deaf, you let out a sigh)
All the hours run faster and faster.
If we could catch it, then we’d never die.

That patch on my head?
It means I’m a fighter, a scar
from a battle a long time ago.
You carried me then but I was much lighter
I’d carry you now but where would we go?

Isn’t it funny how we seek
some type of answer
to the ebb, to the flow
that makes up our lives?
Ain’t it funny how digital watches,
lighting the way
means we’re not blind.