From Cork With Love - by Paul O'Mahony @omaniblog

The pen is always heavy, when it’s months since you lifted it. The weight of the space left behind undressed, unaddressed. Time without colour, days without commas, seconds stripped asunder, drunk on the spirit of everlasting full stops. ——— This pen has a cough, the sign of an infected life lived as if there was no editor round the corner waiting. No publisher cracking teeth, chewing toenails, waiting for the pen to impregnate the page with filth, for the ink to copulate with lines that conceive parables, that deceive imaginations so much that the nib cries for rest, prays for time off howls for sleep, from having to be so good and having to deliver best-selling sentences, gobsmacking phrases, gut-wrenching couplets. —— No poet needs a pen. The essential requirement for poetry is a mouth, a voice box, a larynx, lungs. We have ways of transcribing your dung, software to soften your crudities, Code. —— Give us your guts, your flint, your rock. We can knock you into marketable shape. Give us your foulest wake, your Finnegan. I’ll even take your Sappho to bed and snore ‘til dawn, with her panting for more. I’ll make Shakespeare disappear, and Bashō re-appear as a disgruntled dung beetle, before I grant your pen the right to light the rite of the brightening word-scape. —— The Pen, R.I.P., survived lovingly by its mother’s quill, its significant other Bottle of spirits, its children Procrastine and Prostatinus - lies with coffin open all night to the quickening sky, in the front room of OMani’s Bookshop, in the toilet of your treadmill, in the dustbin of your mind, in the gutter of your good manners, waiting for eternity, and, if that’s not long enough, tough on you, with your expectations of Heaven, with your confidence in being reincarnated as the elephant god of wisdom, or with at least a modicum of respect for how you’ve served the progeny of cave carvings, the issue of hieroglyphical outbursts, the offspring of juggled alphabets, and the latest emojis. Trend-setter you, cursed be thy name. —— No matter how heavy the pen, no matter how sick the ink, no matter how smelly the script, no matter how disreputable the collection, the air will carry your sentiments alongside the letter Cain wrote to Abel, the note Judas wrote to Joseph, the missive Abraham scribbled to the Buddha, all the smoke signals, text messages, emails, phone calls and whisperings. The wind will amalgamate the lot, and you will be branded another infant in the long line.

Photo Credit : Welcome to Hell. (Photo: Howie Stern)

Sluggish Dawn Waking is such sweet joy, my friend, Crumpled sheets and well-worn pillows The body warm and snug. A gentle lift-off with a push A right-hand palm, the door to a well-known pit, into the landscape of a fragile core. Nostalgia for the sweet touch of night Gone the face of slumbered satisfaction. Welcome back marauded morn Enough, enough Oh bloody hell, Myalgia, It’s way past time (To grease the palm) for physiotherapy. ‘Tis no wonder Sluggish is my middle name. _________________________________________________________ I submitted this new poem to ChatGPT with this instruction: "Write a short humorous excerpt for this poem". This is what the AI produced : As the sluggish dawn breaks, I emerge from my cocoon of crumpled sheets and well-worn pillows, like a majestic butterfly... if that butterfly had hit the snooze button a dozen times and stumbled out of bed with all the grace of a newborn foal. With a reluctant push, I navigate through the familiar landscape of my bedroom, a perilous journey that leads me to the treacherous abyss known as morning. Ah, nostalgia for the sweet embrace of sleep! But alas, it's time to face the day, with all its marauding responsibilities and unwelcome intrusions. And then, just as I summon the courage to confront the day ahead, a familiar foe makes its presence known: Myalgia, the villainous master of aches and pains. It's a reminder that perhaps I've lingered in bed a tad too long, and now it's time to pay the piper... or rather, the physiotherapist. So, with a resigned sigh and a muttered curse, I shuffle towards the inevitable appointment, realizing that "Sluggish" isn't just a word in the poem—it's become my middle name, my identity, my eternal struggle against the tyranny of mornings." Image by Aitestkitchen.

A story for grandchildren

Reading from "Things Fall Apart" (1958) - with big thanks to my friend Ken Essien.

Recorded while Paul O'Mahony walks down & up the steep Church Hill in an effort to recover from winter vomiting bug. You also hear cars passing - and a brief exchange of sounds with a passer-by.

I will remember the year. Ukraine survived Rasputin's curse. Moscow central: tanks, troops, terror into houses, homes, hospitals into schools, shops, ships amputating the land obeying the command of Grendel's cabal. I will never forget my ignorance - how my faith led me to trust Mother Russia, Gorbachov's legacy, seduction by MacDonalds, and the gas. Shame on me, mea culpa. I failed to believe the intelligence, predictions, forecasts, warnings. I was too smart for my own good. I didn't remember Crimea. I have nothing to be proud of, I slept through 2014. What good was that war? The Crimean War, "The Charge of the Light Brigade", imperialistic glory, another empire glorified and defended. "Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It's been eight years since my last confession. These are my sins:" Blind - to the pain Deaf - to the cries Dumb - too voiceless to fight for the integrity of your homeland. I was cavorting with earthworms the day Crimea fell. Russian Orthodox sanctimonious stooges of Rasputin's regime. No heaven for Ukraine, only hell. Belzebub at work. I've been a disgrace, a disgrace to my mother and father. They had Hungarians to dinner on Christmas Day. Short trousers on, across the table, in Limerick, I saw strangers and brothers in one, conjoined in solidarity. He carved the turkey, she passed the plates to God's children worthy of everlasting love. The cock crowed three times. Ireland, silence. "It will never happen here, in Europe. Didn't we have the Nazis? Haven't we learned?" Chicken Ki-ev, How do you pronounce Kyiv? Vladimir's Mecca missiled, starved, frozen, flattened, bombed, burnt, killed, refugeed, droned, wrecked, obliterated, smoldering, mud, trenches, shells, graves, amputees, Dulce et decorum est ... It is sweet and fitting to war for one’s country. Moscow smiles, the dachas warm, swimming pools of vodka and champagne. More boys to throw into the special military operation, more mouths more guts, more coffins, blankets and pillows for the other world. Let them go loot and rape, berserkers in the breadbasket of Europe in wheatfields, in the eyes of infants, schoolchildren & pets. Isn't it easy to smile surrounded by sycophants? I will remember the weather, the sun, the fires, the drought, the melted ice, the desertification of holiday homes for a few days. Forever, I will remember the six million crossing borders, looking for helping hands, succour, shelter, food, friends, fleeing from freezing cold. thirst, hypothermia and the pleasure of gonorrhea. I will remember the dead, my naivety, ignorance, and safety, insolence and impotence. I will not forgive.

Paul O'Mahony talks as he walks with his English Setter Louis. They meet herons, a cormorant, a Schnauzer and a human or three ...

Roger Overall & Paul O'Mahony talk about how Ireland beat West Indies. This was recorded in Cafe Beva in Glanmire Cork Ireland.

#Audio365

Paul O'Mahony talks while walking in his favourite wood in East Cork - you hear his dog Louis panting and you hear them meet some people who had a dog

Paul O'Mahony reads from Ulysses.

Paul O'Mahony offers thoughts about how easy it is to pay attention to your other half.