The Hood

This is a poem about one of the less pleasant features of our society. In recent years the hood has become a symbol for a particular group of young people who seem intent on both being unhappy and making others feel that way too. It is based on a real encounter I saw while out walking my own dog at night.

Old man shuffles
Stooped, shrouded, muffled
Against cold and damp
Uniform of age
Coat grey
Woolen scarf
Hi-shine shoes
Capped head bowed
Furrowed brow
Sunken cheeks
Age-dimmed eyes
Lines of life
Life lived
Duty done
Passes by
Nods hello

And the dogs watch
And tails wag

Young man struts
Perma-scowl
Too-young
Too-deep, furrowed brow
Thin stretched lips
Suck
On the last of ten
Smile proof
Sunken eyes
Beneath
The Hood

The Hood
Hides, covers
The accused' blanket
The judges wig
Executioner’s mask
Hiding feeling
Hiding all

The skunk cloud
Beer puddled brain
Swaggering
With sham-strength
Confused values
Misplaced, replaced
Aggression, size
Anger, power
Resentment brimming
Arrogance wrapped

And the dogs bark
And he

Wonders why!

The Never Ending Journey

This poem harks back to a time before the modern car ferries or planes made travel "home" to Ireland so quick and easy. In the days of the old "Mail boat" things were rougher, slower and uncomfortable. But it was going home and that's something the Irish will always do!

So!
I’m stood on the quayside
On a wild windy night
As the storm brews over the sea
And I wait in the rain
With a hundred others like me
For a boat that tosses this way and that
And just as I think
There’s no way we can make it
We will surely all drown
We’re rushed into the harbour
Of Dublin’s fair city
And a train that’s ready to leave
And it blows a loud shrill whistle
And we set off quite quickly picking up speed
Doing sixty as she crosses the Liffey
But slowing to a crawl up the hills
The heaters don’t work ‘cept in Summer
There’s no way on God's Earth to keep warm
And our teeth and bones rattle and shake
Through the Midlands, Longford, Roscommon
To Mayo at last
To be met at the station at Claremorris
By Pat the baker and his son
In their rickety cart
As we jolt and bump to Kilkelly
Where every man has the gift of the gab
And you can take the man out of Ireland
But you can’t take Ireland out of the man
So of course I join in their chatter
To tell of my journey last night
So!
I’m stood on the quayside
On a wild windy night
As a storm brews over the sea
And I wait in the rain
With a hundred others like me

And Eagles Were Kings

This is a poem about what humankind is doing to our world and how nature will ultimately reclaim it.

Gliding in the clear blue
As a dream or a thought
Sun warmed broad aquiline wings
He surveyed all
And he understood

The smoke is long gone
Blown on a thousand year wind
And just the shell remained
Brittle and dry, sapped of strength
Empty buildings, old and burned
Skyscrapers, apartments, churches
Temples to industry
Abandoned and desolate

Men thought they had answers
Unrivaled intellect
Complex society
A global economy
Men had too much

He sees the bones of society
Laid bare
Picked over by vultures of violence
Crushed by the hyena grip of despair
Men couldn’t set those shattered bones

And they crumble to dust
Grains of memory
Of a time men lived
Long ago

And he stretched his wings
In the clear blue
As a dream or a thought
And he understood
And eagles again
Were kings

Dead Eyes

This poem is about children in conflict around the World, these are children too young to have any real concept of what they are involved in or why. It is perhaps one of my saddest poems.

Leaves photographed Summer 2008

Children’s faces stare
Blank and calm
Children’s small hands
Raise Kalashnikovs
Children's thin fingers
Squeeze their triggers
Flying hot metal
Rips flesh
Breaks bones

Gunfire drowns out the screaming
Hatred drowns out the screaming
Closed minds drown out the screaming
Death drowns out the screaming

Smoke curls and drifts
Dust and ash settle
Dead eyes stare
The dead eyes ask
Why?

Children’s small hands
Lower Kalashnikovs
Rub sweat from their eyes
Eyes that can’t cry
Eyes that have seen
Too much
Eyes that have
No answers
Eyes that see
No questions
And the dead eyes ask
Why?

Standby

Sometimes modern life just doesn't stop, we always have to be doing rather than being. This poem comes out of that. Max photographed here is really busy, runs and runs, but he knows when to stop!

Max - photographed 2009

My old television
Had a big old switch
On and off
With a clunk
My new one has
Standby

No switch
Just a button
Touch sensitive
And a little red light
It doesn’t ever really turn off
It’s ready
For my instant need
For entertainment, for news
To fill an empty moment
I can’t wait a few seconds
It’s on standby
Go on
Touch the button

My new computer sleeps
The screen goes blank
The disk winds down
And parks
But a little red light
Flashes
And then
Touch the button
It bursts into life
Back where it left off
Not asleep
Its on standby
Go on
Touch the button

This is the modern way
Life at the ready
On 24-7 watch
Don’t stop
Don’t go to sleep
When I close my eyes
The world keeps going
The world might pass me by
The world never stops
I wouldn’t want to be
Left behind
In a thoroughly
Modern rush

I don’t really sleep anymore
I close my eyes
Lie quiet
I might snore
But I‘m not asleep
I’m ready to jump up
At the drop of a hat
The bark of a dog
The rattle of the wind
The ring of the alarm
Not asleep
I’m on standby
Go on
Touch the button

I don’t have a little
Red light
I don’t need my own little
Red light
I’m surrounded by them
They’re inside my head
Glowing
Flickering
Light emitting synapses
At the edge
Ready to go
Not asleep
I’m on standby
Go on
Touch the button

And if I finish my days
In a hospital bed
Plugged-in
Connected
Then
When my little red lights go out
I won’t be dead
Resting in peace
Not dead
On standby
Go on
Touch the bloody button

Different Dad

Different Dad was written for fun and it isn't really about my dad, or even me.

Busker in Galway - pencil drawing and photo combined

By day he looks like your dad
He acts like your dad
He even thinks like your dad
But my dad
My dad is different
He’s not one of us

Come the darkness
And the moonlight
He changes
Its in his blood

And it gets worse
He’s not like the regular
Once a month
Full-moon
Werewolf type dad
Changing for just one crazy night

Or the beer drinking
Once a week
Friday night with the lads
Hung-over Saturday morning
Type dad

My dad is different
He’s not one of us

It was once a week
A couple of hours
Cold winter nights
After dark
No harm in that
That’s what they think

As Spring Sprang
It was in his step
And as Summer scorched
Dad sizzled with feverish rhythms
As Autumn fell
It was too deep

It happens everywhere
Any excuse
A stuck-wheeled trolley
Spins and twirls down the aisles
The snow falls
The car pirouettes

Beautifully

He walks with the beat
Sashays and shimmies
Side-steps and slide-steps
Counting time
Not left right left right
But five, six, seven, eight

He mambas into Morrisons
Waltzes out of Waitrose
Sambas in  Sainsburys
Flamencos all over Farmfoods
Gyrates outside the garage
He even Tangos in Tesco

He’s not like the regular
Once a month
Full-moon
Werewolf type dad
Changing for just one crazy night

My dad is different
My dad thinks he can dance

Honed

Healey Dell Viaduct photographed Summer 2010

This is a poem about my dad told through the tools of his trade.

 

Heavy wood, dark with age
Corners worn off
By Time, by use
By His hands
Inside the stone
Flat smooth
Glistens grey green
The sweet smell of oil
The swooshing, sliding, grinding
See those firm hands gripping
shaping, honing
His dry skinned palm
Rough and faded
Tests the edge
Sharp and precise
A few more stokes
A wipe, a polish
Mirrored
Reflecting
I replace the wooden lid

Sanity burning

Here's a new poem about someone who starts fires - it isn't based on a single real person but on bits of things I've come across over the years. No pictures of fires here but the "B of the bang" sculpture in Manchester fits nicely (the sculpture was eventually dismantled because it was dangerous)

"B of the Bang" photographed at Manchester Sportcity

He no longer cares
burned it all away
matches, bonfires
cars, houses
it didn’t matter
took away the pain
hurt drifting upwards
wind blown on the smoke

He’d stagger home
Alcohol dimmed senses
cosy armchair comfort
music and books
old gold framed photos
black and white pasts
glimmering ....
He settled briefly
contented calm
and the fireplace sparked
his inferno reignited
the wide eyes stare
pale skin reflects orange
and all that’s left
charcoal blackened memories

And the familiar cell
who’s iron bars don’t burn
and where, for now
he no longer cares

The Churn

I wrote this poem about my Granny when she was about 95, based on memories from my childhood and beyond. I hope it gives a feel for how her generation lived.

Granny aged 94 - pencil drawing

Splash, thud, splash, thud
Like the paddles of a Mississippi steamer
Steady, rhythmic, beating time, lento
Now the sound marks the final stage
The last carefully choreographed steps
The dance? Its churning day

In the kitchen, listening, feeling
As she turns the old wooden handle
Splash, thud, splash, thud
Only a few minutes to go
She knows the dance so well
Created it perhaps
Still she stops to check

The milk had stood in its basin
As the cream rose to the top
She had skimmed it off, gently
Sometimes she blows across the surface
Sometimes she uses a flat spoon
The cream had stood in its bowl
Now it is ready, the churning begun

The rhythmic beat grows slower, softer
Two more little glances under the lid
Just to be sure
On the paddle the small clumps
Have started to form
Soon the paddle stops

She washes her already clean hands
Pin-head oatmeal to remove the soap
The super-clean hand reach into the churn
And draw out the golden butter
In a wooden bowl she kneads it
Forms it into shape
Wraps it and stands it on the pantry shelf

Granny always made the best butter
Rich, smooth, soft and tasty
So much better than mass-produced
We children always knew that
Expectant we’d listen
Splash, thud, splash, thud
Like the paddles of a Mississippi steamer

I’m a Bloody Poet Now!

 I wrote this little poem about being, or rather becoming a poet. Once you get started it can be a bit addictive. This one is written for performance and starts off as if I am speaking at a meeting of "Poets Anonymous"

Teasel photographed in Mum's garden

 Hello,
I’m Seamus,
And I’m ….
A poet

No, please don’t look at me like that
I won’t shout, or snap, or bite
Its just that sometimes I suffer
From an awful urge, to write

I don’t know when it started
And I don’t remember how
But some words just came together
And I’m a bloody poet now

I don’t have to write another
I’m always in control
Just a short one and then I’ll stop
Yes! I’m getting stronger now

Just a couple of lines
Now surely that can’t hurt
My God its miles past Midnight now
Ah! just a couple more

I think I hit rock bottom
And truth stared me in the face
I just couldn’t keep from writing
But I couldn’t stand the pace

All that poetry makes you think
And look at things too hard
And describe every tiny detail
The minutiae of life

The answer lies in writing prose
No more counting syllables
Chapters instead of verses
The twiddly bits all gone

No need to read out loud
To make it sound just right
Not panicking so much when
The bleedin’ words don’t fit, quite like they might

I think I’m making progress
The rhyme is long since gone
But the damn thing’s still got rhythm
So I’m standing here tonight

I don’t know when it started
And I don’t remember how
But some words just came together
And I’m a bloody poet now

The blog starts here

This blog will contain a variety of my poems, some will be new ones as I finish them and some will be poems I have written previously.

My poetry is often written with performance in mind and I regularly perform at Write Out Loud venues in the North West of England. Have a look at www.writeoutloud.net for details of events etc.