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Moments in Places, Overlooking the Liffey

If there is a metaphysical opposite to the small room, it is the large park. One can map out the room within moments of the first visit, noting exits and even the layout of the furniture. But a park is never mastered. Even after years of coming here, there are still so many nooks which I have yet to discover. Unlike the furniture of the room, the park is almost insistent upon change – it shifts and breathes bit by bit.

One of the aforementioned nooks is my recent discovery, and as I write, I'm jealously shooting glances over my shoulder to make sure that my secret is undisturbed. It is a thin cluster of white benches on a hill which sits, hunched, at the edge of the park. The hilltop slopes gently toward the road beneath it, so that one always feels as if they are drunkenly leaning out and into the pine trees which shield the park from the cars thundering to and from town.

Beyond the road is the liffey river, and it tirelessly drifts its own way with no urgency and no hesitation.

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Moss on a Wall

A close-cropped clump,

Clung tightly to brick,

A myriad of graded greens,

And invitingly fuzzy,

Dotingly dotted with,

Droplets of trickle-still water.

Like a bunker-bound soldier,

Hunched up to the bluster,

Of wind up over,

The bundle is bunched,

Against the rain rough,

On its little green feathers.

In its own time,

And,

In its own way,

The,

Moss,

Blooms.

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Footsteps in the Morning

There's a vague half-stillness,

In the mornings here,

Gentle but unnoticed,

By we who walk below,

Our feet are fast because,

Why wouldn't they be?

We're only out of bed,

Because there's somewhere,

Each of us need to head.

All eyes are downcast,

And our breath is slow,

Every reaching step ponderous,

As if the ground is barely there,

Our lowered lids are dozing too,

Because the world,

Is barely there either,

Not when dreams beckon,

And we're losing warmth by the metre.

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Moments in Places - Hilan Chinese & Korean Restaurant, Capel Street

As soon as one enters, one is struck with the sensation of tranquillity, and the crossing of a threshold. This is not a Dublin restaurant being used for exotic food, this is a unique and secluded locale of its own. Several senses strike you simultaneously, the sizzle of Korean barbecue, exceeding the throaty aroma of charcoaled meat and smoking metal. On top of this, the light is forcefully cast out by excessive exterior signage, almost in a gambit to refuse the encroaching oppressiveness of the city's noise and stink and stress.

Here, amid a bargain-wrought haven, one can escape and feel again, for precious minutes, the isolation of unavailability.

Unavailability indeed; when selecting one's meal, one must always have several options in reserve, for the sake of eventually picking something which is actually in stock. The redeeming factor, however, is that one could pick a meal blindfolded and invariably end up with something delicious.

There is some special sense at the end of a particularly good meal, that could mend any broken nation. It is a pacivity and a satisfaction like the sound of your favourite song, heard from underneath the softest woollen blanket. There are few simple joys like the contentedness of a stomach filled to the brim with great food.

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Moments in Places - Tea Rooms, Phoenix Park

The closest thing to being a critter in a hollowed-out tree stump. The close, cozy air is threaded through with baking, bacon and the patient musk of brewing tea. I, and all of the other fairytale animals are sheltering from the rain. Each bite of food and sip of warm tea adds to the conviction that, yes indeed, this is where you're meant to be.

We all know it, too. When I meet the eyes of any fellow patron, I will see them glisten with the same merry satisfaction – the pride of having found this place.

I'll move on soon, as they all will, but each of us know that, for this moment in time, it is our own little secret.

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Moments in Places - TCD Library

Hi folks. This series is just going to be selections from a writing exercise that I’ve taken up. Essentially it’s just a challenge to find an interesting way to describe any given location that I might be in.

This is the first, and a little rough, but I had to start somewhere.

Let me know what you think, and enjoy!

Walking up here feels like being suspended on a high, red-carpeted platform, and everyone stays longer than they mean to – for fear of being seen to be calling it quits; making the long climb back down to safety.

Each person is craned over their computer or notebook, hunched shoulders rising by the minute to meet the challenge of their chosen texts.

A thousand errant eyes claw a warpath back to work, away from Facebook or Instagram. Oh, the allure of social monitoring. The nanny state isn't an organisation, it's an apathetic community that wants things to – for God's sake – go back to being simple. It's us.

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Ribs, The Mighty

Each laugh of mine,

And dream,

Sense of rightness,

And my simmering soul,

If it weren't for him,

I'd be blind, deaf and dim.

The man himself is a giant,

And strong,

Raucous with wisdom,

And half-remembered songs,

He's an unquenchable patriot,

Of a country with no flag.

Within my father is justice,

And patience,

Compassion unsizeable,

And a smile which is timeless,

If my heart could have half the love of Dad,

I'd be the best me we could have ever had.

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O Bife Português

Hi folks!

Here’s my first (hopefully not last) poem written in Portuguese. Now, Portuguese was actually the first language I ever spoke, and it fills me with great shame that I’ve let it get so rusty in my time in Ireland. Hopefully the sentiment of the poem still comes across, despite any linguistic inaccuracy.

Lots of love.

Passos pequeninos,

Reclamar o som,

O canção implacável,

Da terra onde vive,

Este coração que bate,

No centro do meu espirito,

Com esperança,

E saudades,

Procuro o saudade,

De estar de volta,

De voltar ao meu lar,

Com voz alta e soltada do esquecimento.

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Adrift in a Failing

And so comes the falling,

And the gutless overturning,

Through black skies,

Overbrimmed with unfaithful resolutions,

Salacious distractions,

And a hundred promises fallen short of filling,

Kisses and well wishes,

Float starward below,

Pierce through my deceitful flesh,

Like damning curses and flame,

And bare my unworthy bones at last,

Leaving me, a meek thing, adrift,

The air shrieks the same,

As every night spent bent,

Over to the screaming wind,

When the heart sees into the soul,

Hating every insipid excuse,

And each shortcoming to the oncoming assault,

And so comes the failing,

The most guilty outcoming,

My incessant and flagrant shrinking,

Away from shirked duties,

Self-preserving deceptions,

And hundred promises to move on from dependence,

I jumped,

Myself,

From the height of my self-installed temple,

Because it crumbles over time,

And columns turn to sand,

And evasions ever to downfalls,

At least inside,

And then, at last, below,

When it's crumbled down,

From the loneliness of the fall,

When I'm broken from it all,

I'm saved from the silence of the scream.

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Chill Time Episode 3: New Year, Old Rubbish

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Double-Backs in Any Place

There's a,

In my,

While I,

Try,

It's always,

No matter,

All colour,

Blur,

But what if,

Then it,

I'll forfeit,

Merit,

Clawing through choking,

Like damp sand around,

Dulling and begrudging sound,

Ground,

Drowning, Mind, Try to,

Try.

Stinging, Where, Indistinguishable,

Blur.

I'm weak, Means nought, All pretence of,

Merit.

Mist, Clamping, Minds – my,

Ground.

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A Hat on a Plane

The tiny seconds,

Scented like plastic,

Warm and constricted,

As I soar above the sea,

Humming us to deliverance,

Along with that twat in 9D,

Each of us is poised,

And only half-caged,

While we do something mindless;

The cabin shaking like a tree,

If I die, I swear,

I'll take that fucking hat with me,

Red and resolute,

As an indignant babe,

Sounds out the baby's promise,

Make America Great Again,

Borne upon the head of a waddling oaf,

With a face made round with grilled chicken.

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Naturally

Hi everyone. It took a while, but here’s a short story I just finished. Every now and then, I’m going to throw up some little tidbits and ‘scrap’ stories while I work on bigger projects. While I’m generally a fan of fantasy and horror stories, I’m getting into the habit of following whatever mood hits me, and seeing where it goes - at times, that may even include some social issues (you have been warned).

A very good man walked down a sunlit street, with a bounce in his stride and a note in his hand. Being the good man that he was, he'd been given the note by a female admirer. It was his good nature – the women simply loved it.

Earlier that afternoon, he had been shopping around, looking for new gym gear. He took a lot of pride in his fitness, and he could only work out while wearing the latest in sports technology. He was a man of planning, and never failed to plan out a new workout regime each and every time that he saw a Facebook post about exercise. Considering his formidable natural strength, he could only imagine the sick gains he would reap, once he started pumping iron and embracing the grind. Of course, this could only come after the purchase of new gymwear. Among the various health benefits, he was most excited about the increased sexual attention which he would receive – it would give women the excuse they needed to approach him. Even now, he could feel the gaze of every woman on his sharp shoulders, toned hands and chiselled chest.

While he was shopping, he spied a prime catch; just the lady for a good man like himself. She was very pretty, with bouncy hair and bright eyes, she looked like the kind of person that one could have an intelligent conversation with. More importantly, she had terrific breasts. She was short, too, and looked like she might carry just the kind of insecurities that a good man could use to his advantage. Looking nonchalant by completely avoiding her eyes, he indecisively flicked through the racks of clothes, tensing his muscles at strategic points. It was difficult to tell, while he was doing everything he could to not look in her direction, but he got the feeling that she was watching him. She was enjoying the show. It was a sense he had, any good man could feel it when crackling sexual energy was being exchanged between them and an admirer. And what a sexual energy it was, she must be able to tell how good a man he was. His pure and good intentions were driving her wild. He decided to drag it out just a little bit longer, pulling out his trump card. He turned and walked to the next clothes rack, pausing to 'notice' the sales assistant for the first time, ostentatiously scanning his eyes over her body, head to toe. When she met his eyes, she had a practiced indifference – no doubt, she didn't want to give too much away. After a few moments of theatrical humming and hawing, the young lady padded over with a glint in her eye.

“Do you need help with anything, sir?” She asked, with words dripping from her lips like a hundred sultry suggestions. He turned slowly, as if he were in slow motion, and peeled back his lips into a charming sideways grin.

“Why, I think you might be just what I need.” He said, not breaking the essential eye contact for a second. She needed to feel valued by him, of course.

“I'm having trouble finding anything of the right size. I'm sure you know the feeling.” He said, making it very obvious that his penis was the biggest that she would ever see. He noticed her nametag, which read 'Sarah'.

“The men's section over to the right might have something that fits you better.” said Sarah, pointing him in the right direction.

God, the way she said 'men's section' was on the verge of a sexual proposition. Sarah was already deeply under his spell.

“Why thank you, Sarah.” He said breathily.

“Let me know if you need anything else.” She said as he turned to walk away. He held his tongue for a few steps, leaving room for yearning to seep in, increasing her desire for him like any good man should. After four-and-a-half steps he spun majestically.

“Actually, there was one...” He stopped when he saw that she had gone. That elfish little minx was fierier than he thought. She intended to make him traipse and chase her around the shop. He had a choice to make; play her game, or meet her head-on. No, he would not falter. A virtuous man such as himself always took initiative – no quarry or lack of interest was too daunting for his charming persistance.

His resolve girded and his mind made-up, he tramped back to the main desk. It was time for Sarah to meet her next crush. As he strode confidently around the corner, he could see the mix of emotions on Sarah's face – she'd never met a good man like him, and never been beaten at her own game. Inspiration, perhaps, would sum up how Sarah was feeling, watching his arms swing wildly in counterbalance to his long strides. Very long strides, actually; he'd perhaps been too eager and begun to break into a sort of goose-step.

“Is there anything else that I can do for you, sir?”

Now was his time.

“Number.” He said softly.

“What was that, sir?” said Sarah, softlier.

“I need your numb-eugh-er – your number.”

Sometimes his throat would catch; it was part of his good nature. The trick here was to take charge. Sarah would know his good intentions if he did everything perfectly; he spoke demandingly, made sure that his intense stare was directly focused on her mouth. To cap it all off, he let out a knowing chuckle in the middle of the silence which had begun to grow between them. He flashed his teeth again in what was half a smile, half a sexy growl, since women dig a good man with a wild side. In all honesty, his lack of growling practice made it come out as more of a soft meow, but women love cats, so it didn't matter. By now, there was no doubt in the woman's mind that, unlike the plethora of plodding knuckle-draggers who she no-doubt was forced to fend off each day, he was a well-cultured and truly good man – ready to shower her with affection and also psychological tricks. Before long, she would be infatuated by his good nature – but more importantly, she would have no real goals, motivation or personality beyond adoration and agrandisement of his terrific personality. It was only a matter of time; there was not a single example in all of his fantasies where she didn't fall in love with his sticky wit and ribbon-like body. She must have been fighting the urge to leap on him then and there. Her dead-eyed stare could mean nothing else. With an excited sigh, she jotted down some numbers on a piece of paper.

And it was that paper which he held as he jaunted his way down the street, pausing only to shoot finger-guns at a passing pair of women. He was in such a good mood that he only felt slightly hurt when he realised that they hadn't seen him. He checked the number one more time; there was something weird about it. '5556666655', the girl must have paid to get a custom number! She probably thought it made her look cool. The good man sighed; some girls will tell themselves anything in order to feel special.

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Chill Time Episode 2: ASMR, Philosophy and Fireworks

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Chill Time Episode 1: Rambling, Upcoming and WanderQuest

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Father Maskell

Before reading the poem, I would like to use this opportunity to say hello, for the first time. This poem is a bit different for me, as I never like delving too much into ‘political’ commentary - but after seeing the Keepers (on Netflix), and hearing first hand accounts of several victims of abuse, I had to do something with the anger I was feeling. As such, this poem is a little unrefined (even more so than usual) and perhaps not to many people’s tastes.

Without exception,

Peace has been my aim,

My prime goal and deepest wish,

Peace within and peace without,

And peace without fear,

Of the black horror behind,

Never speak in hatred,

Forever pay your dues,

And fight your fight for reason,

Through atrocity,

After war and in drought

See in every creed a name, a mind, and a heart,

Every eye is like mine,

And head full of words,

Words to build, bake and mend,

Every name is like mine,

A mother's loving breath,

And so very ready to be great,

So I thank God,

I thank Her that She is not and nor am I,

Else hell would be burst with fire and furies,

Without exception,

Terrible wrath without,

Paying back every pain I've seen,

I would cripple every groping hand,

Wither each leering eye,

Break killers with cruelty doubled back,

My rains would never cease,

And thunder never leave,

I'd drown a thousand arks like mites at sea,

For every child,

Each single plight,

To return again the vile tax paid,

A halo of agony,

Around the tyrant's neck,

And wings of suffering fastened to their back,

I'd rip each joy from their mouths,

Wring the neck of the rapist runt,

Who wrought such pain as I have seen,

I'd shatter every heart,

And I'd ruin every mind,

My gospel would make vengeance an art,

So I thank God,

I thank that I cannot,

That justice is kept far from my hand,

I see a million Maskells,

Masquerading in a million communities,

As our savior saints and friends,

In recompense,

For the innocent trust in God,

The license we gave,

And the blind eyes we turned,

To the tear-blinded eyes,

Of the childhoods we burned.

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The Clock Above My Head

Like the rusted, stunted croak,

Of a grinding pulper,

A timepiece screeches as it circles,

A stagnating broth of human life;

With every tapping foot and bite of sour food,

And each unbreathed sigh from a bus seat,

The squealing ticks of the clock,

Are sounded out like a judge's decree;

The casualty list of fate,

Promising a pause while foretelling death.

Treading like limping mites below the clock,

The mice step with breath clutched like gold,

And each misstep is seen and recorded,

Howling hungrily like some devilish hawk,

The clock grinds out the melody of the fool's wasted time,

It hums terror into their ears, with words coated in dread.

The fool claws at their moments

Each one slips and slithers away,

Ground and churned by the counting clock,

And every one screams like one alive

Forcing a scribe and a sinner, a penance

A promise of quicker thought, and better action.

Ugly and grey it hangs,

Grey like a corpse and coated with grime,

Mocking these sweet moments with the reaper and time,

Unblinkingly aware of each fall from grace,

The countless tears lost in each pointless race,

It grinds out the hours alongside the sun.

And the fool, with a stomach-turning smile,

Will pace their little home,

And wring their little hands,

Hear every single scream,

Every promise of the clock;

Tick-Tock, Tick Tock.