Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts

Thursday, January 18, 2018

A Poem From Castleisland, County Kerry - A Horse Barber?



Pound Road
There was a place in dear Castleisland,
Pound Road it was its name,
It housed the finest people,
Kind and caring just the same.
There were Murphys, Sullivans and Brosnans, Berminghams and Morans too,
Danahars, Conways and Buckleys and McCarthy to mend your shoe.
There were Dennehys, Griffins and Savages and Prendivilles - who are our kin,
We'll not forget those people for that would be a sin.
There were carpenters, and undertakers, cobblers and a bell-man too,
Fishmongers and horse barbers - none were idle I assure you.
Times were tough back in the 40s to make a bob or two,
No bother to these people - they were smarter that (sic) me and you.
One day there came a letter, their little homes would have to go,
They'd be moved to better houses - away from heil and snow.
But their way of life had ended, 'twas the end of an era you see,
They had to leave their little cottages - where they never used a key.
In my home I hung a calendar with their names and history,
I smile and think about them when recession blares from TV,
Those folks survived in harder times but their hearts and minds were free,
They lived each day as best they could with a chat and a mug of tea.
When in your cosy beds at night, will you say a little prayer,
For all who've gone before us, in whose footsteps we will dare,
Their simplicity and their courage an inspiration to us all.
We think of our relations, bould Tom and Sonny Bawn. from The Kerryman
Former Kerry crest (1988–2011)
This offering might not pass the poetry finger test , but County Kerry has the most (37) GA football titles and Castleisland is once again the widest street next to O'Connell Street in Ireland. Dactyls and spondees and rhetorical flourishings aside, the vocation of the horse barber grabbed me.

Image result for horse barber Ireland


County Kerry, ladies and gents!  And you wonder how I got this way. 

Thursday, January 05, 2017

Broetics: The Path Into the Male Mind


"ut pictura poesis (l. 361),"  Hoarce from ars Poetica

Final Final Fantasy
I will not spend one hundred and thirteen
hours of my life on a video game
ever again. I will not rationalize,
claiming that it is somehow "research" for
my future career as a comic book
writer. I will not allow myself to be
sucked beyond the event horizon of an
RPG situated on a distant
planet, no matter how good the graphics are
on the nubile female lead character's chest.
I will no longer waste my time seeking out
arbitrary unlockable achievements.
I am going to start beating games faster. Brian McGackin
As in pictures, so in poetry.  The camera eye of the brain works wonders and the poet brings to life images and sentiments akin the apprehended.

Women ask of men, " What are you thinking right now."

Sister, you don't wanna know.

Really.  Usually it is nothing anywhere near akin to ocean spray and white stallions running through the surf, while I saddle up my rippled and coiled muscles and sinew in the direction of an imaginary sylph.
Image result for black and white 1930's cartoons of cows
Nope; it is usually black and white cartoons from the 1930's of emaciated cows goosing one another and giving out with snappy patter - 'Solid, Jackson!'

Real men play cartoons in their heads, when not thinking about conquest, the next food item, or excuses. Productive cognition is for the job, fixing the furnace, or doing the checkbook alchemy.

Even Poets, if they be male, drift on clouds of hilarious time wasted.

Blind Milton, I am sure made up scenarios of dead Papists being pitchfoked into the Devils maw by industrious and trim Puritans.

Today, we  are blessed to feature the Man's Milton 2017 - young Master Brian McGackin&* - the Broet Laureate.

I have recently completed the slim volume of many Broesy - Broetry. 

Here is yet another sample of verse by a man, for men and thoroughly about men.

For Mama Celeste, as a Child
Mother cut tiny
slices for my small boy hands:
delicate pizza.
For Mama Celeste, in College
Hold up. This whole time
you were only a dollar?
You cheap, frozen whore.
For Mama Celeste, after College
Sorry about that.
Please take me back, Mama C.
I'm sick of ramen.
Men, get a copy of Broetry; Ladies read and learn what men have on their minds.  Stephen Hawking is filthy gent from what I hear.

As in days gone by - Poetry written by men is Broetry:

 If, after I depart this vale, you ever remember me and have thought to please my ghost, forgive some sinner and wink your eye at some homely girl. H. L. Mencken

"quandoque bonus dormitat Homerus (l. 359)"  Horace -Ars Poetica


* Brian McGackin is the author of BROETRY (Quirk Books, 2011) and DEATH IN THE RICK (http://deathintherick.com/).
He has a BA from Emerson College in Something Completely Unrelated To His Life Right Now and a Masters in Poetry from USC.
He enjoys Guinness, comic books, and Bruce Willis movies 

Sunday, February 03, 2013

On Raglan Road - The Incomparable Luke Kelly Sings Patrick Kavanaugh's Poem




Raglan Road is named for a 'hero' of the Crimean War - FitzRoy Somerset, 1st Baron Raglan.  Dublin is loaded with British identity.  A great poet from County Monaghan Patrick Kavanaugh wrote one of the great love poems about a gent who met a girl on the Raglan Road in Ballsbridge Dublin. The poem's voice recalls the choice of engaging love and being shattered in the heart by taking the plunge. or retreating like sniveling craven and risking nothing. The lad went at it!

Here is the great Luke Kelly's version.


 






On Raglan Road

On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.

On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge,
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay -
O I loved too much and by such and such is happiness thrown away.

I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that's known
To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say.
With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May

On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay -
When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day. 

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Reprobates All! Us Cavaliers Mean What We Say . . .sort of.


Cavalier Poets fought Cromwell's Roundheads Ironsides Army -Guess who won? Answer at the bottom.

I was chatting with a couple of Leo Men about the return to the books. Poetry puts many of the guys off. It will do that.

Poetry is deception. What ain't? The trick is in getting to what matters, but also the consequences of what matters. Poetry is music and as such the words should have a rhyme and a rhythm. Music at one time was part of the mathematics curriculum. Math really got started when guys wanted to build pyramids. Pyramids are tombs for kings.

See? Deceptive.

I told the guys to give the stuff of poetry a chance. By the stuff of poetry, I mean the things you should know. Meter, rhyme, and the rhetoric. It's not brain surgery, nor is it coal mining.

Here's some of the stuff I talked about.

The Author of the poem I mention was Col. Richard Lovelace (1618-1657) an Errol Flynn kind of guy - I had to explain Errol Flynn: think of Han Solo with a better vocabulary.

I keep my Norton Anthology of English Literature near my cluttered desk. It should be the only text book any high school teacher(no pictures and no Teacher cheat sheets) of English uses, but that is me.

The Glossary of Literary terms is superb, as is the historical treatment of each author and age.

First off, Cavalier Poetry is not Rap duets by Antawn Jamison and Tony Parker

The Setting of the poem is a prison cell where Col Lovelace, and other warrior poets who sided with Charles I in his fight with Parliament ( think President Obama against the Congress), found himself awaiting his fate. Lovelace was a well-educated Cavalier (meaning cavalryman - he had a string of horses that he used in battle.) and as such he believed that Charles Stuart as King of England Scotland and Ireland was anointed by God. Follow the King and you follow God. The Cavaliers lost to the Puritans behind Oliver Cromwell and his Round Heads ( they all had short hair).

The Characters are the Speaker, probably Lovelace himself and Althea, a classical name for a hot babe - the Cavaliers used names like Lucasta, Althea, Cinthonia, and such as idealized women. Some historians believe that Althea was a name for Lovelace's girlfriend Lucy Sacheverell.

The Figures of speech in the poem include metaphor ( When Love with unconfine'd wings), anaphora ( bringing back in Greek:

Our careless heads with roses bound
Our hearts with loyal flames
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free—

When I shall voice aloud how good / He is, how great should be

Here, Lovelace presents all of the possibilities that getting free will be.

The whole poem is a paradox the guy in the cell and chains is a free man.

The Theme of poem is a man is free even in prison and the real prison is to found in the love of one woman.

WHEN Love with unconfin'd wings
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair
And fetter'd to her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses crown'd,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free
Fishes that tipple in the deep
Know no such liberty.

When, linnet-like confin'd, I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty
And glories of my King;
When I shall voice aloud how good
He is, how great should be,
Enlarg�d winds, that curl the flood,
Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage;
If I have freedom in my love
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty.



Like I said it ain't brain surgery, nor heaving coal. It is fun, or it can be.

The fun comes from placing the poem in its proper historical context and that should be the work of the teacher. The Cavaliers were strange dudes* to say the least. Many were serious reprobates and a few were even cowards like Sir John Suckling - they also happen to have goofy names, by and large, that matched their flair for fashion - long perfumed hair, curled and set; lace shirts and long flowing capes and facial hair that seem manicured by lawn specialists.

They were accomplished soldiers and given to drinking their asses off, as well as having their wicked ways with women. They were schooled in poetry and music and dance in order to get noticed by the King and the ladies. They used poetry to advance careers and moves on the women. They had cavalier attitudes - Carpe Diem Seize the Day, Gather Ye Rosebuds & etc. They were more concerned with appearances and the rules that govern appearances in all things.

In the English Civil War, these poets were the King's cavalry. They looked swell and refused to wear armor as it was ungentlemanly. Their tactics were to neatly ride parade in line before the enemy and fire a volley from their pistols.

The Cromwellian Ironsides Army of Roundhead wore breast plated armor and helmets and charged full force into their enemy.

The Cavaliers were slaughtered and Charles I had his head cut off by Cromwell.

The Roundheads won for a short time and there is no Roundhead poetry.

That is a little bit of a reason to consider poetry, when gearing up for Friday Nights under the lights. Go all Cromwell on the football field, but after a good shower and the application of a fine manly scent, read your Althea a poem by John Denham, Robert Herrick, or Col. Lovelace.

Screw Suckling - he hired thugs to do his fighting. True facts.

Here is a great book on Cavalier Poets and this is from a review of that book - Reprobates: The Cavaliers of the English Civil War by John Stubbs
Few stock figures are more easily recognisable than that of the Civil War cavalier. From his broad-brimmed hat with its ostrich-feather plume to the soles of his high-cut leather boots, he presents the image of the silk-suited, dandified man of war: recklessly brave, immorally hedonist and, in his readiness to take up arms for a despotic king, irretrievably – if romantically – “wrong”.

Tuesday, October 06, 2009

Poetic Justice - Poetry Wants No Parole for Norman Porter


A Louse, is louse, is louse. Worked for Gertie Stein. Poetry is the means by which man best articulates what he sees, feels, thinks, tastes and wills. Poetry is math and music.

I was delighted to read that Poetry.com is on the record against parole for a double murderer, fugitive and unrepentant louse - Norman Porter. Norman Porter murdered two people in the 1960's in New England. In 1975, Governor Mike Dukakis communted one conviction.

Today the Chicago Tribune glossed over the horrors committed upon people by Porter. That is what a newspaper wrapped up in the subtleties of the Northwestern Wrongful Conviction and There But for Fortune Industry does with stories like Norman Porter's.
You see Norman Porter skipped out on the law and hid in Chicago where he wrote poems as JJ.Jameson. How could a poet be bad?

http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/chi-ap-ma-fugitivecaught,0,4747496.story

Porter is up for parole out East .

A powerful voice in Poetry Chicago Poetry.com slams the louse Porter. The newsies whine that Porter has friends in Chicago - Well, Buckos, Poetry is not a friend of this murdering louse.

Poetry.com editor says this -

Norman Porter refuses to take responsibility for his own crimes. He also refuses to take responsibility for the people he hurt in Chicago. Even in the movie Killer Poet, when he was interviewed, Porter claimed the only thing he lied about to his friends in Chicago was his name. Really? How about when he told us he had two daughters? How about when he told us he was in the streets protesting the Vietnam War in the 60s and 70s, when he was really behind bars for brutally murdering someone? How about not warning those who put him up for the night that they were aiding and abetting a fugitive cop-killer? It's not hard to see why Porter shouldn't be paroled. It's simple. He committed the crime, now he has to do the time.

It is also not about how much it costs to keep someone in prison. Yes, prisons are expensive and, yes, some people should be released to keep the cost down, like those charged with minor drug offenses, for example. But in Norman Porter's case, we are talking about a man who was sentenced to two life terms for two brutal murders, who received every bit of leniency and mercy the system could offer, way more mercy than most prisoners get, and who then cold-heartedly took advantage of that mercy to sign himself out of prison to go take a walk, only to betray those who trusted him with that right. If I had $48,000 to spare every year, I would personally fund Porter's imprisonment in order to keep this malicious, murderous, lying manipulator off the streets.

Let us not forget that when Norman Porter was on the lam he was not living a "law-abiding" life. Every minute of every day of every year he was free he was committing a crime by being a fugitive wanted by the law. This big fiction that the "friends of Norman Porter" are creating, about how he was such a generous and caring person who didn't get in any trouble while he was on the lam, is just hogwash. Norman Porter was nothing but trouble and for some reason we celebrated that trouble. We celebrated that trouble because we didn't know who he really was. I am wondering how many of us would have sat there and watched his final reading at Coffee Chicago, when he was so high on narcotics that he couldn't even speak, if we knew that he was really Norman Porter from Massachusetts. How many people at the church would have trusted him with their kids if they knew? We were not given the opportunity to decide whether or not he was a trustworthy person, because he sold us a great big lie. We were not given the chance to decide whether or not he was worthy of our friendship. His life in Chicago, the lies he told, the relationships he ruined, and his destructive behavior were all crimes that he shouldn't have been given the opportunity to commit.

Yours truly,

CJ Laity
ChicagoPoetry.com
Still fighting the good fight!


A bit long for gnomic verse, but I like it! Well done, Mr. Laity!