Are dreams meant to be dreamt,
Or are they to be lived?
Are they to be strived for,
Followed as a lamb follows its mother,
To be clung to as a koala bear does, a tree?
Or are they to burn an eternal fire deep inside,
To be kept alive with dry twigs,
A small flame in the darkness?
Are they to be gazed at
With the eyes out of focus?
Or are they to be sought out,
Eyes blurred with concentration?
A dream ceases to be that when it is realised.
Should we try to make them happen
Or should we beat away, the
Glare of the flame hidden
Within our warm, wet flesh?
Saturday, 5 February 2011
Sunday, 23 January 2011
Never Once
I never told you, once.
I never told you that
I don’t sleep because you dance in the darkness of my eyes,
I can’t work because you're laughing through my ears, nor
Do I breathe when you stand there, before me.
I feel my heart beneath my chest - skipping, pounding.
When you look at me, it feels as if it’s about to crack through me
And bleed all over you.
When you smile at me,
When you touch the bruise on my arm,
My heart tears in two,
Not with desire, nor twitters, nor dances or giggles.
But because you’ll never know,
Not for a second,
Not once.
I never told you that
I don’t sleep because you dance in the darkness of my eyes,
I can’t work because you're laughing through my ears, nor
Do I breathe when you stand there, before me.
I feel my heart beneath my chest - skipping, pounding.
When you look at me, it feels as if it’s about to crack through me
And bleed all over you.
When you smile at me,
When you touch the bruise on my arm,
My heart tears in two,
Not with desire, nor twitters, nor dances or giggles.
But because you’ll never know,
Not for a second,
Not once.
Thursday, 23 December 2010
Flash Fiction!
Annie
Running along the footpath, Annie noticed that the day was hot and sticky. Her top was light pink and she knew that soon, bright fuchsia circles would decorate her underarms. She was late.
As she walked into the office, her boss looked up, then at his watch. He hated late arrivals. She dashed to her desk, and as her computer loaded she began listening to voice mail messages, noting them down. When the morning had passed, Annie went to the loo to put some makeup on. Rummaging through her bag, she came across a box. She had forgotten the pregnancy test she'd bought the day before, in a rash moment after waiting in the queue at the chemist, when she had typically worked herself up. She put the box back in her bag and made herself up.
When she had finished, Annie was going to go back to her desk, but after looking at her mobile and seeing that she had ten minutes before the meeting, she went into the loo. Once more, she took the box out of her bag, and, now took out the white object. She read that the clincher of the deal was one line versus no line. She pulled her skirt up and her tights and knickers down, and, balancing carefully, began to pee onto the stick, trying her best to aim for the tiny window. A trickle of wee landed on her hand, and she giggled at the ridiculous scene in which she was starring. When she had done the deed for long enough, she sat back on the toilet and waited.
After two minutes, she glanced at the window. She saw one, tiny blue line. One line versus none, she said to herself, as she reached for the box on the floor.
Running along the footpath, Annie noticed that the day was hot and sticky. Her top was light pink and she knew that soon, bright fuchsia circles would decorate her underarms. She was late.
As she walked into the office, her boss looked up, then at his watch. He hated late arrivals. She dashed to her desk, and as her computer loaded she began listening to voice mail messages, noting them down. When the morning had passed, Annie went to the loo to put some makeup on. Rummaging through her bag, she came across a box. She had forgotten the pregnancy test she'd bought the day before, in a rash moment after waiting in the queue at the chemist, when she had typically worked herself up. She put the box back in her bag and made herself up.
When she had finished, Annie was going to go back to her desk, but after looking at her mobile and seeing that she had ten minutes before the meeting, she went into the loo. Once more, she took the box out of her bag, and, now took out the white object. She read that the clincher of the deal was one line versus no line. She pulled her skirt up and her tights and knickers down, and, balancing carefully, began to pee onto the stick, trying her best to aim for the tiny window. A trickle of wee landed on her hand, and she giggled at the ridiculous scene in which she was starring. When she had done the deed for long enough, she sat back on the toilet and waited.
After two minutes, she glanced at the window. She saw one, tiny blue line. One line versus none, she said to herself, as she reached for the box on the floor.
Tuesday, 17 August 2010
Irish move to London
Micky set sail in 1968. I was full of beans, full of excitement and energy and dreams. I was ready to discover what was on the other side of the water, and explore it until I knew it like the back of my hand. I wanted to work, I wanted to earn money and save up. I wanted to save up and go to the bank every friday and pay my money into my account. I wanted to thumb lifts, meet people, buy a camper van and travel to my heartsｴ content. I was full of hope and dreams, strong and ready for the challenge that lay ahead.
It all happened so fast, the first few months, years. They all rolled into one another, quietly, without me noticing so that one day all the years crept up on me and surprised me with a heavy hand over the head. I arrived on a wednesday and the next monday I was working and getting up at six in the morning. Within a month I was in a flat and out of Allan´s sister´s front room and sleeping back to back with Allan, and I actually had a bit of a life going. When you´re getting up that early and working a physical job all day, you don´t have much energy left but for going home, having some dinner and watching a bit of television. I got into a bit of a routine and it wasn´t bad at all. Then, after about six months a job came up for a carpenter and I started working at the woodwork. That was even better. This wasn´t proving to be too hard, after all, I thought to myself one night as I was lying on the sofa falling asleep, my half finished dinner on the coffee table.
Some of the others didn´t take to it as well as I did. I took it all in my rhythm, I put my head down, worked hard, took my wages to the bank every friday evening as I had promised myself, and wrote a letter home on the weekend, and tried to get to know the city a little. The only part of London I really knew was Kilburn, in particular, Kilburn High Road, my flat, the route to work, and the supermarket. There was a little cafe that was nicer than the others that I went to sometimes for a cup of tea, or breakfast on the weekend, and to read the paper. It´s funny the way you find your place so quickly within a society. I got to know the few places that interested me, got to know the faces behind them, and sometimes the names behind the faces. Sometimes they knew mine too. I liked that. I hate to be no-body, an other body that passes through an establishment every day but that no-one knows anything about. The idea makes me sad, and because it scares me a little I always made an effort to make friends with these people I saw, so that if I didn´t happen to go one day, they would ask themselves, what ever happened to Micky? I like having an impact on people´s lives, no matter how insignificant it may seem. I called a man I had worked with years ago, once. I had thought of him several times, even though I didn´t know him so well, but we had got on really well. So I called his mobile. There was no answer and then a few minutes later the number called me back. "Hello, Sir," I said, "How are you doing?" It was a voice I didn´t know. His son. He asked who I was. I told him and I told him I had worked with his dad.
"My father died", he said. "He told me about you, he spoke very well of you."
I welled up. My throat tightened as I fought back the tears. "I´m sorry," I said. I didn´t know what else to say. I hate saying sorry to these kind of things; it seems one of the single most inane things you could say, but I can never think of anything better.
Allan found it tough. He took it badly when, on the first friday we received our wages, we went to go to the pub to celebrate over a pint. We chose a pub and went to the front door on the corner, where there was a sign at eye level. It read: "No Blacks, No Dogs, No Irish". It made him physically sick. He turned and got sick on the road. I patted his back. He was angry, so angry. He was angry at himself for having turned to the road to be sick, instead of doing it in the doorway. It hurt him real bad, he said. He also took it badly when we would hear someone at work or on the street, say, "Fresh off the boat." He said he felt like a bull that had been shipped over in a cage. He´d get mad and hit back, swearing at them and telling them to go to hell. I stayed quiet.
Gradually, though, that eased off.
It all happened so fast, the first few months, years. They all rolled into one another, quietly, without me noticing so that one day all the years crept up on me and surprised me with a heavy hand over the head. I arrived on a wednesday and the next monday I was working and getting up at six in the morning. Within a month I was in a flat and out of Allan´s sister´s front room and sleeping back to back with Allan, and I actually had a bit of a life going. When you´re getting up that early and working a physical job all day, you don´t have much energy left but for going home, having some dinner and watching a bit of television. I got into a bit of a routine and it wasn´t bad at all. Then, after about six months a job came up for a carpenter and I started working at the woodwork. That was even better. This wasn´t proving to be too hard, after all, I thought to myself one night as I was lying on the sofa falling asleep, my half finished dinner on the coffee table.
Some of the others didn´t take to it as well as I did. I took it all in my rhythm, I put my head down, worked hard, took my wages to the bank every friday evening as I had promised myself, and wrote a letter home on the weekend, and tried to get to know the city a little. The only part of London I really knew was Kilburn, in particular, Kilburn High Road, my flat, the route to work, and the supermarket. There was a little cafe that was nicer than the others that I went to sometimes for a cup of tea, or breakfast on the weekend, and to read the paper. It´s funny the way you find your place so quickly within a society. I got to know the few places that interested me, got to know the faces behind them, and sometimes the names behind the faces. Sometimes they knew mine too. I liked that. I hate to be no-body, an other body that passes through an establishment every day but that no-one knows anything about. The idea makes me sad, and because it scares me a little I always made an effort to make friends with these people I saw, so that if I didn´t happen to go one day, they would ask themselves, what ever happened to Micky? I like having an impact on people´s lives, no matter how insignificant it may seem. I called a man I had worked with years ago, once. I had thought of him several times, even though I didn´t know him so well, but we had got on really well. So I called his mobile. There was no answer and then a few minutes later the number called me back. "Hello, Sir," I said, "How are you doing?" It was a voice I didn´t know. His son. He asked who I was. I told him and I told him I had worked with his dad.
"My father died", he said. "He told me about you, he spoke very well of you."
I welled up. My throat tightened as I fought back the tears. "I´m sorry," I said. I didn´t know what else to say. I hate saying sorry to these kind of things; it seems one of the single most inane things you could say, but I can never think of anything better.
Allan found it tough. He took it badly when, on the first friday we received our wages, we went to go to the pub to celebrate over a pint. We chose a pub and went to the front door on the corner, where there was a sign at eye level. It read: "No Blacks, No Dogs, No Irish". It made him physically sick. He turned and got sick on the road. I patted his back. He was angry, so angry. He was angry at himself for having turned to the road to be sick, instead of doing it in the doorway. It hurt him real bad, he said. He also took it badly when we would hear someone at work or on the street, say, "Fresh off the boat." He said he felt like a bull that had been shipped over in a cage. He´d get mad and hit back, swearing at them and telling them to go to hell. I stayed quiet.
Gradually, though, that eased off.
Tuesday, 15 June 2010
Do not stand at my grave and weep
Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning´s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there, for I did not die.
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning´s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there, for I did not die.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)