Wednesday, September 30, 2009


It was a train then a car, now it's deffo a bus, people can get on and get off when they like,the journey is for fun and for free,come aboard.Tough journey last week poetry hero SuperTed gave us a cerebral workout and with great results all round, songs, multiple poems,creative dismay, horses ,runaway horses,wolves,breakdowns (mechanical and emotional)classroom boredom, pikes, candles,Teddy buoys,badgers,haiku(PAH!) black rabbits,barn owls, stars and Devils eyes,earth rampant on a field of Sky! How d'ya like dem apples poetry people! Thanks a million to everyone who had a go , I tip me hat to each and every one of ye. Now for next Monday, I've left it too late to set my originally intended task but fortunately fellow blogger Niamh had already suggested we write a poem about a photograph, so that is the Poetry Bus journey for next Monday.I didn't have time to find a suitably good photoblog, but fortunately I am also the best photographer in the world so have rustled up 10 images .You can choose one or as many as you like, use them for inspiration,just write whatever comes to you when you look at them.Be interesting to see who chooses what and how poems might differ for the same photo.I can't load all 10 together so 5 are here and 5 in the post below.

The Poetry Bus part deux

Balaclavas and mittens

An extract from CLOTHING from Guineys book of bollix.

The name "balaclava" comes from the town of Balaklava, near Sevastopol in Crimea (now Ukraine).[1] During the Crimean War, knitted balaclavas were sent over to the British troops to help protect them from the bitter cold weather. This spurred the troops onto victory. A similar scenario at the battle of 'Mitten' in the Scottish highlands ended in disaster when the British soldiers ,freezing in the Scottish hills ,were issued with a new type of glove made in great haste -hence only having an individual space for the thumb alone ,the rest of the hand and fingers being trapped in the same woolly pocket.The gloves were named 'Mitten' (or those fuckin' bastardin' useless gloves) after the terrible battle there where British soldiers were routed due to not being able to position their mitten bound fingers on the trigger of their rifles.

I was unfortunate enough to be issued with a balaclava as a schoolboy and it did indeed keep you warm and cocooned from the world ,covering as it did your entire head including ears and all your peripheral vision.This however ,though having the advantage of thermal retension,made crossing the road like a game of Russian roulette as you could neither hear, nor barely see, the traffic.I was run over several times before the age of 10. Luckily out of the 10 accidents I was only killed twice, the other tmes escaping with broken limbs, decapitation and mild abrasions.

Also, as we were poor and mammy had already splashed the cash on the balaclava ,mittens were only to be dreamt of.Instead we went to school with just the string running through the sleeves of our coat to which normally would be attached a pair of mittens.If challenged by rich kids we merely feigned shock that our cashmere mittens had disasterously fallen from the strings.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Tommy Tucker

A poem following a prompt from new follower, PhilipH.tanx ye Phil!

Little Tommy Tucker
was an ugly little fucker,
his mother, the old hag,
made him wear a paper bag,
his schoolmates took the piss
saying, 'Oi! Just look at this!'
But Tommy had the last laugh
Coz he stabbed them all.

Prizes beckon, cheques a plenty, more and greater and more ,OOh and AAhh and Oh! the glory of me , myself and I , look at me Ma, Twat of the world!!

Monday, September 28, 2009


Thats right folks the day we have all been waiting for is here.Thank feck the weekend is over at last,bask now comrades in rays of joyous exaltation and frollick in the fabulous knowledge that magnificent monday poetry est arrivé. Last week I had the brilliant idea (well it seemed so at the time) of seeing if the poetry of Ted Hughes might spur us on to even greater heights than last week. I spent much longer getting this poem into shape, found it harder, had to work at it,it had to be chiselled out from quite a large rock, I was beginning to think there would be nothing left, I was beginning to hope there would be nothing left ! Looking forward to seeing everyone else's but fear there won't be so many this week. Anyway here's mine ,why don't you show me yours?


forming words, tight-locked polished
poisoned black pearls, wrought
naked in the half-light, strangled in suffering.
Poetry is the journey, not the end of the tunnel.

Lines to die for, breaths from death’s blue-blue lips,
damned digging deeper down ,
poems beneath his nails, her nails,
dug down deep, deep in the
mind's black hole, no thoughts, no life
beyond the blank page, the ticking clock
and Horses. Horses. Horses.

And here's the rest of the gang!
(see also the previous 'Ted collision' post)
Mrs Niamh
The Watercats
Titus The Dog
Dominic Rivron
Domestic Oubliette
The Weaver Of Grass
Sandra Leigh
Emeging Writer

Saturday, September 26, 2009

A lesser day

Pictures and Postcards

Mountains to mist, Beckett to boxer to blonde-
platinum of course, looking me straight in the eye,
over the slope of her shoulder.
She says nothing, and a million things.
not one can I catch as, like the accusations, I fly.
I’m back on the midnight bus as it pulls out and pulls in
passengers from the random roundabouts of my youth,
girlfriends dressed to kill and dying from the cold.
Yards and years away are barges passing,
coal powered, just like the square panes of light from the
Arndale block that lure people like moths.
The bigger picture hints of a hunt, of war, of winter,
brothers in arms, their quarry sought their silence confident,
reflective, pleased with themselves and whatever they have done.
I remember their faces peering in from the streets to the dreamy Cafés
‘Stay a while’, they seem to say, ‘Drink your coffee,
Compile this list for lesser days.’

(First published in The SHOp 27 Summer 2008)

Friday, September 25, 2009

Comedy at any cost?

Well,I used to think the only criteria for comedy was that it had to be funny.Beyond that anything goes, nothing is off limits.Maybe I was young, maybe I was naive, but mainly I was just plain uncaring egotistical selfish and wrong. I wrote a funny poem about Ted Hughes the other day but as soon as I had written it, and it really wasn't that bad, I knew I wouldn't post it.Comedy sometimes has a cost, at worst it has a victim, then that joke just isn't funny anymore. Billy Connolly, one of the few comics that could actually make me laugh, the only comic I have paid money to see, found this out when he cracked a joke about a real life hostage and how he wished his captors would just get on with it and kill him. Connolly paid a price for his humour at any cost mentality.Here in Ireland Tommy Tiernan one of our most talented comedians at the percieved to be enlightened artsy Electric picnic is being given full support for his jokes about Jews. I quote..

'But these Jews, these fuckin Jew cunts came up to me.Fuckin Christ killin bastards! Fuckin six million?I would have got 10 or 12 million out of that.No fuckin problem! Fuckin two at a time, they would have gone! Hold hands get in there! Leave us your teeth and your glasses.'

Funny?Well he and the Electric picnic crowd appeared to think so, no objections were raised till 3 weeks later when his joke was printed in a newspaper. Tiernan somewhat ironically claims to be greatly upset that these comments have caused hurt to others as this was never his intention.Maybe, or maybe not , either way his priority was to boost his ego.He claims his remarks were taken out of context? In what context known to man would these comments have been acceptable let alone humourous? As far as I know the entire audience was with him, nobody objected (as they did to Connolly) nobody booed and nobody walked out. Tiernan has previously made jokes about Travellers and people with Down Syndrome , all of which I've heard and all of which I've found offensive. I've always sensed the negative charisma of the bully within Tiernan. Neither he nor his backers feel the need to apologise, he will continue to tour, continue to sell out (in every sense of the word) and continue to offend with impunity.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Pity ye not The Mayfly.

Well Mrs EEjit vetoed my witty ditty about Teddy on the grounds of insensitivity and bad taste, so that's the end of that ,unleess you find me in the gutter one saturday morning looking for a couple of euro and an early house, in which case I will recite it to you for a few yo-yo's. The good news(for me) is that i stayed up till the small hours drinking and cracked out a new poem which hopefully can be boxed off in time for the Monday showdown. I was also thinking about this 'every day is sunday' hypothesis and how they disguise the rest of the 'week' not to look like sunday.But this is obviously a huge effort so they've decided it would be easier to make sunday look like the rest of the imagined week.All the shops are now open on a sunday and it's business as usual on the day of rest.And who says day ends at night? Seconds minutes hours day years are all man's invention's to mark his passing through the one eternal moment.So we are all living in one lifelong, perhaps eternal, moment, the very same moment that saw the rise and fall of the dinosaurs, the building of the pyramids and man stepping onto the moon.I mean the imagined concept of time is relative ,even in our constricted comprehension time is a notion and it's (virtual) parameters all relative.Never mind how long is a piece of string, how long is a piece of time? If you were on holiday in Corfu reading a book under a shady olive tree , overlooking a bluey green sea basked in 80 degrees of heat ,a cool breeze tickling your naked toes and a magnum of champagne in an ice bucket , half an hour would not seem long enough.If however you were buried up to your neck in human excrement and someone was poking red hot needles into your eyeballs accompanied by Richard Clayderman on the piano, half an hour might seem a very very long time indeed-it's all relative. The Mayfly for example lives, within the (human) confines, for but a day and invokes great sympathy for it's seemingly all too brief life.However to a Mayfly a lifetime is a lifetime, it has no concept of life been short (that's all relative).So I wouldn't feel too sorry for it at all.Not only that but the sole purpose of the mayfly is to procreate and it has been blessed with TWO lots of equipment with which to do it. The Mayfly's mouth is only vestigial, it's too busy F***in' to be feedin'.

Have a nice day.


What if someone at the toothpaste factory has a bad day and decides to put glue in the toothpaste?

If nobody is perfect and everybody is somebody,why then instead of just somebody, isn't nobody running the country?

Tomorrow's another day. But is it? Who's to say it isn't yesterday? We're usually asleep for the transition so how the fuck do we know?I'd keep an eye on that if I were you.

Actually I've been up all night a few times to see if I could catch them out,but I think they were wise to me. Say nothing.I've had my suspicions ever since Morrissey sang 'Every day is like Sunday' He might have inadvertantly struck upon gold here.What if every day actually is Sunday but they just open a few more shops during the week to make us think it's another day?

Food for thought comrades, I think you'll agree.No, you WILL agree or there will be trouble ok?

How you doin with the Ted Hughes task? I think I've overstretched meself a bit here.The best I can manage-and I'm not proud of it- is..

Actually that is so tasteless I've deleted it.You can't have humour at any cost.

But on the bright side you should see, no, read, no, hear what The Watercats have come up with.I know it's not Monday yet but feck it get ye over to theirs- it's really good!

Ps I'll run the Ted Hughes ditty past the barometer of offensiveness(Mrs EEjit) tomorrow and if she approves I'll post it.Here's the first line and a bit......

Don't abuse Ted Hughes

he didn't......

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

The poetry train becomes a car!

Well Dudes and Dudettes that was a mighty journey , I didn't know where the feck we were going, a proper mystery train for sure.We stopped at a record 17 stations, 18 if you include my departure lounge and 19 if you include the buffet car where a bit of a shindig broke out when the bar opened.All the stops were different and all interesting, perhaps my faves so far. There was surely a few songs written as well as poems.The general poetic consensus ,for all the preamble and blather , seems to be that for better or for worse when we think of home we think of the place we were raised as children. Thanks to everyone who joined in and I hope you all got round to the others.There were a few late arrivals so I'm posting the full list again today. Incidentally I initially chose My Hometown By Bruce Springsteen because for all the years I've listened to it I've had the same little movie in my head that the lyrics conjure up. I didn't think too much of that till mRs EEj confessed the same and then I read in an interview that Springsteen had taken ten years trying to perfect writing cinematographically.He didn't say how, but that struck me as pretty amazing.Now, what that has to do with us writing a poem is less clear other than I think that creativity is contagious and one persons talent/ inspiration or art can inspire anothers.I'm trying to find catalysts to spark revolutions of writing by getting people to write what they otherwise may not have written.Which brings me rather neatly to this weeks task.Mwaahahaha ha, oh, the power! It's gone to my fat little baldy head. I would like you (yes ,YOU,all of you!) to read the poem below by Ted Hughes (The thought Fox) .Maybe print it off and carry it around with you. Read it as often as you can, in the car(unless you're driving of course), on the train,(ditto) the aeroplane, the helicopter, the toilet, at the dentists, at work, when you're watching telly,when you're not watching telly, in the bath, on the roof, cutting the grass, cooking,when you're having bedroom action with your partner,when you're eating, when you're sleeping, just all the feckin time right? Think about it, get to know it, and what it means to you, soak it all in. It is a tea bag and you are a cup of boiling water and we're gonna make poetea. It's not very long ,you might even learn it. Then read the second one 'The Horses' and by Monday write your own poem with all the things you've imagined about the poem tied up into it .We're going for a drive down the poetry superhighway,Ted's poem's are the catalyst to spark your imagination and we're driving out of his thoughts ,but your poem is the car, don't be tempted to write about his, they're just the petrol in the tank. We're on the road to nowhere ,come on and DRIVE! The usual recommendations of peace and solitude cups of tea/ coffee/ poteen /pork scratchings etc etc apply where possible.

Part two of this exercise involves putting a€50/£/$ note into a brown envelope and sending it to

Mr Total Fecking EEjit

Feckwit Castle

The Peoples Republo d'EEjit

North West Tipp.


I imagine this midnight moment’s forest:
Something else is alive
Beside the clock’s loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.

Through the window I see no star:
Something more near

Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:

Cold, delicately as the dark snow,
A fox’s nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now

Sets neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come

Across clearings, an eye,

A widening deepening greenness,
Brilliantly, concentratedly,
Coming about its own business

Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox

It enters the dark hole of the head.

The window is starless still; the clock ticks,

The page is printed.

The Horses

I climbed through woods in the hour-before-dawn dark.
Evil air, a frost-making stillness,

Not a leaf, not a bird -
A world cast in frost. I came out above the wood

Where my breath left tortuous statues in the iron light.
But the valleys were draining the darkness

Till the moorline - blackening dregs of the brightening grey -
Halved the sky ahead. And I saw the horses:

Huge in the dense grey - ten together -
Megalith-still. They breathed, making no move,

with draped manes and tilted hind-hooves,
Making no sound.

I passed: not one snorted or jerked its head.
Grey silent fragments

Of a grey silent world.

I listened in emptiness on the moor-ridge.
The curlew's tear turned its edge on the silence.

Slowly detail leafed from the darkness. Then the sun
Orange, red, red erupted

Silently, and splitting to its core tore and flung cloud,
Shook the gulf open, showed blue,

And the big planets hanging -
I turned

Stumbling in the fever of a dream, down towards
The dark woods, from the kindling tops,

And came to the horses.
There, still they stood,
But now steaming and glistening under the flow of light,

Their draped stone manes, their tilted hind-hooves
Stirring under a thaw while all around them

The frost showed its fires. But still they made no sound.
Not one snorted or stamped,

Their hung heads patient as the horizons,
High over valleys in the red levelling rays -

In din of crowded streets, going among the years, the faces,
May I still meet my memory in so lonely a place

Between the streams and the red clouds, hearing the curlews,
Hearing the horizons endure.

.Dominic Rivron
Rachel Fox
Mrs Nesbitt
Don't Feed The Pixies
The Weaver of Grass
The Watercats
PJ Nolan
Emerging Writer
Sandra Leigh

Monday, September 21, 2009

The Monday poetry extravaganzAAA

GOOD MORNING WOOORLLD!Here it is, population of the universe, the moment you have been waiting for.I'm looking forward to reading this weeks responses.I struggled with mine, it started off too long and I never write long poems so I slashed chunks out of it and butchered it, it's not a prime cut but it will do.I will keep at it till I'm happy or give it to the dog. All aboard the poetry mystery train now folks we'll be making plenty of stops along the way visiting different lands and different people let's see if any of us are homeward bound. Pip pip! We're leaving from platfom 9 just follow through the gap in the fence.Tea coffee and biscuits are available from the buffet car. (Alcoholic beverages after )


Took more than a fast car to get away
from any place we could call,
would we call it? Lies!
Dug the hole too deep
couldn’t keep it together.
The hunger at our bones
pour yourself the ice-breaker
the new romancers little joke,
blood- letting in the name of love,
off the rails, feel the
beating(flesh to fist) heart-
be still ,their beating hearts.
Screw up your face
to make it fit.
Screw up your life
to escape,
cast adrift ,
cut loose ,
hiding still ,from
the long evening shadows
of home.

Dominic Rivron
Rachel Fox
Mrs Nesbitt
Don't Feed The Pixies
The Weaver of Grass
The Watercats
PJ Nolan
Emerging Writer
Sandra Leigh

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Monday follows Sunday

like Night follows day and have ye yer pomes ready/ Well? Wrote mine today( used to copy my homework from Mark on the bus) skooldaze the best days of your life if they're right they must be wrong.Calculus arythmatic biological cleansing physics the rules of the dominant the fitter class the parameters set to suit please stay awake at the back your drinking days are ahead of you product of your upbringing you soft melted clay see how we mould you into a broken pot fire you in the highest temperatures where even the golden lotus may for sure be planted but watch it wither watch it die far from your back door the perception of your reality a mist in yours lost in their eyes this programme does not compute lungs lunge out of synch with heart all the pips in the grapes are gone spat out onto barren soil seedless progress redress the balance bring all to mind the years gone by seem waste of breath a waste of breath the years to come dead heroes know no freedom the pain increased by each year away from the heart of belonging a knife would pluck it out the splinters hard to tell from the planks so why try to tell change the gear root and branch reform the right to say no the right to deny the questions put so far out of place interplanetary travel the loss of reason horizons shine the meltdown the final kick the ballroom of last chance romance is dead lose it once lost it twice the same old mistakes Russian roulette lost the retail space to french baguette no regrets my friends the freedom train leaves from platform 9 midnite rendezvous be there.

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Whatz da woid on da street king EEjo?

The word on the street world citizens is bogblocked! Apologies, that should be blogblocked, the castle plumbing is just fine.Seems blogging is a bit like riding a bike-if you stop pedalling you fall off.I've fallen off and I can't get back in the saddle.It's also a bit like banging your head against the wall ,you get used to it but when you stop you kind of ask yourself why on earth was I doing that? Is blogging an online diary, a hobby, a cry for help, a place where it can be just ME me me me look at ME! How long should we blog for.Should a blog be a recording of highlights ,special occasions or should we remember that a blog is for life, not just for Christmas.(Boom-boom!!) Ah fughit Ah jus don know.Being sick has turned me upside down and inside out,getting better now, apart from the pain, but perhaps it's not just my lungs that are scarred. Anyways I've had the flu jab in one arm and a pneumonia jab in the other which is grand but sore I can't hardly move me arms from me sides,I'd be mighty at an auld step! (Irish dancing) Took the dog for a walk today, saw this...

Stark-sailed sailing boats .

Ten question marks on the horizon

waving like white flags of surrender

or Tibetan prayers.

Seven windmills , sea turbines

or deadly sins, barely moving,

give nothing away.

Three seagulls like answers singing

coalesce, their single flame

setting fire to doubt.

Thanks also to Sandra Leigh (who wrote a great poem last Mon) for a creative blogger award(posthumous)

Wednesday, September 16, 2009


Right ,peeps of the peoples-poetry-republic-of EEjit-there-is no-wrong-writing group,listen up dudes.
THERE IS NO TIME LIMIT WRITING YOUR POEM/PROSE - ALSO JUST POST IT ON YOUR BLOG ANYTIME ON MONDAY. No 5 mins no 7pm that was back in the Pleistocene period.We've moved on, matured, developed, we ain't got no strings to tie us down,ya dig? We go wid da flow! As a unit we are floating down the path never travelled on the gossamer winds of creativity and admiring the different view.We're not in the box, we're not even thinking outside the box, we've made a new feckin box that isn't even a box ,it's a Ghtyredwsrtuuvvdtyb, okay? I'll be checking that you are ALL paying attention, not just skim reading and bluffing in the comments section.There WILL be detensions, there WILL be lines- lot's of them and if necessary there WILL be letters home to your parents. GET IT! GOT IT? GOOD? If you're all sitting still and paying attention then I'll continue,STOP fidgiting Kathleen at the back there. Now it has come to my attention that some people do not like The Boss, no not Mrs EEjit, Bruce Springsteen.This is not good, it may hamper the exercise,so I'm posting up two more songs with similar feel and hopefully there will be one that you connect with.Listen to one, or even better, listen to them all (Remember ,RELAX ,wear headphones ,have a cup of tea/ glass of champagne/ can of beer,lie on the floor, or the ceiling) then write yer doodle.If you really don't like any of these then as a last resort choose your own,it's vital that the song means something to you. Finally a warning to those of a nervous disposition, try not to look at the accompanying video to Homeward Bound.I accept no responsibility for the resultant fear of Ice cream sellers(Paul 'sprinkles' Simon) or candyfloss (Bart Carbuncle's hair) For God's sake don't look at them just listen to them, I didn't have time to track down the song without a vid,I've got a whole feckin republic to run here.God luck and may the wind always be at your back
-unless it's your own.

Fast Car by Tracy Chapman

Fast Car lyrics

You got a fast car
I want a ticket to anywhere
Maybe we make a deal
Maybe together we can get somewhere
Anyplace is better
Starting from zero got nothing to lose
Maybe we'll make something
But me myself I got nothing to prove

You got a fast car
I got a plan to get us out of here
been working at the convenience store
Managed to save just a little bit of money
We won't have to drive too far
Just 'cross the border and into the city
You and I can both get jobs
And finally see what it means to be living

You see my old man's got a problem
He live with the bottle that's the way it is
He says his body's too old for working
I say his body's too young to look like his
but mama went off and left him
She wanted more from life than he could give
I said somebody's got to take care of him
So I quit school and that's what I did

You got a fast car
is it fast enough so we can fly away
We gotta make a decision
We leave tonight or live and die this way

So remember when we were driving driving in your car
The speed so fast felt like I was drunk
City lights lay out before us
And your arm felt nice wrapped 'round my shoulder
I had a feeling that I belonged
I had a feeling I could be someone
be someone

be someone

You got a fast car
We go cruising to entertain ourselves
You still ain't got a job
And I work in a market as a checkout girl
I know things will get better
You'll find work and I'll get promoted
We'll move out of the shelter
Buy a bigger house and live in the suburbs

So remember when we were driving driving in your car
The speed so fast felt like I was drunk
City lights lay out before us
And your arm felt nice wrapped 'round my shoulder
I had a feeling that I belonged
I had a feeling I could be someone
be someone

be someone

You got fast car
And I got a job that pays all our bills
You stay out drinking late at the bar
See more of your friends than you do of your kids
I'd always hoped for a better
Thought maybe together you and me would find it
I got no plans I ain't going nowhere
So take your fast car and keep on driving

So remember when we were driving driving in your car
The speed so fast felt like I was drunk
City lights lay out before us
And your arm felt nice wrapped 'round my shoulder
I had a feeling that I belonged
I had a feeling I could be someone
be someone

be someone

You got a fast car
But is it fast enough so you can fly away
You gotta make a decision
You leave tonight or live and die this way

'Homeward Bound' by Pope Someone and Fart Daftuncle

I'm sittin' in the railway station
Got a ticket for my destination
On a tour of one night stands
My suitcase and guitar in hand
And every stop is neatly planned
For a poet and a one man band

Homeward bound
I wish I was
Homeward bound
Home, where my thought's escaping
Home, where my music's playing
Home, where my love lies waiting
Silently for me

Everyday's an endless stream
Of cigarettes and magazines
And each town looks the same to me
The movies and the factories
And every stranger's face I see
Reminds me that I long to be

Homeward bound
I wish I was
Homeward bound
Home, where my thought's escaping
Home, where my music's playing
Home, where my love lies waiting
Silently for me

Tonight I'll sing my songs again
I'll play the game and pretend
But all my words come back to me
In shades of mediocrity
Like emptyness in harmony
I need someone to comfort me

Homeward bound
I wish I was
Homeward bound
Home, where my thought's escaping
Home, where my music's playing
Home, where my love lies waiting
Silently for me
Silently for me
Silently for me

My Hometown by Bruce ,not the real Boss that's mrs EEj, Springsteen

was eight years old and running with a dime in my hand
Into the bus stop to pick up a paper for my old man
Id sit on his lap in that big old buick and steer as we drove through town
Hed tousle my hair and say son take a good look around
This is your hometown, this is your hometown
This is your hometown, this is your hometown

In `65 tension was running high at my high school
There was a lot of fights between the black and white
There was nothing you could do
Two cars at a light on a saturday night in the back seat there was a gun
Words were passed in a shotgun blast
Troubled times had come to my hometown
My hometown, my hometown, my hometown

Now main streets whitewashed windows and vacant stores
Seems like there aint nobody wants to come down here no more
Theyre closing down the textile mill across the railroad tracks
Foreman says these jobs are going boys and they aint coming back to
Your hometown, your hometown, your hometown, your hometown

Last night me and kate we laid in bed talking about getting out
Packing up our bags maybe heading south
Im thirty-five we got a boy of our own now
Last night I sat him up behind the wheel and said son take a good
Look around
This is your hometown

Let the words and music guide you, it doesn't matter where, keep an eye on home but the muse knows where ye are going,so follow!

Ps there is no new box really-yet!

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Well ,poets, you feeling lucky?


I know what you're thinking — " Will he set six tasks or only five?" Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement, I've kinda lost track myself. But, being this is an almond flavoured Magnum the most powerful ice-cream in the world and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself one question: "Do I feel lucky?" Well, do ya, poet? Go ahead make my day dudes ,join in with the next trip of the light fantastic otherwise known as TFE's global poetry extravaganza par excellence in the community, a trans global 'if the kids are united they will never be divided' peace and harmony project funded entirely from the sale of Jimmy the Butlers (confiscated) soft porn collection on ebay. Yesterdays response was gratifying in the extreme which is a strange phenomenon for me-again.Being some half-arsed class of clown who somewhat pretentiously strives to be something akin to somebody who writes stuff,I am of course incredibly egotistical, it's all about ME,why else would I blog? For world peace? I don't think so. And yet here I am all excited about what YOUS have written and the buzz is no longer ,'look what I've written, aren't i the great little fecker altogether', but look what THEY have written (albeit still with a muted' aren't I a great little fecker altogether for prompting them') So very well done to all of ye and thanks a million for joining in. For this weeks task I thought it might be interesting to see what happens if we did exactly the same exercise but this time all listen to the same piece of music. I've chosen(Oh, the sweet intoxication of POWER) 'My Hometown' by Bruce Springsteen, the final track on his 'Born in the USA' album. Now everybody in the world has this album and if you don't ,apart from wondering how you could have gone so horribly wrong in your life thus far, I am posting not only a you tube link but a copy of the lyrics

was eight years old and running with a dime in my hand
Into the bus stop to pick up a paper for my old man
Id sit on his lap in that big old buick and steer as we drove through town
Hed tousle my hair and say son take a good look around
This is your hometown, this is your hometown
This is your hometown, this is your hometown

In `65 tension was running high at my high school
There was a lot of fights between the black and white
There was nothing you could do
Two cars at a light on a saturday night in the back seat there was a gun
Words were passed in a shotgun blast
Troubled times had come to my hometown
My hometown, my hometown, my hometown

Now main streets whitewashed windows and vacant stores
Seems like there aint nobody wants to come down here no more
Theyre closing down the textile mill across the railroad tracks
Foreman says these jobs are going boys and they aint coming back to
Your hometown, your hometown, your hometown, your hometown

Last night me and kate we laid in bed talking about getting out
Packing up our bags maybe heading south
Im thirty-five we got a boy of our own now
Last night I sat him up behind the wheel and said son take a good
Look around
This is your hometown

for you to peruse.The song is salt, you are water,rational thought is the membrane through which, by the process of osmosis, you will absorb inspiration and produce your own masterpiece. Home, what is it,where is it, does it exist, is it where we are born ,where we live,where the heart is, within us -or without us,do we ever truly find it at all?These are the thoughts but the song is the catalyst.Write about home ,write about the song, write about a bird on the wire,a bird in the cage, write about quantum physics, a penny chew,Che Guevara, Aldi prices,botulism,Hippos..whatever comes to ya , JUST WRITE- Well poets, you feeling Lucky?

Man /Superman Alive and kicking, man!

Yes, art lovers, the man /superman global fiesta continues apace this week with the world's greatest * assemblage apperaing in ,not one, but TWO premium glaerry of human life locations this week.Firstly here at my favourite aunts place Mad Aunt Bernard ,tortoise fancying beareded lady lunatic, if you haven't been to her blog, you haven't lived.Gird up your gloisters and get over there. Then as if the world werenot already overflowing with artification, the collage from heaven having mastered the art of bilocation is also at everyone's favourite granny's Heather,she may be 10 years younger than me at 73 but I still like to think of her as gran,she's a taleted craftswoman and becoming a dab hand at the old poetry malarky, get theee gone to her cosy home for a cup of tea and custard creams

Monday, September 14, 2009

International Poetry Monday

Doesn't Monday come round so quick? It only seems a week ago that we were posting poetry like there was no tommorrow.Looking forward to reading this weeks efforts.

Catching the wordy worm are these early birds:

Mr River Run

Jeanne posts below and blogs at

Yearning for serenity
an unsettled mind
drifts gracefully
flowing in paralysis
a paradox offering
spiritual coalescence
sweet malady
sweeter melody
sweetest memory
core surge caresses
in divine rhythm
echoes from arched bones
guard this heart
in solemn surrender to stillness
filling silence with rapture

(Fantasia on a theme by Thomas Tallis, composed by Ralph Vaughan-Williams)

Rachel Fox




Poetikat (doing,ithink,the very first task)

5 Minutes

Tick, tick, tick.
I watch the digits
Flip and flick.
(I have an old clock.)
Tells the time
in my dimension,
It is only my intention,
to be clever,
though I never
really ever
pull it off.
(To my own satisfaction)
So, I'll print my own
On another note,
I'm trying
to decide if you're denying
me the time
to lay it out there.
All about me?
Well, I don't care!
Time is flying--
one more minute.
Is there something really
in it?
Tick, tick, tick,
my old clock's winding

Poet in residence for the first time instead of leaving money behind the bar with nebulous Noreen ,has posted tongue in cheek, should we have taken the money, or opened the (goggle) box? :)


eej's monday challenge

slap on the goggle-box;
the gaping gawping
cornered noise-box,

half turn of my right cauli;
another dolly-bird songlet,
the background noise,
imagine shimmer
on a blonde with lip-gloss

hey eej it's musik,
an airspray advert,

she lwks so good
ah oh
so good

but damn it eej
i can't see her

no i can't see her

no not from ear

Mrs Niamh

Another welcome debutante to the TFE experience, Drama Queen



Mrs Nesbitt



Sandra Leigh

Colin Will

Here's mine TFE I blog right about HERE.

Last resort

Run bleeding over dry sand
black gold, guilt edge, only we can drown.
Come bullets, come bombs,
promenade your picture postcards.

Plough back all the wet words
these strange planes to foreign lands,
show our face, our hands.

Wish you weren’t here,
dying for a seaside town ?
Come poet, leveller, croppy boy,
pre steam-age romantics rise,
blow the ghost train .

Song was 'Every day is like sunday' by Morrissey

Sunday, September 13, 2009

Every day is like sunday

Especially when it is.Do not forget under pain of death doom destruction and a Killkenny five in a row, to post your wordy contributions to the internationally renowned and critically acclaimed 'Poetry Monday' a peoples republic of EEjit art in the community project generously funded by Cook's swear box.(Janey Mac, you should hear her give out when she burns her buns!)I'd like to thank NanU (yes Nan U, not Man U, though they did very well on Sat, go-on the reds!) for a creative bloggo award

To qualify I have to list seven interesting things about myself, but because I am SO interesting I'm going to name 10.

1)I have webbed feet.And gills.

2) The most famous people we (mrs EEj et moi) have met are Paul Durcan,Pat Kenny,Paddy Moloney,Vivienne Westwood, Anna Friel, Vinnie Jones and Jack Charlton.(Not on the same day)

£)I once appeared as an extra in an episode of Eastenders.

*) I have spent almost half my life in prisons.

%) I hold the world landspeed record for office chair piloting whilst farting and yodelling.
(239MPH on june 3rd 1978 at Bonneville salt flats in the US of A using a detuned Rolls Royce phantom engine and an Argos £99 office chair with high speed nylon castors.Yodelling and farting verified by special remote mounted sound/smell sensors)

6)I was exactly the same person in a previous life.

") I have one wooden leg but two real feet.

@)I streaked on a beach in Corfu

+)The family heirloom is a signed calling card from Countess Markiewicz

10) I am in real life teetotal

I now have to pass this award onto 7 more people, so I pass it on to YOU,yes, you reading this and six others.
Two of the 10 above are true,can you name them ?

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

What's the word on the street,EEjit?

The word on the street is , positron, a particle of the same size as an electron but with a postive charge .Too much, way too much, negativity in my head heart and soul of late.So now I am an EEjit the same size as a very large electron but with a positive charge and a beer belly.Right, Man and Superman(remember them?) are still on their whirlwind , or gentle breeze, of a worldwide tour and have landed up in Albion,Blighty,England.Though it does look like thewild wild west of Amerikay.Superman found himself in a very cosy situation inded and I don't think he'll ever be quite the same.Thanks a million to Jules for hosting.
Don't forget the Monday poem exercise (see previous post).And finally there has been huge demand to know what I look like, literally one request.So specially for you Weaver is a photo taken only a couple of days ago.Isn't it funny how humans come to resemble their dogs?

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Lucky number 13 and the next poetry project

Well ,we had 13 poets in the community last week and the same number this week, so I think we'll have another go ,till people lose interest.All 13 pieces this week had one thing in common, they were all ,and I genuinely mean this, total rubbish.Only joking :) Woke you up though!They were all brilliant and all so different.I hope you get a chance to roam around all the blogs, I did and really enjoyed it.The biggest buzz for me ,and I never anticipated this, was the realisation that some of these poems might not have come to fruition but for the assignment. I mean that was the vague hope /aim but I didn't realise how good it would feel.I also think that people who were maybe slightly less happy with their efforts last week, (myself included)were more happy with them this week, that's got to be a good thing? Thanks a million to everyone who joined in,I hope you got something out of the exercise and enjoyed the whole shebang as much as I did.It's nice to read a largish block of work comprised of people from all ages and walks of life that hasn't and may never be published in a book.A few slices from a different flavour of pie is refreshing and wholly relevent. I'm also wondering how long blogs will last,if it is forever we are laying down some varied and interesting snapshots for future generations.I would love to know for example what thoughts my grandparents and great grandparents might have had.Imagine if they had kept blogs!Hitory is often written in black and white by life's winners and thats okay but I'd like to hear other shades of history.Truth has a thousand colours not just two. I'm waffling now so on to next weeks assignment.

1) There is NO time limit for the writing.Just post it on your blog next monday and drop a comment into my comments box.I will post links to all the poems/prose on my blog.

2) Take a piece of music,one you love,one that moves you to happiness or tears.One that takes you back,one that takes you away, or roots you to the spot-whatever

3) Find yourself some peace and quiet, lock yourself away if you have to.I know this is probably impossible for some of you,but try if you can.Relax.Take a glass of wine ,a cigarette, chocolate cake, marmite and gherkin sandwich-whatever floats yer boat, winds you down.Listen to the music on headphones cut yourself off.Listen to the music, over and again if necessary, let it put you in a mood and whatever emotions and thoughts it sparks, write them down,Write a poem straight off if possible,if not just a few lines, words ,thoughts-then turn them into a poem/piece of prose/prayer/ death threat/eulogy/rant/rap/shopping list /song/novel. Whatever comes let it flow,don't think about it too much or try too hard,you can always rework it before you post it. Good luck ,comrades, GO FOR IT.Live long and prosper!

Ps Did I tell you Tipp were robbed? Robed blind!

Pps. There is NO TIME LIMIT on this exercise, particularly not a 5 minute one

When i say go for ' IT ', I don't mean go for ' Information Technology.' In fact go for the opposite.

Monday, September 7, 2009

The Monday Poem

Monday is the new Saturday thanks to te poetry extravaganza.Do we carethat the Weekend is over? Not a jot, for the highlight of the week has arrived.TFE's world famous 'Let's post poetry on Monday coz it used to be the worst day of the week writing academy'( A poetry in the community art project funded by the arts council of the RepubloEEjo)

Quick off the blocks and first out of the starting gate is Dominic (The google king) Rivron. Musician ,athlete,writer.Get ye away to his blog pronto and see if the world is not a better place with a Monday poetry(or prose) injection. post. By the way did I mention that Tipp were robbed, ROBBED.Cats have nine lives and a referee.
Next Poet and ex-police Dog (everything you say will be taken down and used in a poem) Titus
Weaver of words,teacher,learner,Farmer's wife The Weaver of Grass
Prize winning buskers singer/songwriters,musicians poets The Watercats
Poet painter cartoonist illustrator reviewer P Nolan
Jeanne, professor ,author ,poet, academic,harpist has posted her poem in the comments section but check out her blog at
Niamh Bagnell, poet, broadcaster, Diva performer type thing.
Kate Dempsey ,Emerging (I would argue Emerged) writer, performing Diva and poet
Domestic Oubliette,Poet ,writer,radio star, vegetable gardener,

And here's mine TFE ,Blogger, alcoholic,photographer,Bon Viveur,Porn Star, Haggis Farmer,Astronaut and Pizza delivery boy.
Reflection of the artist as an old man

Four glasses downed before the rain
has dried on the brim of my hat.
I’m fingering coins in my palm,
praying for the price.
I must be at least seventy,
a body held together by
tight knotted scarf
thin black overcoat
and blacker pints.
A wife dead,
or gone, my children just
a card at Christmas?
In the mirror, I see
a young couple embrace,
such a big-picture background,
so many dark possibilities ,
can our whole lives be painted
in a moment of light?

Fugh it, we're back to miserable monday again...Ooops!

Sunday, September 6, 2009

Anxiety gives way to HIGH ANXIETY AAAGGGHHH !!!

Well as hopedLar Corbett stepped up to the mark,Sheflin was quiet,Tipp put it up to them physically, and as predicted Kilkenny stretched the fairness of physicality beyond it's limits, luckily no one is in a hospital bed tonight but it wasn't for a lack of trying from the cats with Seamus Callinan flattened in the first few minutes and young Padraig Maher came close to having his neck broken.The cats fouled with skill and drilled determination and all went largely unoticed or unpunished, but Tipp stood against them and out hurled them.The game was played with savage intensity and was the most exciting final in years.Killkenny went in 2 points up at half time. At this stage last year against Waterford the cats were so far ahead the game was all but won.Tipp needed to come out fighting second half to keep in touch and by feck they did! Right to the last they were 2 or 3 points ahead and in control of the game and with the finishing line in sight, heading for their first all Ireland victory since 2001.It was a miracle ,unbelievable against all odds and an incredible performance.The finest performance I had ever witnesed against arguably the greatest hurling team of all time.But then the world turned, the universe shifted and the dream unravelled, in a moment of madness, Benny Dunne, being fouled by Tommy Walsh ,swung his hurley at the cats head.Instant dismissal and no complaints.Down to 14 men the task deemed colossal before the game now seemed unbearable.But amazingly Tipp kept at it and even went further ahead till total disaster as a penalty decision was given to the cats where no penalty should ever have been on any planet or any stretch of the imagination.But no matter how misguided ,how grossly, catastrophically, cosmically wrong a referee might be, even to the extent of gifting an all Ireland to the wrong team, the ref's decision is final.Shefflin nets the penalty and 14 man Tipp are dead in the water. The previously drowning cats knew they had been let out of the bag .They now had their tails up and smelled victory, Tipp had no heart left and Kilkenny won by 5 points. Congratulations to kilkenny for winning four all Irelands in a row. A tremendous achievement. It is only the second time in the history of the GAA that this has been done.Their win at any cost style and never say die attitude pulled them through today with no little help from the penalty.Finally the greatest irony (and addage) of all- I expressed hope in an earlier post that the best team would lose,thinking I was being smart,well you should always be careful what you hope for.I got my wish. Tipp were by far the better team today.

What's the word on the street,EEjit?

The word on the street peeps is Anxiety.Tipp V Killkenny All Ireland final day and it's RAINING.Tipp hurlers are skillful they pass the ball to hand and won't be suited to wet slippery conditions.The Cats have claws and skill but are glorified Mullekers and will win a doughty dogfight,they play just beyond the the limits of fair physicality and get away with it.They are the better all round team, the greatest team I've ever seen.They are at their Zenith or possibly by one degree starting to wane, on the cusp of the way down.The fall will come inevitably,like all falls there will be no warning but will it be today?Tipp are the pretenders a young team tremendously skilful ,in the ascendency and the team most likely to inherit the Killkenny crown. I'm in bits that I couldn't go but now it's raining it probably would have killed me anyway.Can't wait for the match, I hope Tipp put it up to them physically as they did in the league final, I hope that they win but will be happy if they lose by less than 4 points.Their time will come ,I'm just not sure it will be today but still they have a chance, get stuck in, stay with the cats, Mark shefflin like a limpet, get Lar Corbett into the scoring early,hang in there till the last 10 mins and they might pull it off.Looking forward to the match, don't spare the timber lads Tipp abu!!! And above all else may the best team LOSE

Friday, September 4, 2009

Post modernist Cave Dwellers

Life is a unhappy meal, shrunk to fit,
stick it in the microwave and wait for the bell to go ping.
Toll ? Fuck off!
Them days are gone.

Time to hang up the tweed

The league of poets

Periscope up above the clouds of their egos
Lyrical giants
Standing on the giant chips of their shoulders
Looking for another to cry on
Puffing bluff and bluster
Pipping and sqeaking
About this and that occasionally the other
To thunderous silence back-clapping
Back-stabbing at the league of poetry ball
A grand gala of glasses to lips
On faces from facebook the cult of me
Look look what I can do
The big I am’s in the big top
The poetry circus
The out of town
Clowns coming soon
To a universe near you


That August

We were Spanish dancers,
lonely lovely paintings, colours
smashed across the bar like it was the sky,
our limitless mirror a dirty glass, we locked
hand-in-hand down the dry streets
kicking dust for joy.
Lies left forgotten by our sides,
memories out of our heads,
was this summer real, or as close as we could get?
Hand to head ,to neck, cool white cotton sheets,
happy didn’t even come close to those big stars above.
I loved you more.
Morning was the serenade
Hot Monday mourning,
singing up to the birds silent in the grip of trees-
what a movie this would make!
Who wouldn’t know the reality from this dream
all silver and chains, promises linked, broken,
a scene of right place, wrong time.
But this was not the movies ,how could I say’ I love you’
or anyone, without the streets teeming in rain,
or the tears about to fall ?

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Success and next assignment

Well Janey Mac, that went well! Congrats and thanks to everyone who took part.I'm amazed at how good they all were, not only that but how finished most of them were.So much so that I'll skip the rewrite part of the project.As for the zeitgeist element, did they have any common thread of Mondayitus? Well they were all quite different, a feast, a smorgesbord,a cornocopia a veritable Kentucky fried chicken of writing,all different under the same skin.From memory this five mins produced Haiku, prose,streams of conciousness,and totally complete poems(amazing!)Any themes? Again from memory(I must go back and read them all again)Rain, ranting,rhyming.But there was also humour,calm,time or lack of it and thought-or a lack of it!
I hope you all enjoyed it and got either a poem that otherwise might not have been written or the framework of an idea to build on.It would be really cool if you would all(and anyone else) join in with this weeks task which should again be posted next Monday.The idea is to sit in a cafe and write a poem/prose piece about someone else in the cafe.Not everyone will be in a cafe this week so you may have to improvise, workplace(be careful!)train,bus stop(ye can write standing up in the rain can't ye?)supermarket,pub etc etc.If you can't do it at the time maybe bring the person home with you(in your head, not physically-unless they're very attractive)and write at home.Good luck and may your God or lack of God be with you!