http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=30DQE_EMDKY&feature=related
Live recording of John Spillane's song with Christy Moore, Donal Lunny, Declan Sinnott and John Spillane.Never seen the other lads live but last saw Christy Moore in concert on his 50th birthday in Manchester, I think he's sixty three now-where did all dem years go ta?
Monday, May 11, 2009
Saturday, May 9, 2009
THE SUMMER IS HERE !
And how do I know this, what concrete proof do I have in these days of blurred seasons and undifferentiable days , that da Summer est arrive?
Is it the long rainy days?
No.
Is it the occasionally milder temperature ?
No.
Have I seen a Swallow? Yes!
-but that is not the answer.
Is it because young wans are wearing flimsy clothing in the lashing rain?
No.
Is it because beligerent blind-drunk neighbours are now burning burgers and basting botulism on the back-lit, covered in shit, back-yard, Barbecue?
No.
Is it because the clapped-out Ice cream Van is driving up and down the road in a cloud of Diesel fumes playing match of the day theme tune 24/7 ?
No.
Is it because toddlers are out from the crack of dawn whoopin and a hollerin and murtherin each other,all equiped with lightsabers and, much more dangerously, vocal chords that make Tom Jones sound like a whispering Nun?
No.
( By the way if any of you ever happen to meet the Welsh warbler and he sallying forth with a murderous rendition of somebody else's half decent song ,would you please tell him in no uncertain terms, ' That is not singing, that is shouting! ' and really ,really, shout the 'shouting' bit right in to one of his pachedermical, leathery ,(and presumably) deaf ears.
No ,comrades, friends ,Ramones, journeymen/women,culchies, jackeens, fellow bloggers, humans, aliens,Liverpoolfans,No and thrice nay, tis all of these but none of these, for the single clarion note and harbinger of Summer is the buzz of the BLUEBOTTLE,that most annoying of all summertime apparitions. Worse than the wasp, all BUZZ,BUZZ, BUZZ, licking at ,and puking on ,your food , then blasting around the room and your head at ninety miles an hour annoying the living feck out of ye , goading ye into leaping up like Bruce Lee and a hundred Mutant Ninja Turtles with a rolled up newspaper to do battle with the blue-arsed little bastard for ten minutes till exhausted and breathless and then ????................ Silence. Pin-dropping audible silence. Till you finally relax and sit down again and then be da hokey ,the airborne chainsaw restarts himself revving like an overtuned italian moped. You leep to your feet once more, gnashing teeth and spillling bourbons, tea/whiskey/beer/Irish Times/Playboy, to the ground , in the 180- over-99-blood-pumping-desire to do battle unto death with the hyper wound winged marauder.Then, then, then , but then ,soft , my friends-we have him cornered on the window pane, the battle is over the coup de grace held in abeyance ,merciful in victory we open wide the window for the annoying little prick to fly out.Beneficent, magnanimous, noble.But the moronic little fucker crawls and buzzes incessantly against the hard glass pane ignoring his offered , easy ,obvious, escape route to freedom, so with a curse and a swipe you splat his ignorant little guts and blood against the sport pages of yestedays newspaper.Fuck him!
No.
Is it the occasionally milder temperature ?
No.
Have I seen a Swallow? Yes!
-but that is not the answer.
Is it because young wans are wearing flimsy clothing in the lashing rain?
No.
Is it because beligerent blind-drunk neighbours are now burning burgers and basting botulism on the back-lit, covered in shit, back-yard, Barbecue?
No.
Is it because the clapped-out Ice cream Van is driving up and down the road in a cloud of Diesel fumes playing match of the day theme tune 24/7 ?
No.
Is it because toddlers are out from the crack of dawn whoopin and a hollerin and murtherin each other,all equiped with lightsabers and, much more dangerously, vocal chords that make Tom Jones sound like a whispering Nun?
No.
( By the way if any of you ever happen to meet the Welsh warbler and he sallying forth with a murderous rendition of somebody else's half decent song ,would you please tell him in no uncertain terms, ' That is not singing, that is shouting! ' and really ,really, shout the 'shouting' bit right in to one of his pachedermical, leathery ,(and presumably) deaf ears.
No ,comrades, friends ,Ramones, journeymen/women,culchies, jackeens, fellow bloggers, humans, aliens,Liverpoolfans,No and thrice nay, tis all of these but none of these, for the single clarion note and harbinger of Summer is the buzz of the BLUEBOTTLE,that most annoying of all summertime apparitions. Worse than the wasp, all BUZZ,BUZZ, BUZZ, licking at ,and puking on ,your food , then blasting around the room and your head at ninety miles an hour annoying the living feck out of ye , goading ye into leaping up like Bruce Lee and a hundred Mutant Ninja Turtles with a rolled up newspaper to do battle with the blue-arsed little bastard for ten minutes till exhausted and breathless and then ????................ Silence. Pin-dropping audible silence. Till you finally relax and sit down again and then be da hokey ,the airborne chainsaw restarts himself revving like an overtuned italian moped. You leep to your feet once more, gnashing teeth and spillling bourbons, tea/whiskey/beer/Irish Times/Playboy, to the ground , in the 180- over-99-blood-pumping-desire to do battle unto death with the hyper wound winged marauder.Then, then, then , but then ,soft , my friends-we have him cornered on the window pane, the battle is over the coup de grace held in abeyance ,merciful in victory we open wide the window for the annoying little prick to fly out.Beneficent, magnanimous, noble.But the moronic little fucker crawls and buzzes incessantly against the hard glass pane ignoring his offered , easy ,obvious, escape route to freedom, so with a curse and a swipe you splat his ignorant little guts and blood against the sport pages of yestedays newspaper.Fuck him!
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Stung by the stinging fly !
My masterpiece! How could they? Reject it? Has Declan Meade lost his senses? No, (whispering low) truth be told when I said it was the greatest story ever written, i was exaggerating a little. It is in fact,how can I put it? Mmmm, Yes, shite - but don't tell anyone. Like the six million dollar man my epic tale of woe and joy and more woe can be rebuilt, clearly there wasn't half enough (human) sex in it, precious little space travel, only one alien , too many monkeys and most of the words were the right ones but they were in the wrong order.In short it's nothing that can't be sorted out over a cup of tea and a bourbon and a tab of acid. So if there are any other publications out there that take shorties they better brace themselves for 'The greatest story ever told in a short story, the remake' Due out when I can be arsed.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Congratulations /commiserations to new poet laureate Carol Ann Duffy
Great news , Roger McGough is not the new poet leerytwat.Well done CAD no harm at all that it is a woman for a change but in all honesty that is irrelevant to me,gender does not enter into it,she is a great poet and that is what counts.Having said that, though Poet Laureate is a great achievement, it is also anachronistic, linked to that bloody awful monarchy and a kiss of death to poetry in general.I am pleased for her and congratulate her and maybe she will be the first to break the mould and produce some proper poetry under the post of laureate
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Goodly news ,goodly news.
My favourite magazine in the whole wide world 'The SHOp' http://www.theshop-poetry-magazine.ie/ has accepted one of me poems. I'm totally delighto.
YAAAABBBAAADDDAAABBBAAADDDOOOO!!!!!!!!
It is a poem that will change your life and possibly the way that you walk , it has answers to questions that haven't even been asked yet, it will make you smile on the outside while weeping bitterly like a Liverpool fan on the inside, it will bring down walls and re-point chimneys, it will tell you everything while giving nothing away, it will cure warts, the common cold, PMT and premature male baldness, it has already been turned into a religion by tribes living along the banks of the Limpopo river and in south-east Carlow ,it has been used as a totally carbon neutral replacement for all fossil fuels and will soon be available at petrol stations across the developed world at a cost of just 12 cent per litre , yet will yield up to 200mpg in the average family saloon.(unless it's a Ford, Fords are shite especially Mondeos, I hate them and what a stupid name FFS)In short it has been hailed as a panacea for all the ills and woes of modern man and a woman. I'm sure some of you out there are asking yourselves 'But poetry changes nothing, can a single poem, even one by the legendary genius that is EEjit, can it really do all this?' Well let me tell you brothers, sisters,YES IT CAN! *
*Source- Guineys book of Bollix.Terms and condiments apply, apart from the fact that EEjit really is getting his blather published, TFE plc totally reserve the right to deny any of the rest of this information at a future juncture, investments may go up, or down , as well as around The Red Cow Roundabout, your home may not be safe if it has woodworm. TFE plc is a subsidiary of MUIAGSICDWIL (my uncle is a guard so i can do wot i like)
YAAAABBBAAADDDAAABBBAAADDDOOOO!!!!!!!!
It is a poem that will change your life and possibly the way that you walk , it has answers to questions that haven't even been asked yet, it will make you smile on the outside while weeping bitterly like a Liverpool fan on the inside, it will bring down walls and re-point chimneys, it will tell you everything while giving nothing away, it will cure warts, the common cold, PMT and premature male baldness, it has already been turned into a religion by tribes living along the banks of the Limpopo river and in south-east Carlow ,it has been used as a totally carbon neutral replacement for all fossil fuels and will soon be available at petrol stations across the developed world at a cost of just 12 cent per litre , yet will yield up to 200mpg in the average family saloon.(unless it's a Ford, Fords are shite especially Mondeos, I hate them and what a stupid name FFS)In short it has been hailed as a panacea for all the ills and woes of modern man and a woman. I'm sure some of you out there are asking yourselves 'But poetry changes nothing, can a single poem, even one by the legendary genius that is EEjit, can it really do all this?' Well let me tell you brothers, sisters,YES IT CAN! *
*Source- Guineys book of Bollix.Terms and condiments apply, apart from the fact that EEjit really is getting his blather published, TFE plc totally reserve the right to deny any of the rest of this information at a future juncture, investments may go up, or down , as well as around The Red Cow Roundabout, your home may not be safe if it has woodworm. TFE plc is a subsidiary of MUIAGSICDWIL (my uncle is a guard so i can do wot i like)
COW CAT.Totally the greatest poem ever written?
Cow-cat, Cow-cat ,
You know where it’s at, man.
A real coolio Daddy cat,
No bread and Honey, that would be funny,
You aint no fat cat
Out late at night life is black and white
like your fur, hear you purr, the lady cats think
you’re so cool you’re Fresian.
But what are you at, cat?
Don’t you hear the car coming ?
Soft rubber Pirelli tyres humming
You’d better scat, this
Driver is a speedy twat,
not doing his Honda Civic duty,
thinks his blinged-out ride’s a beauty,
too late –SPLAT!
Now you are flat,
like a pancake or,
a furry Cow-cat pat,
Holy cow, cat ,you
were from where it’s at
and without you,
it just aint there any more,
Drat!
You know where it’s at, man.
A real coolio Daddy cat,
No bread and Honey, that would be funny,
You aint no fat cat
Out late at night life is black and white
like your fur, hear you purr, the lady cats think
you’re so cool you’re Fresian.
But what are you at, cat?
Don’t you hear the car coming ?
Soft rubber Pirelli tyres humming
You’d better scat, this
Driver is a speedy twat,
not doing his Honda Civic duty,
thinks his blinged-out ride’s a beauty,
too late –SPLAT!
Now you are flat,
like a pancake or,
a furry Cow-cat pat,
Holy cow, cat ,you
were from where it’s at
and without you,
it just aint there any more,
Drat!
Saturday, April 25, 2009
It's like TOTALLYPOPTASTIC
Just got issue numero uno of 'popshot' poetry + illustration magazine-'the wonder of the ordinary' And I have to say I think it's great and different and stylish and new.The pages are black and the ink is white and each poem gets a full page illustration all of which are totally superb and worth buying the magazine (£6 inc p+p) for on their own..and there's a two page centrefold illustration too.Some of the poems are better than others but our own Nuala Ni Chonchuir is in there (and everywhere at the moment) and that's always a good thing.It's a great little magazine where perhaps the poetry accompanies the pictures and not the other way round.They'll be looking for (poetry) submissions from 1st May but no details of how the illustrators get in.It's a mag I'd like to be in so I'll give it a lash and if you are an illustrator I would definitely recommend getting in touch, it's a real showcase for your work. Buy it if you can comrades and wish it every success.
Click on the collage above to make it bigger and if you'd like to know more then check out their website http://www.popshotpopshot.com/popshot.html
Sunday, April 19, 2009
I'M GREAT !!!
I recently completed my first ever short story and I'm delighted with it ,partly because it's a story and it's short and therefore fulfills the criteria of the genre, but mainly because it's the best story ever written*. Which is pretty good for a first attempt.It has everything you expect of a top notch shorty, it's full of words and people and Tayto crisps and incredibly it's also got stuff like punctuation -some of which is even in the right place! I'm new to this form but if there is a short story equivalent of 'The Booker prize' I'll definitely win it and the money will sure come in handy as here at the castle a couple of chimeys, a gargoyle ,and most of the staff, need repointing. But back to the story; it's hard to define though I'd have to say it's a bit of a comedy and a tragedy.I'm not sure if it's a tragi-comedy , or comi- tragedy, but either way it's the meaning of life explained in 1500 words, 1475 of which are the same word,but there's a very good reason for this and a clever twist explaining all right at the end, just like Jonathon Creek. I've called it 'The meaning of life-the greatest story ever told, in a short story' I thought I better set my stall out from the start-no point in hiding your talent under a bushel and it's the kind of sexy snappy title that just seduces you into wanting more. And believe me there is plenty more for the inquisitive reader, murder, mayhem ,love, hate,jealousy, ham sandwiches and a betterware catalogue.This is a story that will make you cry and weep at the same time.it will make you question everything and give you all the answers, believe me you haven't read anything till you've read this story but be careful for when you do your life will never be the same again!
Available soon in a bookstore near you soon, real soon like really soon, or prepublication hand- signed, signed A4 sized,signed (Tesco's 'finest') copies can be ordered here (signed)at the castle at introductory special offer price of €19.99 per story or €30.00 for two if you want to treat yourself and surprise a loved one/neighbour / friend/bank manager.
*source-Guiney's book of Bollix.
Available soon in a bookstore near you soon, real soon like really soon, or prepublication hand- signed, signed A4 sized,signed (Tesco's 'finest') copies can be ordered here (signed)at the castle at introductory special offer price of €19.99 per story or €30.00 for two if you want to treat yourself and surprise a loved one/neighbour / friend/bank manager.
*source-Guiney's book of Bollix.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Not out of the woods, yet.
POETRY IS...........
A misheard word
A broken promise
A burnt letter
A lie
The juice of a clockwork orange
The secret code
A cry for help
A set of keys
An un-pickable lock
Lost in France
The gap between beating hearts
The grit in the sandal
The Oysters pearl
The ribbon of truth
The piss on the pedestal.
A misheard word
A broken promise
A burnt letter
A lie
The juice of a clockwork orange
The secret code
A cry for help
A set of keys
An un-pickable lock
Lost in France
The gap between beating hearts
The grit in the sandal
The Oysters pearl
The ribbon of truth
The piss on the pedestal.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Working things out still
and of course by 'poets' I don't mean any of my fellow bloggers/bloggerettes, we is all cool man , by poets I is actually referring to...........well now that would be telling wouldn't it?
Well it’s the year of the Leper
You can ring my bell
as I wander the streets in wonder
at the graffiti and if Art makes a mockery of us-
or the other way around,
I may need another drink.
Among all these ‘poets’
I would suffer a fool most gladly
None of us really know what suffering is,
chattering maybe, have
to think about that.
Depends on the wind
which ways words weave
webs among the willows
Watch them, read them, weep.
And the cherry blossom
waiting so long to do just that,
and for what, our pleasure?
Measuring our dreams
floating away on the summer breeze
humming to the birds, whispering
answers lost like shifting sand ‘till
I’m the Plastic Paddy in Casablanca
‘Play it again Sam,
Play it.
You know how to play it doncha?-
Just put the fuse wires together,
and blow.’
Well it’s the year of the Leper
You can ring my bell
as I wander the streets in wonder
at the graffiti and if Art makes a mockery of us-
or the other way around,
I may need another drink.
Among all these ‘poets’
I would suffer a fool most gladly
None of us really know what suffering is,
chattering maybe, have
to think about that.
Depends on the wind
which ways words weave
webs among the willows
Watch them, read them, weep.
And the cherry blossom
waiting so long to do just that,
and for what, our pleasure?
Measuring our dreams
floating away on the summer breeze
humming to the birds, whispering
answers lost like shifting sand ‘till
I’m the Plastic Paddy in Casablanca
‘Play it again Sam,
Play it.
You know how to play it doncha?-
Just put the fuse wires together,
and blow.’
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