issue #3 November 2007
edited by John W sexton
illustrated by ale mercado
Rhyme Rag #3. November 2007 Contents Curious Wind Ellen Hanly introduction Hands Jason Phelan Stunt Kelly O’Brien Friday Night Jack O’Connor Blackbird Niamh Moroney The World Adam Moore Hells Angels Cain Lynch Distance John Morrissey Falling Leaves Clíodhna Murphy The Painted Lady Aidan Byrne Cherry Tree Carol Sweeney Planker’s Lament Stephen Colfer Day-Day Robbie Power Digger Tim Smyth The Scarecrow Giollaíosa Meany Dinner Party Janine Beck Pin Fields Sorcha Reilly The Thoughts of a Dying Bean-Eater Philip Brennan It’s a Cows Life Liam Ó Foghlú Grandad’s Seat Fiona Rothwell Guardian Shadows Alan M. Butler Purged Jake Moylan Imagination Brendan Burke
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Arts Office Kilkenny County Council
The wind Pulled up the bird’s feathers Just to see What was underneath
Rhyme Rag #3. November 2007
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edited by John W Sexton - illustrated by Alé Mercado
Introduction
John W. Sexton on Rhyme Rag
Kilkenny County Council’s Arts Office is delighted to announce this, the third edition of Rhyme Rag, a poetry publication featuring the work of young Kilkenny writers. Two hundred and sixty four poems by one hundred and sixty one writers were submitted for inclusion in edition three of the Rhyme Rag making the editors decision a good read but a difficult choice. Twenty three poems from young people aged between twelve and twenty one years who have little or no previous writing experience were selected in this year’s publication. The selected poems come from students from the following Secondary Schools: Scoil Aireagail , St. Kieran’s College, Presentation Secondary School, CBS, Colaiste Pobail Osrai, Kilkenny College, Grennan College and a student from UCC.
All writers are born with the same start: a writer’s intuitive gifts, willed to them in the womb. But that intuitive power must be developed. Over it the writer should essentially learn to place the clothing of structure and style. Before that can happen, however, a writer’s gifts must be fostered, and the first fostering for most of us is in the school classroom and the home. I say this for I wish to begin by stating that it was evident to me as I read through the many submissions of poetry for this edition of the Rhyme Rag, that the young writers of Kilkenny have been well fostered indeed. It is in the home and in the school that our poets seek their first encouragement, and it is only right that that encouragement is there to be had. The second place that writers turn to is the avenue of publication, but for young writers these avenues are not always available. It is a blessing on everyone in the Kilkenny Arts Office that the young poets in this county have a good home for their work. Long may this wonderful publication exist.
Mary Butler Arts Officer
Editor John W. Sexton John W. Sexton is a poet, short story writer, dramatist, children’s novelist, radio scriptwriter and broadcaster. He is the author of three collections of poetry, ‘The Prince’s Brief Career’ (1995), ‘Shadows Bloom / Scáthanna Faoi Bhláth’ (2004), a book of haiku with translations into Irish by Gabriel Rosenstock, and most recently ‘Vortex’ (2005). He also created and wrote ‘The Ivory Tower’ for RTE radio, which ran to over one hundred half-hour episodes. His novels based on this series, ‘The Johnny Coffin Diaries’ and ‘Johnny Coffin School-Dazed’ are both published by The O’Brien Press, and have been translated into Italian and Serbian. He has also recorded an album with legendary Stranglers frontman Hugh Cornwell, entitled ‘Sons Of Shiva’. He has been nominated for The Hennessy Literary Award and is currently Fiction Editor for The Cork Literary Review. He won this year’s Listowel Poetry Prize for best single poem and has just recently been awarded a Patrick Kavanagh Fellowship in Poetry for 2007.
illustrator Alé Mercado Alé doodles. He doodles a lot
A poet’s range must be wide, and also, at times, contradictory. There are occasions when poetry must be serene, contemplative and pure; and there are other occasions when poetry should be wild, unstable, even dangerous. It is said in some quarters that a poet’s concerns should be able to encompass the three Bs. The three Bs in question are: Beauty, Blaggarding and Bile. Open this book and you will find examples of all three. On some pages the poetry is calm, retrospective, poignant, and on other pages it is skitting, mad, utterly mental, at times even sinister. And that, with poetry, is exactly as it should be. Expect no less in these pages, and enjoy this marvellous collection of writing from Kilkenny’s young poets.
Series Director: Mary Butler Series Coordinators: Niamh Finn and Emma King Editor: John W. Sexton Graphic Design: Alé Mercado
copyright notice All images and poems are subject to artistic copyright 2007. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission of the copyright owners.
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Rhyme Rag #3. November 2007
Arts Office Kilkenny County Council
We drank water from the river, Crystal-clear cups held Between our hands We picked the foxgloves with Sticky hands and restless minds From summer hedgerows An effigy of our hand print is Carved in concrete, A message of our existence in permanent ink We held hands with a Northern Wind That painted pastures And kissed the sighing hills When tears almost washed our dreams Down dark drains We held each other’s hands, With those hands we wiped Each other’s tears away
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edited by John W Sexton - illustrated by AlĂŠ Mercado
A beautiful boy Casts a dark shadow on my world. Ever-present. Undeniable. He faces the sun, unaware that His whole world is behind And Beneath Him.
It is me He is ignorant of; My world; His world He stands in front of. He blocks my sun, I cannot grow! But if He would only turn then we Could bask and glow, Together. But still He fills my skin in black I cannot see around Him He has grown so tall, Like a sunflower. And I am the weed beneath.
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Rhyme Rag #3. November 2007
Arts Office Kilkenny County Council
We both sat in the upstairs bar she leaned right in and her scent caused euphoria in my nostrils and brain and she whispered “lets go!” we both threw down a few euro, retrieved our coats and set off. As we walked I held her hand as though it was welded to mine simply because I didn’t want to let go we had a mock game of “Who could squeeze the hardest” she won in the end but only because I wanted to see her smile. We turned left onto the canal, I tried to warn her but she promised we wouldn’t go far we walked by the river till she stopped and she leaned against the wall I stood over her, pressed my nose to hers till I could see nothing but her face. Then we kissed. I was concentrating on the moment so that I didn’t notice the beer can strike my head. I broke away, turned and saw two fourteen year-olds looking at me as if waiting for an answer to a question The second one raised another can but I anticipated the move I grabbed his wrist, the can fell with a clink and the real fun began.
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edited by John W Sexton - illustrated by Alé Mercado
A boy facing me shouted out to the Sparsely inhabited street, “THE END OF THE WORLD IS COMING!” He stared at the ground beneath him, As if he was going to dive right in. A gentle loving busker shared the moment with me, Humbled by old memories of the song he played, I drifted back in time. In that moment he seemed heroic. I don’t know why… He didn’t sing the lyrics, If he did I would have cried. I wanted to embrace him, hold him close And ask, If the words for him, Were too painful to sing? We glanced at each other with a smile and a nod. I walked on. I thought somebody was following me, But it turned out to be a friend. We spent the coldest nights outside, Waiting for the world to end.
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Rhyme Rag #3. November 2007
Arts Office Kilkenny County Council
Blue is as calm As the Mediterranean Sea. Red is as romantic As Mount Juliet in autumn. Grey is as lifeless As the dead themselves. Green is as energetic As the people of the world. Pink is as beautiful As a clear night sky over Lake Garda. Gold is as rich As Kleptocrats from poor countries. Black is as depressing As a winter’s day in school. But when you put Amber in the mix It is always September. And my old friend Liam, Coming back to my place. As the kiss of youth, Went upon History, Folklore.
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edited by John W Sexton - illustrated by AlĂŠ Mercado
Exhaust fumes spluttering from the pipe Alcohol rusting metal Dark paint is an infection on the skin Noisy engines power these machines Hells angels Red crosses on black leather Headlights showing hope on dark roads Gloves protect from the diseased wind Hells angels
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Rhyme Rag #3. November 2007
Arts Office Kilkenny County Council
What is it that a mere boy knows of love Staring at the bright night lights of the city And gazing at the piercing buildings high above? Away from the hills of home where she’s pretty And intoxicated with a longing for him She is stuck with the temptations facing him there As the sun sinks low behind the hill green and dim Love, justice and distance will never be fair. A screeching stream of cars, bustling streets Like bulging arteries clogging, a pulse rising He knows this life he’s chosen, its struggles, its feats Aware that her heart could turn to despising. He plods into the night with a weary young heart And away from the love he told he’d never part.
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edited by John W Sexton - illustrated by AlĂŠ Mercado
Falling Leaves are in my eyes their porcelain vision stays. Clock hands remain untouched a single blink perched all motionless, except for the mind in focus waves of thought flow, slipping through my fingers I know you’re there, like through clean glass I see you I could catch you like a falling leaf.
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Arts Office Kilkenny County Council
The timorous “Painted Lady” was hovering up on high. On gossamer wings she flitted against the azure sky. Prancing and pirouetting, she danced some merry weaves. The swooping like quicksilver, she darted through the leaves That hung about the canopies, above the noxious weeds.
High above a pristine turret, a raven watched with eyes of steel, Observed the vaulting butterfly and saw an easy meal. She grimaced with a ghoulish frown that narrowed both her eyes. She sped down past the gargoyles and prepared to pulverise. But as she reached the butterfly, now resting in the clover…..
The farmer pulled the trigger and the raven’s flight was over!!!!
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edited by John W Sexton - illustrated by AlĂŠ Mercado
A young maiko Her hair pulled back painfully into a pin cushion bun, Wearing a golden silk kimono with the design of bronze leaves Falling to meet the hem, A bronze obi wrapped around her willowy waist, Stands underneath an ancient cherry tree beside the Sirakawa river. The dawn grows with her fears of being caught. She turns and stares into the fast flowing water, conscious of the cherry Tree looming overhead, knowing what she must do if he does not turn up. A shiver of betrayal creeps up her spine He calls her name A swift wind blows as she turns, making the bronze leaves come to life. The soft petals rain down upon her, almost shielding her from sight. A new light flickers in her frail mournful eyes, hope. He stands in front of her and takes in every curve and tear stain. They run together as quickly as the light grows, never looking back, But the cherry tree looms ever closer in their minds. He wakes now every night to watch her slumber, amazed at the beauty Underneath the ghostly mask, Her hair loose almost invisible in the darkness, Save for the moonlight creeping across the bed, illuminating her perfect face. Traces of that life still reflect in her eyes, her fears trapped in that crimson dawn. She sleeps now, free, peacefully, not a care in the world Dreaming of the cherry tree.
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Rhyme Rag #3. November 2007
Arts Office Kilkenny County Council
I was once the tallest tree, Took me 187 years to get there! That’s 187 years of hard growing And Photophosphorylation. None of your fancy pancy Chemically enhanced cow shite. But 187 years of tree work Comes to about 20 minutes For two fat guys, a saw and The inspiring whistle of a kettle They chopped, they hacked, They sanded, they stripped. Trees can become many things From the finest of books, To the tallest of buildings. I’m not one of those trees. I was once the tallest tree, I now spend my time acting As a gate to stop a bull from Fornicating with 20 odd heifers And you eejits call me a plank.
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edited by John W Sexton - illustrated by Alé Mercado
“Where’s Day-Day?” The little girl said He’s on his way up for dinner and veg “Where’s Day-Day?” The little girl screamed He’s on his way up to make our eyes gleam “Where’s Day-Day?” The little girl snapped He’s gone for some coats To make sure you’re well wrapped “Where’s Day-Day?” The little girl sighed He’s on his way up was mummy’s lie “Where’s Day-Day?” She would often demand He’s now in heaven holding Nellie’s hand
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Arts Office Kilkenny County Council
The digger rolled over earth-ridges braided with gravel, mashing clods, turning stones with a greasy clack like the smack of boules. It moved with a jittery rumble and a skreeking of tracks, moved past a cleaved island of earth stuck with a telegraph-pole. The arm ended in a toothed bucket, edges polished from digging, The inside rashed with rust and old grime. The patterns were like continents on a map. The teeth bit in, a scraping bite, a film-effect lightening-strike of metal on stone. Loose pebbles cascaded to earth with a sound like coins shoaling into a heap of treasure.
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edited by John W Sexton - illustrated by AlĂŠ Mercado
You stand all day by a stick in the ground Without making one single sound You stay there all day and night Giving crows awful frights Even though you’re on your own You never give out or moan I watched you in the field one day Even though I stayed far away I could still see the straw jutting out Of everywhere body legs and mouth As I watched out the window pane It started pouring rain I would have been soaked to the skin But you scarecrow just kept your grin
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Rhyme Rag #3. November 2007
Arts Office Kilkenny County Council
Little girl, Milky smile, Gaudy dress. Side-stepping the cheese and olive man, Avoid the table of red and white poison, And wait. “What beautiful curls child!” Mr. Wordsworth. I beam; imitating my dress. The volume rises, I seem to grow before them. But Plath and Dickinson are too coolly immersed in each other. Robert Frost catches my eye quizzically – then leaves. Shaw and Yeats gaze, I savour the irony of their defensive faces. Ted whispers something to his wife, She turns; her lips taut outwards, “Come join us”.
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edited by John W Sexton - illustrated by Alé Mercado
Countless fields of pins Needle ends and heartless sins Shackled down to the earth Breaking free, from what?, my hurt. Each line, each word, a cut Building my walls, I shut My eye, then drift away In my own world I stay Of purple water sky My made up world, try See through, my eyes, hide From dark, from light, soul at side Vacant smile, no life behind In a place no one can find Where paper butterflies In the rain, will surely die Smokey streets, no light to guide No person, no heart, confide Healing hurts, never will The empty ports, can’t be filled I’m just a lock, missing its key That of doomed, running to flee But those who refuse, see The disparity, inside of me
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Rhyme Rag #3. November 2007
Arts Office Kilkenny County Council
Too many artists have died of poverty For us to be taken seriously Too many of us have eaten animal To pretend decency Too many E’s infected John Donne For his Dreame to be a dream come true Batter my heart and serve with chips Chloroplast my soul and let it be its own god! If gods make their own importance Why must His Image be vain to do the same? Maybe our greenlessly black souls are worsening, We’ve moved from offering the hand to dropping it. Bathos to rival Prufrock’s! Our move from “Flower Power” to “Free the Weed”Why do we hate gardeners so much? I once stood on a snail in a garden and thought If in France, I’d have ruined someone’s dinner Anywhere else and I may have saved it. You haven’t lived until you’ve been lost abroad Every generation has its own shaped fridge Every man his own religion I, belonging to the Popiest of them all, Can never tell you what good I’ve done. What if St. Ant asks me? Do I betray a saint or Rome? How about I close my eyes and hope for the best. Meat tastes alright.
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edited by John W Sexton - illustrated by Alé Mercado
I stand in a field, bored. Gaze out at the field for the umpteenth time, Flowing grass the colour of lime. Little calves playing in the grass, One trips and falls on its rear. I look up, something, coming down the road, A tractor with trailer to carry the load. From the tractor a farmer jumps out Rounds us up with a slap and a shout In, behind the trailer we go Some of us moo, some low. OOOH! Look at that handsome bull over there “I’m Maggie”, “I’m Bob”, we’d make a pair! The trailer stops and from behind it we come, Nowhere else to go, or to run. In to the building we go, A line of cows moving slow. Suddenly panic up ahead, What’s that? A flash of red? Suddenly a blade rears up for the chop. My head flies off, a roll and a hop I lie dead as a wooden board.
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Rhyme Rag #3. November 2007
Arts Office Kilkenny County Council
Leaves fall like dancers, Shades of bronze, gold and amber, Forming a thick carpet Beneath the bare branches. Crunching under our feet, Swirling in the breeze, To land on the old garden seat Where Grandad used to sit.
Rhyme Rag #3. November 2007
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edited by John W Sexton - illustrated by Alé Mercado
I can see your hands, Shaking and tired. I can hear your breath, Broken and weak. You move uneasy As though something is behind you. But there’s not, You’re safe here. I can see you. Is it from inside That you hear your noise? I worry for you there, Somewhere I can’t go To keep you safe. Or am I already there, Making your noise? Where are you? I can’t see you now. Who is watching whom?
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Rhyme Rag #3. November 2007
Arts Office Kilkenny County Council
She said she was thirteen And was scared at what she could do I was sixteen And thought the exact opposite She was thirteen And needed help I was sixteen And decided to give it She was thirteen And had a boyfriend to lose I was sixteen And had nothing left to fight for She was thirteen And she broke down I was sixteen And yet another difference She was thirteen And had just begun I was sixteen And was a purged version of her But the one difference The one that separates us That leaves us unequal… She (after thirteen years) Decided someone should hear her cry I (after sixteen years) … … Am silent
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edited by John W Sexton - illustrated by AlĂŠ Mercado
Brings boredom to death, Art to life, you to yourself. A door to all doors.
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Rhyme Rag #3. November 2007
Ellen Hanly • Jason Phelan • Kelly O’Brien • Jack O’Connor Niamh Moroney • Adam Moore • Cain Lynch • John Morrissey Clíodhna Murphy • Aidan Byrne • Carol Sweeney • Stephen Colfer Robbie Power • Tim Smyth • Giollaíosa Meany • Janine Beck Sorcha Reilly • Philip Brennan • Liam Ó Foghlú • Fiona Rothwell Alan M. Butler • Jake Moylan • Brendan Burke