The Words Zine issue 2

The Words Zine GOLD

CATASTROPHE

FAIRIES

LIGHTNING

HEART

BOMBERS

CRACKED

LADDER

GHOSTS

HIPPIES

TALKING

SKYPE

TREASURE SPIDER

RASHERS JUGGERNAUT

FOXHOUND

VIKINGS

SHITE

BELIEVE

ISSUE 2 € 2 by the WORDS Writers Group performing @ The Art Hand

Dearest Readers, Welcome to our second issue. This time around we have a big variety of writing. From Stephen Walsh’s witty Christmas Conversation #276, to Speedy Kaynine’s sad lament and Matty Tamen’s The Prize of Love, all sorts of poetry and prose are covered in this December edition of the WORDS Zine.

The WORDS Writer’s Group Performing @ The Art Hand had its first two Skype poetry readings last month. Mike Absalom, in Mayo, and myself, since I am now living in Spain, read our poetry for the event though we were both miles away. To experience such an event through a constantly flickering internet while hearing snippets of poetry and prose was strange but interesting.

To listen to the audience laughing at a witty line of poetry and wanting to laugh yourself, but feeling it silly to laugh because you are at least a thousand miles away. The Skype video calls have proved to be a popular new step for the WORDS event, who knows we might even stream the event live!

The next WORDS event is Wednesday, January 8th at 7.45pm. The submissions deadline for The Words Zine is the 20th of each month. Please email to; roisin_ph@hotmail.com Full details; www.theArtHand.com/words or ring 051 292919. Thank you to all those who submitted this month to the WORDS Zine and I hope you have fun reading!

The Editor, Róisín Power Hackett

WRITER PAGE Stephen Walsh 3 Sean Corcoran 3 Greta Murphy 4 Judith Flynn 5 Clare Scott 6 Mike Absalom 7 Speedy Kaynine 8 Anthony Mulcahy 10 Mareike Eccleston 11 John Daly 12 Anthony McCarthy 14 Matty Tamen 15 Kathryn Curran 16 Niall Geraghty 17 Róisín Power Hackett 18 Derbhile Graham 19

Produced @ The Art Hand Editor: Róisín Power Hackett Layout and Images: Sean Corcoran Distributor: Tom Power Page 2

Christmas Conversation #276 by Stephen Walsh "Is it here or there y'are?"

"Well I've started up here but I'm not finished down below."

"I know the way, I've started up above but I'm not done down here yet."

"Ah grand, sure I'll see you around so."

"Well I'm around, like, but I won't really be about much. Up to me eyes."

"Not a bad complaint."

"Ah, it is and it isn’t. The work is great but the money is shite."

"I'm the same only the other way, the pay is grand but the work is shite."

"You can't have it both ways."

Down the Ladder. Excerpt of Film Script by Sean Corcoran INT. – MINER’S DWELLING - EARLY MORNING The boy is perched awkwardly between the window ledge and the stool. He is looking out the window again.

EXT. - CLIFF TOP PATH - EARLY MORNING Again we see...Close ups shots of the Men along the Cliff Top Path. The sound of the sea, the footsteps in gravel and the music building...

INT. – MINER’S DWELLING - EARLY MORNING The Boy looks down at the table from his perch.

He notices the potatoes that are wrapped up, he looks briefly out the window in realisation that his father has left them behind.

Without saying a word he scrambles from the stool, knocking it over, grabs the package and runs out the door.

He leaves the door open.

EXT. DITCHES AND FIELDS – EARLY MORNING The Boy runs over an old tumbled down ditch and across a field followed by the Dog. Page 3

Talking by Greta Murphy I like talking.

Talking is good.

I could talk all day, Every day, any time, I’ll go on and on.

I could talk for ever, About anything, anywhere, any place.

The I.C.A., the I.R.A., the G.A.A., the A.A., a B.A. Or an M.A. I can talk about The yanks, the banks, cranks, You name it I’ll talk about it.

I like talking to myself, And answer myself back, that’s easy!

Talking to the plants, Might as well talk to the wall.

Talking in my sleep, Talking to the stars and the moon, Talking to the car, “Go car go for God’s sake” In school, they always said “Na bí ag caint”.

“Ciunas!”

Ach,is maith liom ag caint”.

There’s a great buzz when you talk.

Chatting is not the same thing at all.

There’s no speed in chat, too slow for me!

I could talk for Ireland or any other country, You name it, I’ll talk about it.

Talk is cheap, they say.

Silence is golden.

Loose lips sink ships.

But I like talking.

A lot.

Talk to you soon.

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Greta Loves to Talk!

by Judith Flynn There’s a nice lady named Greta Who’s got many words at will, Indeed, she’d talk for Ireland, She’s veritably BRILL!

Just hearing her expounding Takes the weight right off your mind But try to speak apace with her – She’ll leave you way behind.

If you want to share a story And you’re feeling rather guffy, Your best bet’s go and find her...

Speak to Greta, not Joe Duffy!

She’s a compulsive talker.

She’s kissed the Blarney Stone.

But be assured she means quite well, She has such a lovely tone.

She’ll talk about the weather Be it sunny, warm or rainy, She has views on meteorology Cos of course she’s very brainy.

It’s never idle prattle, She’s naturally loquacious, It’s never gibber-gabber, She’s really perspicacious.

She’ll review programmes from the telly Or books that she’s been reading.

If you’re taking up a project She’ll know what you’ll be needing.

The Health Service in crisis She includes in her chatter.

About overcrowded classrooms She’ll natter, natter, natter.

She’ll go on about her family – Her grandkids are a treasure – She’ll tell you about each of them With animated pleasure.

Closing rural Garda stations Or an An Post institution Prompts Greta’s succinct earful In her perfect elocution.

She’s interested in politics – That isn’t one bit funny – She’d give those TDs and senators A good run for their money!

She’s garrulous, is Greta, She’s voluble, effusive, Holding our interest keenly, Not in any way intrusive.

Just mention high financiers And mouth about the banks...

Does Greta do them favours?

She what? They get no thanks!

Straight up, honest-to-goodness, No sneers behind one’s back, Always upfront in her comments As she goes on, yackety-yack!

She’ll talk you through your problems, Your worries and your cares, Your hopes and aspirations, Your love-life and affairs!

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Daddy Long Legs by Clare Scott One evening a few years back I was walking the grey road home under a warm cloud laden sky when I noticed the air was full of Daddy Long Legs all heading in the same direction. They reminded me of squadrons of WW2 bombers in flight that were shown on old black and white newsreels. It was the only time I have seen so many together going in one direction.

I don’t like flappy things much, I’m a bit screechy around them and Daddy Long Legs or Crane Flies tend to put the shits up me more than most as they seem to have even less control than most insects over where they are actually going.

As I sat on the beach recently one rolled by me completely unable to right himself until the next gust of wind spun him back onto his legs. Another appeared to my right making a beeline for my head as if he were attached to a wire. I ducked back as he sped past my nose and I imagined him calling out for help, screaming to be released from the clutches of the kidnapping eddies of wind that had him in their grip. In fact, as with spiders, the more I watch them the less bothered I am by them. Spiders I came to admire. Daddy Long Legs: I just feel sorry for them.

I found this in Wikipedia…

“Unlike most flies Crane Flies are weak and poor fliers with a tendency to “wobble” in unpredictable patterns during flight, and they can be caught without much effort.” It doesn’t suggest why anyone would want to catch one.

I have heard someone say recently that Daddy Long Legs were very poisonous which is not at all true they don’t even bite, they don’t have time what with their hands full trying to get around. Imagine being completely floppy and trying to get to the supermarket using only the wind….

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To add to their troubles they also have a permanently long face.

Still, however hard life is for them I am not quite able to have them around me. I notice there are a lot of them around the house these September evenings and a few pasted trembling to the windows in the morning like nervous cat burglars caught in the act so what with them and the wasps I am being very careful when opening my door right now.

It was a strangely stirring sight that evening when I saw so many finally airborne, finally pointing in the one direction together like seeing some sort of collective consciousness at work. Maybe they even knew some insect version of oneness and peace as they drifted through the dusk in formation. At least until they realised that the soft wind they were riding was carrying them out over the cliffs to the dark sea.

On Stepping on a Spider by Mike Absalom On the hot concrete path this morning in an unintentional catastrophe of shoe leather I stepped on a spider.

No need to worry: there are plenty more where he came from.

No! He was the only one of him!

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Two Days in the life of a Foxhound by Speedy Kaynine Sunday My name is Lightning, that’s what they named me as a pup; I was always out front, always leading the pack, the first over every obstacle, the first to the fox’s den when he went to ground, and then I’d wait impatiently for the digging to start.

Ah that was in the old days when I was the King of the pack, it’s all behind me now. I think last season was my last one, I don’t think I’ll be hunting this season. I heard the yard boy say I was gone a bit slow and stiff and having reared a litter of pups this summer made matters worse. Still it’s grand to see them grow up and ready for the chase, boy were they all excited this morning when they heard that cub hunting was to start and our master had got an invitation to join the local harriers for the day. I was surprised to hear that they were going on Sunday, and not going “till around three o’clock. In the old days it was very rare to hunt on a Sunday, always on a weekday. We would start at six in the morning because a few young inexperienced pups usually got lost and you had the day long to find them. If anyone gets lost today it will be well and truly dark before they’ll be found. I was even more surprised when I heard the yard boy being told to load old Lightning. It seems I have another season in me, but surely this must be my last one.

A few of the fast hounds were teasing me. “Well Lightning”, one said, “you won’t lead the pack today, you’re gone beyond your sell by date, but you better not lag behind though, you know what happens to those who can’t catch up, surplus to requirements, kaput!”. The yard was full of nasty rumours about hounds that couldn’t catch up and got lost, and were never seen again, but I believe that good retirement homes were found for them.

When we joined up with the main pack the excitement was at fever pitch, such barking and yelping and then a few cracks of the whip and we were all loaded. I heard someone tell the driver, “We’ll go down to Kilmurrin, good cover in that area”.

At half three we were all unloaded, over excited pups were running around in all directions, but a few belts of the whip put manners on them and they soon fell into line, someone said “we’ll head for the glen”.

Some experienced hounds, including myself, searched all the most likely places, at last a fox was seen on the run, the horn sounded and the chase was on, I saw one of my pups up front, “a chip off the old block”.

As the evening drew in I struggled to keep up, I found some of the fences too high and I had to search for a gap. All the time I was falling Page 8

further behind, I could hear the hullabaloo at least three or four fields away and soon they were out of earshot and I was all alone. I had to lie down and rest for a while, I dozed off, and when I woke up it was getting duskish, I stood up, looked around to get my bearings and sniffed the air but the only scent I got was the sea.

I decided to make my way back to the cross roads where we started from, all the time on the lookout to see if some of the young pups had been lost, but it seems none were and I was all alone. It was dark when I got back to the cross roads, I could see lights in nearby houses, I was hungry, but knew it was too late to go in search of food. I decided to find a sheltered spot and settle down for the night knowing that tomorrow they would come looking for me.

Monday I woke early, went in search of food, someone saw me and hunted me away. I saw another house and they threw me out some bread. In the afternoon they came with some scraps of meat and more bread. I went to the river for a drink, all the time wondering why they hadn’t come looking for me, I remembered the words of the fast hounds, “better not lag behind”. Surely they would come for me after all my years of service.

I went back close to the house where I had been fed. I heard the woman say she had phoned some people and they would come to pick me up. It was getting dark again and still no one came, as I was about to settle down for the night I heard shouting at the gate to the glen. I recognised the voice, he had come at last. I made my way on to the road keeping an eye out for motor cars, but all was clear. As I made my way over, I could hear the man in the house say “she’s safe”. At last in the dusk I could see who had come to collect me, I trotted towards him and lay down on the grass at the gate of the glen. He had his vehicle parked at the other side of the road, and then he came towards me. What had he in his hand? Hard to see in the dark. No, No, No, N...! Thump!

Tuesday A woman out for her morning exercise noticed a trail of blood across the road and up the stone fence. She went to the fence and upon looking over it, saw the foxhound dead in a deep drain. It was a sad end after years of loyal service. The land owner was notified and he in turn notified the local harriers and they notified the owner of the hound. In the twilight hours of Tuesday evening the owner came and removed her from the drain.

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Turning Tide by Anthony Mulcahy What if I could change the way I think Rewire the voice inside my head And overcome the cost of my daily bread Or somehow stop the clock All I ever think of is a choice Instead of this endless one way street Although captivating, with bricks that touch the sky And golden river reflections It's not a lot to ask for Or is it If someone could gently remind me why I'll gladly accept these conditions I'll gladly concede and maybe even forget But will it ever change How a heart so young and eager Which rarely missed a beat Now rides along the waves As it waits for the turning tide

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Cracked by Mareike Eccleston “Ahh, you’re cracked” I hear people say As I’m off to another course, meeting or training day “Jaysus you’re great, doing all that stuff” As I’m wrecked, feeling awfully rough “Bet it’s all worth it, or is it? Why do it?”

It’s simple. Just doing my bit.

The big bit I’ve been given in life so far, Acts of kindness, a home with a home so afar.

Being grateful to parents and family and friends Of my old life, the life on the other side of the fence.

Finding new love, my love, new life, new strengths In the other world, not travelling awfully huge lengths Once in routine, responsibility and all The old world simmering so small On the back burner but oh not forgotten!

Should I just call?

Can’t really help. Can’t really be there.

How can a call, just a call, be fair?

Meantime, the new life continues to grow Over here, the homesick get enveloped in warm glow.

With new friends and plenty of loving shared around, New sisters, new brothers, new friends abound.

Giving and caring and healing sore spots So gratefully accepted, my heart is in knots.

Maybe, some good could be done If it’s for everyone, maybe the guilt will be gone?

Maybe, in a roundabout way, one day it will.

And maybe, this is just everyone’s life fill.

Taking and giving and minding the balance, Sometimes going completely mad and taking a chance Like this poem is a fair risky business Maybe inspiring a therapist, a writer probably less, But anyway, to answer, my friends, and those who have welcomed us here, I’m cracked but not broken.

And that’s all down to a cuppa and a friendly word spoken.

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Ghosts of the Copper Coast by John Daly From Bonmahon’s rock-ridged Copper Coast, I watched the gold kelp-streamers, Waltz with the waves that went gliding past, Like love-drugged drowsy dreamers.

Then a sinuous mist crept across the tide, With stealthy undulating motion, Its seductive embrace spread near and wide, And lay breast to breast with the ocean.

It caressed the shore on its sensual crawl, And lured away the lights of evening, And secreted them in its sinister shawl, Where its vaporous heart was heaving.

Then in timeless tide-tormented caves, It awoke long sleeping phantoms, While the sensuous sound of the sibilant waves, Crooned melancholy mournful anthems.

In the depths of the gossamer gauze of the gloom, Easy evening winds were sighing, From the ruined remains of their copper-green tomb, Long dead miners were replying.

The hammer’s harmonic seemed to sing in the dark, And the gunpowder’s plundering explosion, And the shattered rock’s roar at the touch of a spark, And ore-wagons rumbling under the ocean.

In that ghostly ephemeral cacophony of sound, The water-wheels again where turning, And two hundred fathoms underground, The candles again were burning.

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As the fingers of fog traced the mines Calvary, And turned histories parchment pages, I saw dream-softened sights, my eyes couldn’t see, And heard sounds from the silence of ages.

While the mist on my hair hung a sparkling crown, My soul by those scenes was enraptured, Then the fog gathered up its gossamer gown, And my heart in its folds was captured.

As the silence of sunset again reigned supreme, I drank from the chalice of anguish, For those miners whose blood stained the scarred copper seam, When death, would life’s candle extinguish.

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Forum by Anthony McCarthy It came suddenly, washing over me Like my brain and memories had disappeared, Like existing in an all clear, body left floating As if it was propelled by airy being, Drifting in and out of meaning, Walking but not walking, Speaking without awareness of talking, Holding conversation with thought and diction’s automations.

I’m an instrument of something else Made with moving parts of entitlement in harmony By its own making work of art, Standing up with use, becoming purpose filled As if this moment was pre-willed.

The point is becoming clear, It is all I know, my reason to be here.

The numbers keep making sense now, The sounds and sights of petitioned nights And days where I forget the ways That led to the same spot I am more forever now than not, By my own traps truly caught.

In this vision I’ve seen it is part of a dream, If I could turn into day the seeds would be full And would burst with life all the time in rhyme, Exit all routine strife – an expected gate, after the wait.

A new catch with the same bait.

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The Prize of Love

by Matty Tamen My heart I served to you on a plate of gold You smiled, with a hint of tenderness in your squinting eye Then gently you spiced it.

Rubbing in.

Your salt biting deep into every crevice and the pepper you spread kept me wincing, crying with pain that you took for love My tears incensed your hunger.

Without warning you tossed it delicately unto the brazing barbecue, wild flames burning through me, sizzling burns darkening my fragile life, scorched dreams dampening my shrilling voice, stiffed by hot thongs you dip in.

Turning me around.

Upside down.

Making sure I roast all through Carefully you place it on plate again cleaned, heated and with a steak knife you slice it up into tiny bits, its jagged blade cutting through every little fibre of me Each piece you pierce with your forks, births loud screams of pain you do not hear.

My tears whet your mouth as your ruthless teeth masticate me into a nasty paste What hope was mine when my heart I served to you on a plate of gold.

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Fairies in the Bog by Kathryn Curran “There are fairies in the bog,” whispered Hannah to Eimear in the play park as they glided lazily over and back on the swings.

“No there aren’t,” said Eimear. “There are, I saw their houses under the boardwalk with Katie, I’ll show you”.

After an ice-cream break Hannah’s mam took the girls across to the bog. They ran happily along the boardwalk racing each other at the bit where it divides. Lucy, the small cabbage white and her friends Rachel the ruddy darter and Bertie the bumble bee loved flying along with children when they came to visit the bog.

Lucy was a very curious butterfly. She kept flying in front of Hannah’s face. Hannah squealed with delight. She wanted Hannah to know the real magic of the bog. Hannah stopped suddenly and looked up, she was sure she had seen some fairy dust fall out of the sky. “Come on Lucy, you come with us,” Hannah laughed.

Lucy landed on her shoulder for a split second and then off she flew just ahead of the girls. “Ahh” shrieked Eimear when she heard a bee buzzing close by. “That’s just Bertie the bumblebee, he’s looking for nectar from those willow herb flowers there” said Hannah. How do I know his name she wondered. I just do. Hey this is fun, they thought and off they ran.

Suddenly Eimear shouted stop. “Lie face down on the boardwalk here, we might see skaters on the water underneath” . The boardwalk was lovely and warm underneath their bodies. It felt good in the heat of the sun. “I could sleep here” said Eimear dreamily. “Imagine spending the night here in the bog” As they sat there lost in thought, a meadow- brown butterfly landed on a scabrous flower. This pretty flower looks like a blue pin cushion. As with many wild plants found in the bog old people knew of their special powers. “I remember my grandmother using that blue flower to cure my eczema.” said Hannah’s mam. “Wow, that’s magical” thought Eimear.

The girls got to the bridge. Hannah looked where she was sure Page 16

there had been fairy houses the day before. Nothing could be seen except the ripples of the skaters darting about. Eimear thought her friend looked a little disappointed. “Never mind” she said. “This bog has a magic all of its own. We don’t need the fairies to show us.” Rachel the Ruddy Darter flew happily over her head delighted that the children could feel the magic.

Bye for now Lucy, Bertie, Rachel and Alfie the meadow brown butterfly. We will be back soon and we hope to meet you and maybe more of your friends in the magical kingdom of Fenor Bog. Katie, 7-8-2013

My City by Niall Geraghty, Age 10 Waterford is so special, It’s a really great place to be, It has lots of places to go, And tons of things to see.

The city is filled with beautiful towers, That are steeped in history, We have some fabulous beaches, And plenty of scenery.

Waterford’s past was quite coloured, I think that’s fair to say.

We have had some wonderful people, Which helped the city pave its way, The Vikings came the Normans too, King John fixed the walls, Along with his crew.

Henry Denny gave us the rasher, Inside a blaa it is a smasher.

Waterford is our city, We all have a part to play, Come on Mount Sion, Let’s help the city on its way.

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The Ruffle - An Ode to Dame Lane by Róisín Power Hackett The calm, composed, cacophony of silence muffles through the days, time passes slowly, you hear the clock clunk, you do things, for other people and yourself, but everything is done, the silver shines upon its shelf, the crockery is put away, the floor polished, dust is not left settle anywhere, even in the curved crevices of sink taps.

It has all been done, you have done it all, for others and yourself, the grey cloud crawls across the earth, time ticks, the days slither passed, oddly overcast, and yet, all is what you wanted, you have the green on the other side, the perfection of a day well planned, of breakfast, lunch and dinner marked, with the same patterned table cloth, plates and serviettes, the water bottle, glasses and the mini cans of beer, spread across the coffee table, the three spot lights on, the hall lights off.

And the grey cloud crawls across the earth, time ticks.

But where is the ruffle – there must be some insanity, some pull and tug, some stress, some late night dancing with a manatee, a head ache, a list, some urgent thing to do, something, not for other people or yourself, but for supreme fiction, the ruffle and the friction, for the wam, and the bam, for the roar and the clatter of moving bodies and folkish music in the depths of a night club, for the sake of art, for the sake of the lake in Stephen’s Green…

Where is falling down the stairs or walking back upon the streets with the clothes you wore the night before, Where is the night-black back alleyway of pubs with a bearded homeless pretending to have a limp, Phil the philosopher plying his trade, rhyming is timing, or the beatboxers on further down, past the bunch of interesting hippies, your joy bouncing off the shimmering black shadows, as the cold bites your neck, as you smell vinegar and grease, where is that golden fleece? where is waking up in the smoky, choky flat, full of tin cans empty of beer, lipsticked glasses filled with ash, and wondering, where is everybody at, where is all of that?

The calm, composed, cacophony of silence, sat and got fat.

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Half Past Christmas by Derbhile Graham Half Past Christmas is the hushed hour that comes just as Christmas morning breaks, an hour stolen from the Christmas juggernaut.

You wake all a-tingle. The sky is the colour of ink, but the clock tells a different story. Something exciting is happening. You fancy you can hear Santa’s footsteps on the rooftop. Your stomach carries the memory of the years when you tumbled down the stairs, in search of Santa’s bounty.

You swaddle yourself in a dressing gown and slipper socks and creep downstairs, taking care to skip the creaky step. A veil shrouds the house. You don’t turn on a light, in case you pierce it.

Defiant embers still burn in the grate. On a table beside the couch, there is a plate strewn with crumbs and a glass with a dribble of milk on the rim, left for an incredulous child to find. You flick on the Christmas tree lights. They begin to dance on the walls, showing off their colours, pink, orange, yellow.

You nestle beside the tree. The lower branches tickle your face. The carpet feels scratchy underneath you. The house murmurs to itself; you listen to the quiet chorus of whirs, grunts and moans. Next to you is a pristine pile of presents. The paper crackles a little, as if quivering with anticipation. You breathe in the smell of pine.

The house begins to stir. You hear doors open, running water, running feet. The veil is torn away. But as the day whirls around you, you hold on to the memory of Half Past Christmas, the hour when you let yourself believe.

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