Thursday, February 16, 2017

Open Foelys Mic

Smack

Turn right out the door
then left
up Werburgh to Leo Burdocks
Lord Edward opposite Christchurch
and the five-road one-way split
where bagheads on brown
bent-over double in gauche prayer
for a liquid green Eucharist
beckon we join the Castle
Street mis en scene.
A loose congregation
of junkies and drunks
gathered to share the unwavering
faith of a godless addiction.

Three thirty at the Eastern Health
Board a door turns open
and methadone is administered
to this fallen flock of the ignored
& forgotten few servicing their fix.
After which they disperse to Saint
Patrick's park and quarrel strung-out
stanzas, settled by breeze-blown
whim:  the plot or course
 in a cloud’s movement deciding
 the outcome of whether or not
their suits are dismissed or proven.

~


Weekend Spinning

A bird flapping
toward the bright
moon, balanced

in awkward light
shallow water
below its wings

tiny bird in flight.


~


~
the temperature
of the intellect
~

Beneath Lough Arrow, the Plain of Pillars, Sligo,
Moytura; the ancient gods’ eternal force spiraling up

and down two gyres, ascending and descending,
summoning the instrument wrought with harp & club,

two forms, four cycles, and a cauldron from the pages
time forgot.

A three-strained harp of joy, sorrow and slumber
eliciting fictions lilting soundlessly, wind-snared

in feet of druidic silence, and the demiurgic dogma
of Gnostic geometry above a friendly moon–worn

cloud hung blankly iambic - a pluvial shed - Ogma’s
finger fanning forward wound hither within our breast.

Index-meshed, passionate reflections signing
messages in rain, settling in slate-lettered air-flashes

the elemental energy composed that mirror
no time stored, in the beaten racket, every sound

in pyschic ink, strained there flowered in strings
of savage grace; flitting old style, full-throated

addressing possessed the self-penning challenge memory
made sacred.

The object of a stone logainm name-lore log enech
face price plucked from a four-angled oak blossom
in the wood-throated bark-song the ear hears

anew in the unspotted stillness, silken silence,
clocks countering cloaks, forward swelling

at the foot of Faery Hill, toiling left in proud mist,
dense as pain-ravelled centuries, concealed

in a plain old thread of the simple suffering,
an embroidered and worn telescopic hawk eye,

butterfly and cuckoo's wing, dreamer hooting afresh
at dawn, still embalming faithful water; away

shall depart in silence with salmon and hazel,
Finn at Segais Well. And on the eternal site

of our return, reflecting in the dimmest mote
of deepest night, all of time strung there in this

thread wound hereafter round bole and branch.
A sean-nós riddle easily hidden from our sense.

The fragrance of a tree that to a foreign ear is lost,
blossoming on a ridge pole in May.

The home-stream harp music tu-wit tu-wooing,
pollinating flower fruit, bee-nut and heart-muse

the river marsh rushing part there in, murmuring
songs, long estranged from the pushing blind

eye that wrote a soul-gods’ breath sung open
in a heartfelt note, at a foam-lit bridge, invoked.


~

We don't need no supermarkets, we don't need no banks
coz we live in the Liberties and we got our own flats,
a ten minute walk and we're in all of the gaffes;

a pint in Toners and a ball in the Swan, we’re gonna
start our own government of the tongue over a swifty

in Houricons, four at Bowes, six at Donehy and Nesbitts
and five in Doyles; where we mix the music and we speak
through song, then a couple of chasers at Mulligans,

with some quare D4 folk slagging us bcuz we're free
and alone. We don't need no bus pass, don't need no
car, just two wheels with the Dublin Bikes swipe-card.

We don't need no judgement, don't need no hate, just
a fek awf book deal for a series of eight. Yeah, in
funny stories and in pithy short lines, well wrought

verses and we'll see yiz in five, coz we aint unkool
'n we aint no skwares, we are the art school DJs
the pride of our local area, n' we don't need yohl

outsiders tellin us what to do, just a computer n’
flashcard of banging tunes. A few scoops on Monday

at the Long Hall and Stags, talking of vinyl and
riding home drunk on our bikes, we don't need no
hi-viz, no rain gear, no lights, just a ten bob smile

and what everyone likes, competitively spinning
in the verse of our lives at a session on Friday

in JJ Smythes, at the monthly recordings, in a
weekly podcast, with a midweek gig at a curated mic,
above in the Palace or below in the Mezz, at the side

of Waxies and in Copper Faced Jacks, we're all
bleed'n blue and we're all bleed'n red, we wear
giggly faces and we're green in the head, coz it's

all effin this and it's all effin that, we swear
like troopers, yeah, we eff ti fok; we know the
literary garbage from the good in the gab

of a Goatstown A-list Ballsbridge posh oh’s
wannabe looking up at us, 'n the whites of dem
oiz wid prejudiced minds emoting taste and tone

here at the bottom on the Coombe across the road
from Francis Street, hearing this note,
that we believe, experience, feel and phwoar,

'worra peroppa loop'.

Yil no read, see, think, watch, fuke uz ova or
steal our dreams, ye faze buke doort bawds noh
from tha leburtaze

~

Lennan Sidhe

Eye the chasm of a heart
refuse to look past a pool
of cloud drawing love
to force a tide of will.

Storms of white horse water
whip the dawn, and sleeping
a beggar scattered his dream.

Love is thy neighbour
in this mirror of broken
flotsam, rippling the night-
scented silence, and divinity
crying within us, risen
in the remembrance of a ghost,
flickering beyond love.

The momentary illusion
of a lost son fled when passion
beneath his hooded caul web,
wrapping the night above us,
enmeshed Her fragrance
in memory, tapered
to what passed between us,
what drop from the scaffold
befell us, and why the platform
will claim a green glow.

A red-lipped lady envisaging
Ormskirk and Cabra, mourning
the ancestral flow of this heart
less rendered to hate, shocked
to a state of bemused
imitational grace.

So flit free soul
steal the shadow of home
and make love with none
but your own, cool breeze,
moving through sandy cove,
moss siding on a wall,
complicit the windless sidhe is here.

~

The section below is the middle section, in which Ó Dálaigh likens Maurice Fitz Maurice to famous Tuatha De Danann champion, Lugh.

The son of Tuatha Dé Dannan father Cian and Formorian mother Ethniu (Enya), daughter of a pirate-raider Balor, whose stronghold was Tory island off the coast of Donegal, and who kept her locked in a tower after a druidic prophecy that he would die at the hands of his grandson.

Essentially he recounts one of the most famous of the 350 mythological tales in the bardic cannon: The Coming of Lugh to Tara. In which the teenage Lugh attempts to gain entry and join the Men of Art, but is turned away - until reeling off a whole bundle of tricks and skills he's capable of.

The original Gaelic meter is snédbairdne. Lines of 12 syllables broken with a caesura after the eighth, quatrains of 8-4, 8-4, 8-4, 8-4, each end-word 2 syllables long, with lines B&D rhyming, and 'aicill' between C&D; the final word of C rhyming with a word on the beginning or interior of D.

It was no marvel that he did good, so excellent
was his training. No marvel men envied his fortune

so great was his gaiety. A merry tale will be found
with the skillful youth; so tall and bright, elegant

and white-footed; this leader of the fair host who
excelled in understanding, comeliness and success.

Who - in short - won all the varied excellences
with the excellence of his sweetness of voice.

His prize for valour, his prize for wisdom, for beauty
or generosity, were not granted to any heir of his age.

Strength in luck, luck with success, a modest heart,
understanding to keep him, curling tresses he had

gotten. When he was injured, the sod that
chanced to be under his white foot, certified it to be

the handsome brown haired prince. The planets

declared it to his curling hair.

~

The like of Maurice, who exalted bards, was Lugh
Longhand; equally great in knowledge was this

valiant compeer equal in sway. At the age of
Maurice, the earl's son, he delivered Banbha,

when he, the mighty tree of Bladhma, defeated
the race of the Formorians. At Eamhain in the east,

Lugh the darling of Tara beheld Tara - Rampart
of Té - when he reached it after searching the whole

earth. Lugh, champion of our choice, finds the door
closed: he goes to the smooth even-surfaced wall;

he strikes the knocker. "Where have you come from"
The doorkeeper said

"O young red-cheeked man; tall, smooth, strong
and bright?"

Answered Lugh, who neither sought nor shirked a fight
"I am a poet from Eamhain, of the Apple trees,

of swans and yew trees."

"It is not lawful for you" said the doorkeeper,
"to come to our good house. There is a man

of your art in our stronghold, bright and ruddy one.
The House of Miodhchuairt belongs at this time

to the sons of Ethliu; we must tell of the qualities
of the fair curved house. One of the qualities of the

House of Miodhchuairt, whose borders are smooth,
is that two of one craft are not admitted, fair

and furious one. So many are the arts
of the Tuatha Dé Dannan, bestowers of cloaks,

that you must bring to them an art they do not know."

"Among my arts - conceal it not to the company
beyond the gate - is leaping on a bubble without

breaking it. Go recount that. Snámh ós éttreóir,
arrying a vat on the ridges of the elbows;

these two arts are in my power; go declare it. Ask
whether there is one of the vigorous throng

that can outrun any steed on the fair soft green,
we promise a race. What i recount is here as an

extra beyond them, and in their own arts, none
is so expert as I. I speak not in anger."

Thursday, October 13, 2016

Poem of the Week, Dragonfly, by William Stanley Merwin.


The choice of this poem from this second new Bloodaxe collection on the trot, is a sterling poem in a modernist punctuation-less form that flows vurrih vorrih verrih verrih wull, and has only two instances of surprise in one's own eye and ear.

The first one at the beginning of the fifth line, as though they were memory / now there are grown-ups hurrying; that is clearly a new sentence. And in the absence of punctuation, reading across the enjambment the Reader's ear and eye naturally carries over a forward thinking impetus assuming that the meaning is to carry across to the beginning of line five; but s/he the Reader is pulled up short by the lack of punctuation.

And so instead of one reading onward the eye halts in confusion and returns to the start of the line to endure a micro-intellectual exercise of finding the meaning and carrying on.

The other instance is the same thing of reading across the enjambment, aware by now and on the lookout for changes in meaning, when s/he lands with another thud on a statement that is not only an unflagged new, and concluding sentence, but one that felt very out of sync with what the eye had been reading.

In the sense that perhaps one was expecting some consoling positive conclusion to the poem, but instead one's eye and ear arrived at there will be no one to remember us, thinking, woah! what's all this about and where's all that come from?

Immediately one is aware that this is not perhaps the effect the voice is intending to create. One in which the poem, in this Reader's apprehension of it, is rendered not very memorable at the final line.
Merwin is after all an American master and legend publishing since before many of us were born, and perhaps it is one's own lack of poetic perceptiveness and literary training in letters that is unable to immediately grasp something that is there, but one's own intellectual deficiency means it goes over my head and I am missing the very thing the poem is all about.

I do not know. I do know that there's a lot of abstract verbs and conjoining words threaded together in a very challenging and high level abstract meaning, where all the action is occurring cerebrally, within the mind of, not only a dragonfly, which is a tough call to get right, but the mind of an ethereal narrator made of disembodied genderless spirit, and very much tucked behind everything as a disembodied spirit voice of some all perceiving narrator that, by the sounds of the speech, is supposed to be imparting something deeply profound in the manner of whiskey and strong spirits, poetically speaking.

Because we are at heart good people and worshippers of the good people from the Aos Sí.

Merwin's faery hand guiding to write this poem, is so different from the average local faery-loving dreamers' in la la land here, that tho challenging to respond to in as plain and crude a way as one used to here when I was still a werking-klaws voice, it can with care and consideration for language itself be negotiated to a handy voice of stability and honest integral loving memory-keeping on the right side of the faery lore that one strives to achieve today, fifteen years further up the road and route to Her that really I think poetry is all about. What we seek to praise.

And in this poem She seems totally absent.

The end line is suggestive of a voice that is resigned there is no spiritual Mag Mell, Plain of ever-living joy, Tir na Og, land of the every living youth, and so in its place there is an absence of this conceptual spiritual heaven and a nothingness, insect-like, aloof, warm, spiritless state which perhaps the voice in the poem is trying to get across to the Reader?
I enjoyed most of the poem, but was expecting, or perhaps more hoping, it would end on salutation, a declaration of poetic faith, a deepening of it, and not the abandonment of it exhibited here in this week's poem-voice number nearly five hundred.

Thanks Carol & Mr. Merwin. May we all go to heaven in a shared rowing boat and find there our faery one with Her loving warm embrace of light-loving home leading s/he through a trans-migration of the soul She is and we all return to.

The voice of Liam Stanley in this poem this week, seeming to believe otherwise.
I dunno.

50/50 is the bardic poetic balancing act between satire and praise, Fili/poet toxic in one splendorous in tuvva, and it is various the poet speaks, as Cormac tells us eleven hundred years ago in the Kingdom of Munster.

Tuesday, October 11, 2016

The Naming of Solitary Art

Art's brother, Connla, is sat at the side
of his father on the summit of Uisnech,

Conn Cétchathach, Conn of the Hundred Battles.

Seeing an unfamiliar woman of otherworldly
bearing, beauty, mien, and dress, Connla asks:

'Whence have you come, O maiden unknown to us?'

"From the land of an ever living joy, eternal
faery feast, free from all guilt. A host of Aos Sí

with no inner strife, and harmonious in spirit,
I come from the good people of peace."

'Who are you talking to?' Conn of the Hundred
Battles asks his son; and with none but Connla

seeing the woman wholly spirit, She replies:

"He's talking with the Leanan Sídhe
ever young and beautiful, from a family

of Mag Mell people without old age or death.
I love Connla and am summoning him home

to the Plain of Delights; without sorrow or grief
since Bóadag the everlasting was crowned king.

Come with me, handsome sun-kissed
speckled-cheeked Connla; nut-skin pink-faced,

golden-haired, kingly-hued prince.
Come with me to where beauty and youth does

not perish until druidic judgement day."

All, without seeing her, hear the faery woman.

~

Conn tells his poet:

'O Corann of great druidic art and song
an otherworldly demand has been voiced that is

beyond my capacity to resist. Unprecedented,
a contest in otherworldly forms has now begun.

One that seeks to deceive and seize the mind
of my first born son, and carry off the child

from my kingly land by some Sith's witchcraft.'

Corann chanted a geisa that in everyone's ear
and in Connla's, silenced the woman’s voice,

and from his eyes she disappeared out of form.

As she left she threw to Connla an apple,
and thereafter the prince fell silent. Left

with only a longing to meet again the eternal
ever-living She his ear and eye had briefly

apprehended; dreaming alone of her, he nourishes
solely on the apple; and the very act of eating

it, keeps the otherworldly apple whole.

For a month without food or drink, and fed only
on Her magic fruit, his longing for this once

seen woman of the Sídhe deepens with every bite.

~

On the morning a month after; Connla is at his

father’s side in the plain of Arcommin,
when She appears, approaches, stops and & speaks:

"Grandly Connla again you sit surrounded
by the short-lived, hopelessly awaiting death.

The ever-living folk want you with us, earthly
mortal champion of the beings who behold you

daily in assemblies on your father's island.
You amidst family and friends. Me your beloved."

As Conn Cétchathach hears the woman’s voice
he tells a retinue of twelve druidic courtiers:

'Get the poet to me. The silence his spell set,
the geisa, has been today cast off from her.'

Whereupon She said:

"O Conn of the Hundred Battles, do not love
druidry. Presently the wise Queen’s fair noble

and righteous one with many wondrous followers
will reach Her judgements. Our law soon will

come to you. It will destroy all the base-taught
spells of bards without learning facing the dark

bewitching Devil softly whispering spoken song." 

Conn is perturbed that Connla will only speak
when the spirit woman from Mag Mell is present.

'Have the words of this Sidhe woman gone under
your mind, O Connla?' asks his son, who replies:

'Not easy is it for me here. I love our people
yet a madman's whisp of desire for this woman

has seized and now consumes me.'

She says:

"Come Connla encounter and fulfill your longing
away from here, towards the sea. Sail a crystal

boat and find the peace of Bóadag with me
on another isle, not the nearest one to reach.

Look the sun is setting, and though far, Mag
Mell, the land of eternal beauty joy and youth,

we shall by nightfall be where the mind of all
whom the island encompasses, it gladdens.

No race but beautiful women and maidens there.”

Thereupon Connla leaps from this earthly realm
and into a pure crystal coracle and ships his mind

and body off to an eternity of joy, watched
by mournful eyes as far as their vision could

follow the flight of Connla's imramm-voyage over
the sea, to where they are not seen thereafter.

Conn then said on seeing Art, 'Art is alone
today, because here he has no more a brother.'

'What you have said is an utterance of substance.'
Said Corann.'

“The name upon him forever is Art the Solitary.”

Thus it was how this name was struck and stuck
to him hereafter and forevermore.

~

Echtra Condla. The Adventures of Connla the Fair. Lebor na hUidre. Book of the Dun Cow. With thanks to Kim McCone's, and all the other translations, consulted when working up this poem.

Saturday, September 03, 2016

Frakoolna No Nona Tick Mick.

EU Competition Commissioner Margrethe Vestager said in a statement that member states of the EU cannot give tax benefits to selected companies. "This is illegal under EU state aid rules," she said:

"The commission’s investigation concluded that Ireland granted illegal tax benefits to Apple, which enabled it to pay substantially less tax than other businesses over many years."

Apple has been ordered to pay 16 billion euro back taxes to Ireland's Revenue, and both Apple and the Irish state are appealing the ruling. In 2003 Apple paid 1% tax in Europe, and by 2014 that had been reduced to 00.005%, due to the financial magical thinking and fairy wizardry of the Irish corporate tax system, where Apple's corporate headquarters are registered and from where they get away paying 00.005% tax and keep everything else to spend on themselves and their shareholders.

~


What if Revenue took the back-tax and the end times prophesied by the cultural energy vampire Michael Noonan did not happen .. what then?

What if Noonan is wrong? What if he is worse at prophecy than his predecessors were wrong about the cheapest bank bailout in history that the noble and tragic Brian Lenihan unwillingly signed off on when a handful of the most crooked white collar global rogues and fellow Irish citizens presented Brian Lenihan with a ransom note, and putting a metaphorical gun to his grey matter, spooked him, I think, and this triggered the act of pecuniary suicide that has chained in debt what handful of future generations seem left, I think, perhaps, before overpopulation, climate change, war and the consequences of every other wrong decision made in a decade and a half of continually wrong decisions, keep on keeping on the same way, route, road paved with only the magical thinking of the exotic and ingenious tax avoidance and non-tax models creating much of our specie's increasingly shrill consciousness as it feeds in a loop of exponential addiction to the blindingly obvious terrible outcomes we read as the signs confirming a general decline and rapid extinction of the human species over the coming two and three generations, should humanity carry on the same course of action and belief it has been exhibiting since the wrong WMD decision, delusion, fiction, set in train most of the current hot cultural, global geo-strategic, political, financial, societal messes the world is in because of decisions that resulted in outcomes that originate with the assured magical thinking of morons who insist on foisting their delusions on the world that do no good at all, at all, at all.

I do not believe our tiny part of this small speck of a planet, nor the entire human race, can sustain itself, and think we will be well on the way to extinction by the end of this century. It is the mindset, model of consciousness, that we must change first before we can reverse out the hole we dug ourselves and start doing the right things instead of continually creating the wrong ones with our collective and singular magical thinking.

What if instead of being cowed and terrified into believing we must hostage our children's future to a handful of billionaires' fairy stories our collective magical thinking has us brainwashed are not a lot of rubbish but the truth; we believed the world would not only not end, but be vastly improved by regulating these bozos into paying tax?

What if instead of listening to the people who created the messes in the first place with their no tax magical thinking we know is not working, we just politely insisted corporate tax scam maestros, book cookers, new tech industry mumbo-jumboists, and the current generation of new industry global taxcrooks such as Cook, Bezos, Zuckenburger, Starbucks et al, like every other normal business and person is required to by European legislation - to stop acting the maggot, play fair and pay the tax they have avoided paying these past two decades?

If they did, I think the end times will be further off, because the first right step has been taken. A change of attitude, a change of mind from magical thinking to logical humanity thinking. Should it happen now, this shift in consciousness; all will be grand in the medium term for our species, perhaps. Tim Cook and Co from cooked books Are US, may dress very casually as one of the world's most public tech gurus peddling the claptrap on his rip off brand one must recharge eight times a day because of intentional battery malware that makes obsolete Apple products within several years of buying them; but behind the act is a very cute hure not paying tax anywhere in the world except a piss-takingly minuscule amount here that not only globally humiliates us in the sixteen billion eyes of the non-nationals, and the 99.9995% of our species not resident in Ireland, but is also dangerous for the world as a whole, perhaps, one sometimes wonders.

This zero Irish tax model only exists because a handful of men in a minority government representing 00.0005% of people on earth, insist the 99.9995% accept and believe our voodoo and magical thinking, that works for a half a bus of people on earth, whilst the other eight billion are slowly working out we are not only expected to worship Tim Cook and Co as if they are gods, without whom our lives could not exist, but that any questioning of the premise of what they are doing is not encouraged at all, at all, at all.

No wonder, because the employees that make their disposable shit are slave workers, and they do not pay any tax. The double-speak of these greedy Gradgrinds and Scrooges are fooling fewer and fewer each day with their lines about doing what they do because they are an immensely caring part of the world; that we the rest of humanity call corporate conmen not paying tax.

The global corporate tax avoidance defenders have shown us their true colours now. The thoroughly fake liberal lefties heading the new tech revolution, that have never paid tax, with their sweat shops in China and slave wages, creating intentionally disposable crap quality products creating a world of misery and authoritarianism, their entire model founded on rubbish, waste, continual rapacious consumption, their un-taxed profit model - is the offshore modern equivalent of what the previous robber barons' Trust Funds were created to do and did do very successfully until the new telegraph and rail industries were properly regulated and forced to start playing by the newly created rules.

Cooks model is the entirely unsustainable model and mindset that Reality will wreck upon the rocks of an accelerated extinction of humanity unless a voice is heard that registers with the elite ones behind the earpiece and tech Messiah shtick, and hearing it they then change their ways and start paying tax like all normal businesses.

If they and we do not change our mindsets and consciousnesses, then we will become more delusionally emboldened into greater and more culturally poisonous behaviours and fake discourses of total ballox in a strain of sheer meaningless gobbledygook spouted by compliant and brainwashed nation-state victims of global corporate abuse being ventriloquised by the handful of billionaires corporately abusing and brainwashing them and in the process playing the principle role of transferring the sovereignty of billions of people into the hands of a few billionaires and willingly facilitating and creating the legal framework and architecture of a global corporate oligarchy.

Fot Nraculna's and FG's ventriloquist Tim Cook called the not unreasonable tax demand 'political crap'. Bringing to mind Victoria Nuland's 'fuck the EU' attitude when she was at the front of the coup as the principle coordinator of that EU American cooperation in the overt overthrowing of a UN recognised sovereign state's political administration.

Emboldened beyond belief already, the crooked Cook telling the political administration of hundreds of millions of Europeans, 'go fuck yourself'. He is not paying tax because he has creative accountants and a compliant gombeen state only too delighted to be a global victim of American brainwashing by utter drivel, and creating this increasingly retrograde mindset of robber barons disguised in a modern geeky cover language of pure stroke, spin, bluff and bluster, behaving as if the rules do not apply to his corporation because they do not, pleading special privilege and using a defense that if any person or small business here should when Revenue come demanding their annual slice, are immediately disabused of that exact same notion of not paying tax because you view paying tax as 'just political crap'; that Cook and Co have been enabled and officially encouraged to make-believe and experience, on steroids. It needs to be changed in the urgent best interests of our species, perhaps, I think. Hmm. Should Apple pay tax or not? Hmmm. No, no Apple should be allowed to pay no tax because I live in Ireland and do not care about the rest of the world, only what's in it for us here in the global centra of magical thinking doing it for yohls. Word. Any old twaddle.

Revenue's non-compliance on this matter is being presented in the least convincing tone by the souljahs of the Gael. Tim Cook and Michael Noonan alone should not decide and self-regulate Apple's global tax situation with nothing but the creativity and willingness of Irish accountants to cook up brilliantly crooked scams, loopholes and global tax avoidance schemes that in practice boil down to the new tech industries and global corporations paying nothing. Virtually zero tax.

With new industries unless their scams and loopholes are made illegal and the new industries currently in a wild west robber baron state regulated by some form of strict open fair global and local tax governance the tiny number of creators and beneficiaries of them - as we see today - get away with what everyone else has to pay for, and just keep literally everything for themselves and a tiny handful of elite billionaires who justify what is clearly to any rational fair-minded detached observer, a loada ballox, by claiming special privilege, that the scams should stay in place because paying tax is 'just political crap.'

The delusional corporate chief executive grade A for apple crooks dangerously subvert the will of the human 'us', the 99.9995 percent non Irish national, as they are doing in Ireland today, and what the corporate cowboys from America did in Russia before Putin was elected and stood up to the carpet baggers and stopped the worst of what from this distance we can also crystal clearly recognise as dangerously destabilising bent swizzes and practices that local regulation was brought to bear on in that wild west cultural and social situation there. Which spawned cultural cohesion and stability in Russia that has seen its wise world leader elected continuously to power with an increased mandate every time by an overwhelming majority of Russians since the alcoholic who was pissing away Russia's wealth and humiliating the office of Russian President, appointed VP as prime minister.

Whilst a FG government, and the four million of us making up 00.0005% of humanity here, are told it is all grand by our leaders; this long term act of prostration before and worship of a fictional non-existent corporation paying no tax anywhere in the world, this lovers match between a brainwashed thrall and Charlie Manson, may be viewed perhaps by the other (eight thousand thousand), eight billion non-Irish fowkz on the planet, in a wholly different light that from their perspectives will, one would speculate, be the belief that Ireland is a failed financial state and culturally delusional basketcase compliantly volunteering for global humiliation by its pro-active targeting, facilitating, enabling and doing the corrupt bidding of rogue tech and other corporations headed by the contemporary 21C's equivalent of their Edwardian predecessors the Astors, Carnegies, Harringtons, Kennedys, Morgans, Rockerfellers and Vanderbilts; before Joe Kennedy went from being a poacher to the gamekeeper and created a structure and model that broke up the Trust Funds and got them paying tax that was invested in infrastructure and created millions of jobs and is viewed in retrospect as completely the right choice to have made in the longer run. Yesir.

Wednesday, July 20, 2016

Live Poetry At The Other Room Manchester

This week's number nearly five-hundred Guardian Poem of the Week and Honorary FitzGerald Geraldine Monk is reading her poetry tonight at The Other Room, The Wonder Inn, 29 Shudehill, Manchester, M4 2AF, a twenty second walk from the city-centre tram-stop of the same name.

Monk is a North Lancashire poet with no phony airs, affected graces, put on pretensions, or performary hubris prevalent in numerous others less naturally gifted and with a less diligently sustained poetic attainment than this truly brilliant self-trained Ban Filí faery woman experientially versed in the apical compositional skill of the poet, imbhas forosnai - 'prophetic illumination' - in bardic practice one of the Three Things Required of a Poet.

The Wonder Inn is 'a creative wellness centre based in a beautiful old listed building built in 1810 in the centre of Manchester. Our focus is to raise the vibrations of our community and the planet through creativity and the celebration of art.'

It begins at seven pm, and is free admittance.

Reading on the same bill is someone I may have several times been in the same room as; and occasionally read of as being actively reading live shortly after one stepped away in 2008 from four years poetic pranks on Dublin's weekly live poetry and spoken word scene: 'a scholar, ideas person and a perfectionist', whose poems, Afric McGlinchey writes, in Cork's premier literary magazine, The Penny Dreadful; 'are exciting, daring, original and hard-earned. Moreover, they have something to say.'

We can hear what that is tonight from the mouth of the Irish-American Elkhart, Indiana poet Kimberly Campanello, who is ' like Billy Ramsell, attempting something new, something challenging and inspiring and radical, something that hasn’t been seen before in contemporary Irish poetry'.

According to Doireann Ní Ghríofa reviewing Consent, KC's debut Doire Press collection, in Ireland's premier literary magazine launching all the hot new stars, global best-seller The Stinging Fly.

Joining Campanello and Monk tonight are fellow experimental poetry and literary avant-garde culture professionals, Iain Morrison; and 'one of the most interesting and inspiring authors writing flashes today', a live performance spoken slam poet Blackwell's called 'the lit scene's most chic starlet', and Manchester Music helpfully informs the Reader that 'The detail in her observations can turn the most mundane setting to one you want to experience ... her style keeps listeners eagerly wanting more': Sarah-Clare Conlon.

May all our love be large and all our sorrow small.

Best wishes.

Kevin Desmond Swords

Wednesday, July 06, 2016

On Being Homeless

Kerrie O'Brien is a young Dublin writer with a debut poetry collection launched on 6th October by its publisher Salmon, at Books Upstairs in Dublin.





She is a great lover of literature, and works in one of Dublin most iconic independent bookshops. She has been serving her writing apprenticeship of live and written practice seriously for many years.

She was recently led to creating a philanthropic project after feeling hopeless at the plight of the homeless problem in Dublin. To this end she is putting together a collection of poetry the profts of which will go to a homeless project. It is all voluntarily done, and the collection will be sold in Dublin bookshops.

The writing below is a reply to her Facebook update read earlier today.

She wrote: 'Going to have a piece about homelessness in Dublin on The Irish Times Women's Podcast.'

~
Kevin
~

I emigrated to the Iveagh Trust homeless hostel after graduation from my home town uni, Edge Hill, Ormskirk bygone times, and it was perfect.

Height of the boom, first time living here, every day was an adventure and consecutively most days were better than the previous one. It really was perfect in that perfectly irish way of everything turning out grand. 


In england i had eff all all my life, and whatever i did turned to a rubbish mess. 

By 2001 when all my pals from home had good lives and careers, i was a 34 year old washed up nomark and full-time failure. I began by playing Malvolio at 14, and twenty years later was a fully confused British monkey. My life was literally a joke. Most homeless people end up feeling like complete failures when we have nowhere to live.

I am grand now, very secure. After leaving the Iveagh hostel and living in Kilmainham for years, with my name on a council list, I got an interview/audition, for a flat in the Iveagh Trust. And as soon as I said i was writing all day, the two people interviewing me looked at each other and I sensed then that may have been the thing that got me in.

Six years later, the homeless days before i began writing - and in doing so saved my life from one of penury and cerebral mess, existing trapped and silent, no voice, unexpressed; as one of just millions and millions of normal English working-class people in a community with no literary voice - are long behind me.

I had patches of homelessness bakowmin Blighty; that began in 1996 just before my twenty-ninth b'day. Beignton Spike, on the edge of ultra-depressing underbelly-class Sheffield. 


It was the lowest point of my life thus far, and the building had been transferred into local authority ownership and re-tooled from a half-way house run by the prison system, into three long open-dormitorys over two floors, each with thirty beds in them; and a ground floor vip area of coffin-sized cubicles and the privacy of one's own curtain.

Being werking-klaws i chose not the five but three star dorms with younger homeless cut-throats and 'the lads.' Great British lads, down on our luck. Druggies, alkies, dreamers, lost souls, petty habitual crooks, rehab exiters with a bunch of drink and drug money, and everyone fucking everyone else over. As an intelligent kind man from a normal family of immigrants (Irish) i learned some tricks in that kip.

Pretty grim to be fair. But the first several weeks i was there was one of those life-changing ones in which tho it was only six weeks; later I was a totally different person. For the better. It taught me that we are all the same. That it was my boozy chaotic life with the booze at the centre of it that had led to me being there. 


I recognised at that point we are all the same as human beings. From the heroin addict who has lost everything through their habit, to Enda Kenny, we are all human beings.

After six weeks of seeing and experiencing some horrible shit all around me in the hostel dorms, rather than sink, i floated, i rose, the experience put me at the lowest point of my life and after having enough i reached bottom and rose, stronger, wiser, more compassionate. And thought eff this, if i was gonna be homeless there had to be better places not as pitifully depressing than 'this', life in an ultra-rough-arse ultra-Yorkshire sh'thole on the edja Sheff.

Once i got used to the new reality, by July i was in Newquay, Cornwall, having the best summer I'd had since 1986 when I was hustling in Benidorm for four months with three pals, that ended up doing well and going home with loads of goodies in a new car, whilst I ended up bunking the train back to Liverpool from Alicante with fifty quid in my pocket. The cnuts!

Woman, was i so happy that my twenties ended on a re-affirmation of life. As gradually over that decade my dream of being an aktawray bore and vision of who I was, took a sustained ten year long battering that inevitably, slowly, sapped me of all but one spark of self-belief, and i ended them with non-existent self-esteem and no clue as to one's direction, realty, or true (Irish) identity.

All my childhood pals I am still friends with them now. Gehrayt werk dahling, keep up the good stuff. May we all live forever and never grow up, fall out or abandon to this world our love for one another, hide it behind the polite meaningless words we all speak without when within we are all aktawray draymurs mooing and tu-wit tu-wooing the angelic energies enveloping our lucky race of lepri- and unicorns with real names and faces.


Desmond Swords

Sunday, July 03, 2016

Next All Ireland Poetry Slam Director.


Do you love hard work? Are you successful, confident, happy, outgoing, fresh, bright, bold, and crazee enough to take on tremendously new and exciting challenges as one of Ireland's leading culture professionals?

Do you believe in and yearn to spread the Word and through its learning of the toora loora speaking song bring individuals and communities together by a shared love of home, poetry, and language?
Are you up for one of the most exciting volunteering roles of your career, and finding it in the name of a secular Irish wisdom tradition that it is the A.I. Slam Director's role to nod their head at sagely in agreement and know about, discover, perform, proselytize responsibly and advocate consistently at all times for all on the island?

You must value fostering peaceful two-way communication between individuals and cultures and all people on this one geopolitically insignificant and culturally globally seismic North Atlantic speck, and speak the songs and news of our tiny Anglo-Irish and European home island of Ireland rock; using knowledge of whack fol the toora loora history and the living bardic cultural weave of poetry Her loving arms embrace with the lives of all our loved ones.

Are you ready for a post century shared and culturally rising island humanity island-wide, using our one collectively shared and understood spoken and silent languages of kindness and humanity in speach and voice, English or Gaelic; that the next new Slam Director of this poetry role must weave share and encourage the young and old to sing as much as s/he wants in the slam toora loora lay.
And through the mediums of doggerel prose and verse - you will?

Are you a Pisces? (We regret to inform you those born Feb 18 to March 20 cannot be considered for this role. Sorry guys, thems the rules.)

Are you Aries?

Yes! All Ireland Poetry Slam is proactively reaching out to the Aries community because we know you suffer horrific astrological abuse from the moment you are conceived, and if you are an Aries, you are automatically qualified for a bye into the quarter-final Paintball-Interview round .

Are you an animal abuser? Do you wear leather, eat innocent animals because you are selfishly consumed with your own Self? We want to hear from meat eaters, to hack your computers and send you to the hottest part of Hades you no good meat-eating scuzzbuckets.

Are you a member of the harder-working community?

Are you amazing, brilliant, cool, desperate, do you love uneducated loud sweary and hard working English people from the bottom of the socio-economic cultural sludge basement?

Are you reliable, loyal, gossipy, inquisitive, good on your feet, a spontaneous problem solver?

Do you watch Judge Judy, Graham Norton, Jeremy Paxman?

Do you hate Jeremy Clarkson with a passion but secretly would like to have a drink with and join in directing loud derogatory abuse at a drunken dodgy pickfugga and the former slam director's homeland-breaker and one-person European sociao-cultural earthquake machine, David Hard-Work Camawron, a textually transmitted infection from the Daily Hate Mail and Twitter Slug, Sarah Vine, her cuddly kind and confused mentally ill co-dependent co-parent and co-conspiring sock-cooking co-partner in their closests of denial, in need of an immediate section into the secure medical care of Ashworth Hospital, their silly abandoned baby suffering hourly psychotic 'Vision' episodes, that left unsectioned are of immediate and present danger to the vital interests of England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales, Europe, and global one person 'we'; Michael-Fawk Awf Gove FC, You Aint Got No Thing Called 'We'- with Britain's least favourite E-ll-Tonian English fag, Peroppa Baron Gorj; in this year's Treasonous Cretin round of Britains Next Top Tyrant?

Do you have any money to give a mentally ill alcoholic on medication?
If you are a mentally ill alcoholic on medication who has just had a recent windfall, or are willing to go all the way and do what it takes to pony up the loola for your next stage on the journey to recovery, if you wanna be the change in the world you wanna see, and have 1200 euro to invest, give it to one of our marvelously reliable investment professionals.

Do you dream of being invited into the hardest-working community of elite Global Irish, Scottish, Welsh, English and European performance and poetry professionals?

If you want to invest your hardest'ever-working self in this opportunity to win a place on Ireland's Next All Ireland Slam Director, and win a spot on our short or long-lists; please do not hesitate to request details of our entry level investment charge and application pack detailing short and long euro/sterling amounts from you to us that will set you straight on the sole investment in your career guaranteed to put you on the trail to a fabulous new chapter volunteering as an All Ireland Slam Director.

Excellent. Marvelous. You are a joy to fool and hopefully relive of a little toora loola for an under-performing over-achieving community of Lidl s/he specialists in conceptual live AIPS performance of the Word slam spoken tongued-united victorious working-class's Ethnonym xtra yohl zdu .
All applications to:

Ovid Yeats, Broken blue tent, wAr Monument, Anglo-Irish Arsehole area, broken class zone, next to a large dog-shite, Phoenix Park, Dublin.


Friday, July 01, 2016

Questioning the wise ... following ancient lore

/ Questioning the wise ... following ancient lore / Fochmarc fri gáethaib ... sechem senchusa /

Thom:
I enjoy your written phonetic speech, illustrating accents. You're talented, mate.

U2 m8, evrywon is talented at something.

If these four can fool the world - Dublin folk who are not U2 fans complain - anyone can. i like to think that if you spend enough time looking, you will discover that everyone is talented at something.

Tho the earliest 7C literary poet-bard Amergin Glúingel's Cauldron of Poesy text in the Book of Ballymote, claims that for poetry it's 'every other person' that is talented. Or rather, born with the gift of poetry.

The full quote:
Where is the root of poetry in a person; in the body or in the soul? They say it is in the soul, for the body does nothing without the soul. Others say it is in the body where the arts are learned, passed through the bodies of our ancestors. It is said this is the seat of what remains over the root of poetry; and the good knowledge in every person's ancestry comes not into everyone, but comes into every other person.
A typical professional, excluding half of us so the Reader thinks there's something outside our own human agency, beyond the fullness of our human intelligence, and that some sort of divine providence and otherworldly luck is involved. That certain professions are not wholly dependent on working hard, but that there's a certain 'it' and natural ability one either has or does not.

The usual shibboleth is that one is either born with the ability, or not. I don't know and prefer to keep out of pointless arguments.

But Ireland's fifty percent sacred-cow and general rule of thumb, tho, is still a lot higher than other non-Irish contemporary cultures in which their professional modern poets, if you believed what these various culture's poets claim, it's anywhere between only one every few years that appears with this innate ability for speaking in poetic language; right up to Kenneth Goldsmith's Uncreative Writing Poetic, in which he claims everyone is a poet and every single utterance of sound and iteration of text to ever have been written, and everything to have come out of everyone and everything, everywhere, all across planet earth, animal, mineral and vegetable, all this, everything in the world - is poetry.

That one tends to err on the side of caution and agree with. Because Kenny G is America's, if not the entire Anglophone world's - premier, most publicly visible practitioner of very intellectually challenging, complex Conceptual language poetry, that does not offer up its meaning easily, as one's own 'version' of an ancient Wisdom saying attributed to Cú Chulainn explains :

Great the calamity
in the abundance of ways and paths
across the bed of the noble streams
one in a hundred will get you across

What I love about conceptual poetry is it forces those in an audience most virulently resistant to what is easy to mistake for lazy, silly, experimental poetries that don't mean anything; to either engage and 'get' Conceptual poetry as being 'it' and something completely different and 'the other' from what you usually find enjoyable; or resist and miss out on what conceptual poetry lovers think is the best poetry in the world.

For example, being in the audience of an average upscale professional Lyric mainstream poetry reading-event, for most Concept Poetry lovers, it will be not gorj but a yawning drag, listening to unkule skwares. And the conceptualist may perceive what we love and praise, completely opposite to how we do, and experience it with no enjoyment whatsoever.

But this is getting away from what's at hand. The concept of Concept Poetry; all you need is some belief, all you need is some belief, that is all you need.

But most do refuse to engage with it and just dismiss what those that do get it, don't dismiss and do not reject. The Concept, without which conceptual poetry does not exist. Most just find it too intellectually challenging and think, 'fek it right off, 'conceptual poetry' me hole.'

Whereas if we just put a little work in, the hard work of the harder-working people of this country; then we discover ourselves getting it and going, 'woh, no way, gotta look at that, fuck me, look at it, hear it, bloody hell this is amazing 'concept' poetry, of course, ha ha psml. 'Concept poetry'!

~
this the age
being bent
out of shape
~

Concept, poetry, all we need is faith, belief, and it will live, flower, and flourish; and best of all, can be killed off without killing any of the Belief that is a spiritual one entirely within the mind of an experimental s/he poet, in the commons on the fourteenth floor of the Chicago Tribune building, for example, where those who have decided before they arrived is all pointless and tedious claptrap, are listening to Kenny G read his 'found' collection New York Times (Day).

A retyping word for word of a full days copy of the New York Times newspaper, and seven hour live reading, again, with our mind already decided, 's/he can fuk off', because we may be emotionally ill-tuned, and tho we tried very hard to 'get it', today at least, there's been a tolerance-for-conceptual-poetry-breakdown, and, without belief, we don't buy into it.

And we start by making ourselves feel discomfort, not knowing that this is actually a choice we ourselves alone are making, and it's a decision that has nothing to do with the conceptual poetry event itself per se. And unable to help ourselves, we find we are having an episode of fairly strong and conceptually toxic ill-will in the mind.

Feeling dejected, low, and unable to resist this uncontrollable, unbidden, subconscious resistance and rupture into a negativity of spirit with its own charge and direction.

Forcing us to engage in a cerebral process of focusing these unbidden poisonous energies and funneling inward into ourselves bad thoughts, some very extreme, that are far too graphic to repeat here. And tho we know, for example, we kno, oh yes we do, that Kenny G is a lovely, lovely guy; we also are unable to resist, thinking and knowing that we,  yes, we too are a great and lovely guy.

But a great guy who is also with a great wife that we think is unbeatable, perfect, naturally, and our fabulous kids that some day too are also gonna die. And knowing thru all these facts and others, thru the totality of our attainment, possession and learning; even tho we know, we know we should be at our study writing shit to put in a book; we can't help ourself from being mentally very horrible, in our own mind, and actually very much enjoying our inane and infantile cultural thought-crimes.

Judging Kenny G, not on the quality of his concept poetry, but for 'other' unfair reasons of being just very shallow individuals, linked to, for example, a lack of professional esteem we have about ourself and what we are doing in our professional lives.

And because of it we may well choose to dismiss the conceptual poetry-event. Perhaps because we are only there because we kno it's important in some way we are seen to show support to Kenny G, because tho we don't let it get in the way, conceptual poetry events, these things, man they can be a drag for us in the overcrowded urban meat-space.

Because there may have been, for example, incidents, lets call them, maybe more than one, maybe two, or more, and we don't know if we will keep our shit together tonite.

Yeah, lets call it 'tonite', and our 'self-esteem levels' are all over the place. One small chunk of twenty seconds we are coola bewla, the next kewla boola.

Entire hour long sections are taken up with us not even realizing we are obsessing, in a very negative and unpleasant anti-intellectual and therefore anti-conceptual-poetry way; over what Ken Goldsmith is wearing. His clothes. His fek'n duds laa.

And we just can't be doing with it, and find ourselves under the sway of some way out ultra-crazee thoughts that are very unfair opinions, ways, processes deployed and used by us to judge a fellow professional poet on the contemporary Ampo commons.

But then just as we think we're gonna stop self-hating Kenny G's reading of the New York Times, we hear ourself, involuntarily heckling him, loudly, very loudly, and some perplexing and weird and distressing scene goes down and it all ends very badly.

Being very politely asked to leave, 'if that's ok with YOU!!', we are told. And after we calm down, we catch in the corner of our eye the person who ultra-politely requested in a very slow and deliberate ultra-passive aggressive tone of voice that we exit the conceptual poetry-event, exit themself.

Wow! Man, and that really throws us because we recognise, or more accurately, sense, very presciently, some dark deep inner 'self-esteem issues' of their own that they must've been battling when listening to Kenny G read for the five hours it was on when they left.

Taking with them some very negative vibes and self-actualization issues they must have had themselves been struggling with when we were also doing the exact same thing. Going thru an identical process. And with everyone knowing it was then mentally under a lot of pressure as a contemporary professional poet. More so than us. The way they left.

There's a very important idea in there that I can only sense and that has not yet eructed into primary extemporaneous aural 'sound' of conceptual poetry.

And the people in the room, however many come to the shows, we know that if there is an 'incident'  of a first person singular pronoun 'we', the royal we of 'I', by appointments agreed upon beyond the fullness of our intelligence to fully understand, only intuit, sense, the sixth, spiritual component of 'conceptual' poetry agency, autonomy, independence, and the inner spiritual freedom to be who we wanna be, and to go where we wanna go.

Within.

Our minds not captured, frozen, hijacked, kidnapped, unfree and bound by the chains of modern mental-slavery to dark forces and evil minds that prey and feast upon our own. And stripped of a voice, unable to speak clearly in print, and yet still not be patrolled and told what do do within as a single sovereign human entity by the Thought Police, we are hijacked and taken over by Her hands and eye, ear and mind of Her the Love & Feet Police that measure what we are doing, not by meaning but by the regularity of beats occurring in every section and sound of whatever we are doing in the gender-neutral s/he mind,

Where the 'real' action of 'fiction' happens baby gorjaz

Communicated not by 'concepts' per se, ergo, having already used per se very pretentiously earlier, reversing the thought and taking risks in language; once we have Her appearing in some form unique to us, ta previously hidden skeletal simplicity comes and Her metrical inner cosmos the senior psychological investigators from the Thought Police will, I suspect, or rather, my paranoia is making me think, not understand and map as our 'oddness' that is really our poetry and what makes us tick unique, and bond with one another.

Conceptual poetry dances within to Her music from beyond.

Sides will be taken, our own personal shit becomes the one thing that happened at an event, or series of meat-space events of poetic and real reality, that people want to talk about. Without us taking part.

And so not being at the hard-copy five-sense meat-space space-time here and now reality-reality, we lose the paranoia. For the next twenty minutes we don't know what happened, and come to finding ourself awake and the reading still happening and knowing that it wasn't all a dream.

That G'daw, Goldie Kent neh, s/he is still there reading at the by now amazingly Conceptual poetry-event, and s/he is not even putting us to sleep anymore.

We have entered the zone, and we overhear someone in a row behind say the word 'unstable' and then 'unprofessional', and several second later Goldsmith reads those very two words. And it completely freaks us out and man we go find ourself in the community of American poetry with tenure for example, and we find it happening again, there, in a university meeting and reading room, theatrical space, and us speaking involuntary, we say something to the effect, how pretentious it all is.

But then that's it, we, with this very large body, hear the shutters come down and wake up in a shed, not knowing how we got there.

And the voice of Noo noo noo, tho we get over it, and haven't been to one since then, which is a shame. Because we could really get to love conceptual poetry if we gave it a chance. I mean, i do not actually know.

Anyway we already decided before we went, i repeat, out of professional duty as a modernist poet on the Ampo commons, who isn't prepared to 'buy into' what ours/their resistant mind-labels 'plagiarizing the New York Times''. And in the eruptions of 'fuks' and 'up yours' 'don't think so nobhed' and the madness never-ending failure that becomes us.

So usually there we are and all unexpected, not knowing, camera-lights action, out of the blue. Oh, fuck off, here we go again, we think, as some fissure, fission and involuntary sensed awareness, the sixth and highest form of evidence-detection device within, that is more akin to magic in its practical application, flips the switch within and this time taking the form of awareness, intelligence and rhetorical conceptual poetry positions split right down the middle.

A taking of sides.

And tho it is divisive, in a positive way, we know a lot of friends, and other people's friends, and their friends, one or two who have said they read the NY T book/plagiarism, and so we have an insight into 'the other'.

But this is not enough and we cannot control it, it is just one of those things. And we are so just very resistant to the recondite nuanced and incredibly intellectually confrontational poems, poetics and poetries of the Conceptual N -E -W- -L- -A -N -G -U -A - G -E- -P- -O -E -T -R -I -E -S' most ultra-contemporary post-post Modern movements, scenes and academic incubation centers where NuLangPoe's cleverest hiply practice, publish and create; that this is, I think, proof that we need to be where the newest and some of the most thrilling and real world conceptual poetry is happening on the commons and fora.

And why there is such an uptick in the reception of conceptual poetry on the Ampo commons these past twenty five years and more.

Every year conceptual poetry is going more mainstream. Goldie has brought to it to a reality that is not reality but also is reality if we say it believingly ennough. If we don't stop thinking and just keep making connections from seemingly wholly unrelated phenomena.


 'A Bar and the Exit'.


As one of England's most decorated senior Conceptual poets and a very unique experimental poetry publisher, Rupert Loydel, answered the question:

What do you look for in a poetry reading?

...

So yes, anyway, returning to the point. Ireland's claim that fifty-percent claim of everyone has a natural gift with language, is right in the middle of two extremes.

And maybe it is because this is the path I chose, and so am less objective than others, who would unquestioningly dismiss this fifty percent claim as rubbish, and prefer to stick with their own cultures' statistical probabilities; that I have over the years decided to adopt and opine this as my fixed position, that most accurately answers the question: 'Ava gorrenny talent please mister?'

'50/50' is, I believe - -G -E -N -I -U -S.

Because it is the perfect mid-point percent answer to instill hope and encouragement, without the odds making it a hopeless cause.

And 50/50 does not over-encourage, end up at the Kenny G class of too-much inclusion where anything and everything, at all times can (and simultaneously can not?) be the best poem in the world, if the Ollam poetry professors of our ultra-modern professional Ampo equivalents having appraised, analyzed, asked tough questions, brought everything to the table, viewed everything thru macro and micro lenses and perspectives, contemplated, thought about, and after saying yes, yes everything and anything at all is a poem, decide it is and grade it so.

And fifty percent won't exclude all the many thousands that do not even dream of poetry because there are so few about, in a culture that tells you only one in a thousand are 'real' poets blessed, born, in most cultures, to whatever greatness is left behind by them.

The Great Contemporary Poets of 2016.

What they, the conceptual centenary Rising generation leave behind. And it's no wonder why that's the case in a 1000/1 contemporary Anglophone Ampo poetry culture. Few give ourselves, or anyone else, a living chance, because already in those cultures we/you have no chance.

And if we have to learn from a very few and ergo incredibly important ultra-modern professional poet-priests; telling us that it is not impossible we may be a poet, but the chances are it is very likely we are not and so, very sorry, it's not going to happen, and so: Thems the rules, newbs.

As you kno, this is very dispiriting for the disciples of such important high modernist druidic mage and bards looking at the odds and option of sacrificing everything and ending up being informed by the Guru after a long and expensive series of mystical consultations and motherworldly learning experiences that we are not after all, a poet.

No money back, just a whistful, 'Goodbye Janet', and life-long radio silence from Her and/or His Majesty heretoforth-everafter.

The main poetry expert/s of the most rarefied cultural Anglophone societies and poetic cultures everywhere across the earth where our shared Anglophone home community or communites' collective one and a half billion gragile sensitive peoples live breath and all scream for ice cream.

Seven-hundred and forty million born-poets in this world according to those who knew.

With 50/50 there's none of that 'sorry there can be only one and it is moi' routine that takes root in most places everywhere I have noted, but here in Dublin.

Where not only every other person is a poet, but all their friends and family too. And it really is sickening for an outsider, in a good way, because one's potential and ability can only find some outlet here, and not just in the one Guru's classes.

There are so many in Dublin alone, where very other person can do something artistic, because half of everyone of us, we are being told and so believe, are born with an innate gift for poetry.

Not everyone, but every other one, one in two, are just as able and possess the innate potential to fly to the top perch and platform for the ollamhic flight of a grade seven captain of the conceptual poetry professional - when we stick at it.

Experimentally playing in Language, that, if we have it, find it, do the silly experimental voice exercises, and keep at it, just practise and do not give up when we fail, expect to fail, learn to turn our failures - drop by tortuous drop - into a love poetry process of repeatedly failing and being judged no good by others who think they are more switched on to the kewla boroola, then we are just getting on and doing it.

And not taking any notice of who is claiming what about who is a real poet and what is the real poem. And after keeping on keeping one, typing spontaneously whatever we are thinking, if there's poetry within is, if we keep at it, it'll be drawn out.

And someone with the good fortune to be a student in Ireland, can be taught, trained, and self-taught on our own unique contemporary versions and equivalents of the bardic curriculum of yore that taught a thousand years and forty generations of poets.

All of whom are now unread, nor understood, in the original Irish, by anyone, except a handful.

Poetry. Dán. Meaning 'poetry', 'poem', 'art', and, interestingly, 'fate'. From Tuatha Dé Danann, 'people of the goddess Art.'

Have a go. Write off the top of your head, try anything to get the words flowing, anything at all to make the sounds and words come. And if a poem pops out, keep going back till another one does. Start, keep going, fail, give up, be miserable, decide enough is enough, then start again. That's Heaney's theory. A never ending journey of departure and return.

Beckett said try, fail, give up, try again, fail better. Then start again, and just keep going until your writing fails so well and in such a singular and individual way that the constant 'failure' becomes the very one sound of a successful individual in their own unique voice. You just gotta find a way in, to get started, and then keep going.

And if we keep on keeping on, and poetry pops out, and if we enjoy doing it - and our day to day existences become hipper and life gets happier as a result over the long term of just effin doing it - we must be not only talented, but successful.

Because being successful means being happy doing the 'it' of conceptual poetry. And that happiness turning over the years to a consistent and continual murmuring presence that gets able to better express subtly and nuance of reality the longer we are drawing from it poetry and progressing in the mind on our own unique path to what stage of mental-freedom, love, happiness, and state of inner s/he being that exists solely within our own unique minds - one mind's Voice vision and personal will will make and bring to us the Victory no money can buy, only our heart and soul create.

And if not, and if we are fooling nobody but ourselves that we are 'talented', it doesn't matter. As long as we love it and it keeps us joyous, there is no 'good' 'bad' fixed 'right' or wrong way of being talented and writing well, when through that process happiness comes; but numerous ones. As many as there are people.

Talent is when one can type all day. Genius, Gregory Corso claimed, when speaking of Jack Kerouac, when the writer practices a lot. And after serious devotion and experience, writing skilfully on a singular path, in a voice recognizably one's own and no others', people think, as we hear it first, fuk me, look at that, genius!

Whilst the highest and most challenging state of expanded poetic consciousness to reach, Corso says, is what comes when the author is writing in a state of divine inspiration. What in ancient Irish poetry-terms is a well known and studied component of the twelve to fourteen year course, called 'imbhas forosnai'.

It may be only two ancient Irish words, but there are 1200 years of literary records attesting this common term that signifies and describes the apical state of poetic composition.

Year seven of the 12-14 year curriculum, the poet-training manuals all say, is when this state first starred coming into play influencing the grade six anruth -great-stream- student-poet's personal development over the final five year push to Ollamh and exiting after fourten years as a fully qualified poetry prof.

This final five to seven years push of one's writing process evolves into a constant search to hear Her sounds from beyond us.

And however we do it, create a workable working successful text producing process, realm, mental-state, and find the 'here' s/he of clear-eyed 50/50 balance, and with Cuchulainn and the gods of poetry that have our back, navigate to thru the very many 'abundance of ways and paths / across the bed of the noble streams / one in a hundred will get you across.'

That's the theory anyway.

Find this state of Her true love and you will keep on the happy half of the Fili 'poet's tongue, that Sanas Cormaic glosses, 'Fi' 'toxic in satire', and 'Li' 'splendor in praise'.

Keeping out of trouble. No gurus but the texts themselves.