Finoula, Caoimhe and Nyree

Let me twist you the tale of Finouola, an amatuer rhyme-smith and TV hack who attempted to pull a fast one by having a gas time at the expense of Caoimhe Masterson outside an art gallery, after getting the hump when her right to be the sole bore drone and over-sensitive moaner who got upset if the tounges of others weren't permanantly ensconced in licking her praises, was questioned by the mere fact of Caoimhe's existence.

Caoimhe had heard Finoula's ouvre several times over and indulged Finoula's predilection for pontificating to all within earshot about what's what according to a philosophy of reasonable sounding bollocks and plausibly carted out bullshit, but had kept her counsel on the socially disruptive manner Finoula displayed when putting people to sleep with her outpourings of unrequited love and doomed relationships, because she detected that behind Finoula's mask of bonhomie and good cheer was a soul suffering from a desperate case of human inadequecy, due to the tragically unfemminie condition of alopecia clearly balding her pate.

To compensate for this Finoula invented herself as a Neo-Romantic dreamer; a twenty-first century Christina Rossetti, who concealed the less savoury tenets of her rampantly misogynist amour-dogma by constantly kissing hands of the opposite sex and acting to the hilt the role of a genteel gentlewoman who places personal integrity and honour in personal relationships at the nexus of all things.

This however was a cunning mask, constructed after a lack of romantic action during those all important and formative teenage years had left her with a highly developed sensitivity to failure in the realm of love, which manifested itself in the cod-Romanatic manner only a full strength dreamer could sustain over a prolonged period.

~

After a poetry gathering in the said art gallery, Finoula invited the meagre assembley back to her gaffe around the corner, with the sole aim of plying an Armenian Irish teacher with wine; the modus-operandi of her unsophisticated seduction technique. Nyree had been imbibing the cultural vibe of Dublin to a full capacity during the course of his 6 week long sojourn to the land of myth and poesy, obstensibly with the intention of assembling ideas for lesson plans, but behind his academic facade beat a heart in search of writerly excitement in the place with a hot claim to being a significant global home of the imagination.

Finoula, believing that Caoimhe's presence at her scruffy bachelorette pad posed a threat to her creating a drink clouded tete-a-tete ambience in which she hoped to get intimate with Nyree, had suddenly and casually mentioned that Caoimhe was not on the guest list, by attempting to conjure a bogus set of, what would no doubt be delivered as, acceptably persuasive reasons for inviting her to stay away. Finoula's strategy was based on informing Caoimhe of some petty slight Caoimhe was unaware of enacting against Finoula.

But Finoula, whilst acknowledging the seemingly trivial nature of what she had now termed "the insult", would attempt to dress it up as proof of Caoimha's inherently gross and uncivilised nature.

For this contrivance to be executed successfully, Caoimhe would have been the sap of any exchange, blithely nodding and taking on board Finoula's commensenscally sounding comments, no doubt with a parting shot by Finoula about

"Have a think about it Caoimhe. You can't insult people like that. You are quite welcome to come around in a day or two, but I feel I have to stand my ground on this point."

Caoimhe would then wander off disconsolately homeward, pondering and searching her mind for the defects Finoula outlined. No doubt inwardly promising to try her utmost not to be the insensitve oaf of Finoula's depiction as Finoula staggered back to operational HQ, the surface epitome of artistic decorum. But beneath the placid facade, her mind peddaling furiously like a bitch in the fullness of heat, plotting to steer Nyree onto the outside sofa on her extension roof, where she could begin the pawing assualt on Nyree's matrimonial integrity in earnest.

However, sensing the utter phoniness of the moment, Caoimhe felt a surge of anger and injustice and was unable to stop herself from forcefully telling the several stragglers from the poetry gathering, when asked by Nyree

"Why has Finoula barred you?"

exactly what her take on events was, which involved informing Nyree in a short sharp burst the truth behind the subterfuge.

"Because she wants to get you back on her couch and give you what for before you go home in two days time."

Caoimhe then flipped her index finger at Finoula, with the parting shot,

"Go fuck yourself you prick."

Caoimhe stepped away, diginity intact. Another tale in the personal myth kitty she could recite over the coming weeks. Finoula's limp attempt at hot airing up some lame comment, broken before it began, the slow realisation only a true insult brings dawning on Finoula's shocked face as the eight second whisp flung by Caoimhe took effect.

~

The life of a poet is a funny thing. As Yeats said, the more sincere the life the more sincere the poet, and Caoimhe tries to uphold this as a central philosophy. But one aspect of the writers life those at the hack end of the business fail to fully grasp, is that there are two components to poetry; talk and text. It never surprised Caoimhe how seldom the supermarket minded dot to dot poets, the non-oolamhs who struggle to understand the true calling of the craft and vision the fountain well from which it springs, seize this salient point.

Whaddya reckon?