Tuesday, July 25, 2006

It's another hot one today. Probably going to be a record summer here, as it is very unusual to get it so sunny for such a prolonged spell.


Another litany of disaster has occured which gives me the perfect opportunity not to post. My computer crashed a few weeks back and I eventually bumped into the guy who bult it and sold it me and saw him for the conman he is. Then I sat on my Mp3 and bust the LCD screen, and it will be three weeks before I get it back. Then when I went to upload my first podcast from the art gallery readings, I discovered I would have to shell out some dough to continue.

And the irony being that the week before last was the busiest and best yet. A singer songwriter breaking up the spoken word, lots of new voices and there till 1am; smoking indoors and having our fill of ale from the offy, which is 4 times cheaper than the pub. Plus all the arty vibe of painters and their politics.


I read the rest of Heaney's ouvre over the weekend, and got a much clearer handle on him. I only knew up till 1980'ish and after reading Station Island, his trajectory as a poet becomes very clear, especially when read in conjuction with his prose. His essay on fellow contemporary Northern Irish poets Place and Displacement was written in the same year as Station Island, which is the transition of his voice into the higher stream of poetical thought, where he manages to free his mind from the cultural bind of his own part of the world, by invoking an alternative realm equal to but apart from the actual: a world he can sidestep into and strike, as he says, his "own note".

This is effectively him "at the top of his bent"; the langugae of an oolamh coming through and plain for all to see. I learnt quite a lot from this read and only wish I had my computer on which to work, instead of this public space whose novelty has long worn off. Now it is only a place in which to avoid the stares of giggling tourists chasing chimeras of real Irishness one can so easily conjure, stun and pull their minds to mine with. Like Dunleany's Ginger Man seeing life devoid of pretence and unable to escape the cold reality of its transient warmth, via linguistic magic understood in all its naked form. Stripped from myth and uncertainty so many believe its essence is imbued with and clouded by.

Maybe I am just giving myself a summer off after five years hard graft. Starting in the dunce stream without a thought in my head to call my own, and now managing to convey a spiritual realism via the imprint of emotions which are moving away from poems of personal concern and towards the cynosure of an unexpected and previously unthinkable force. The originating "fountain" of spirit Heaney's Station Island finishes with. The outside-of-self silent raging light of creation swimming fate strokes upon the life-lone canvas of time we move through.


If I had my books to hand and time to ponder I could explore this more fully with a greater insight and eloquence than at present, but I can feel a change upon me. A taking stock and gathering. Once my computer is fixed I will gather together the entirity of my 100 plus poems on one document and start on the next phase. Wind up the curtain on the getting published stage and send out a manuscript to the names I know cannnot critically combat me to unbelieve my gift.

If any publisher out there wishes to harness their reputation to mine, please contact me with an offer.


Actually, I detected a cooler breeze when crossing the Liffey after lunch in Focus Ireland, the homeless charity restaurant, where a dinner costs but 1.50 euro. Today I had a chicken salad with bread and butter pudding and custard for desert. If I went a few doors down it would have cost 20 euros for inferior quality fare, such is the topsy turvy way of gaelic culture. The alternative was roast chicken, spuds, carrots or fajita vegetable wraps with cajun sauce, all fresh ingredients and delicious, but only available to the very addicted, poor or enlightened.

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