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Dec 2024 · 80
HEART GALLERY
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
HEART GALLERY

you step forth
from your bath
as if

you were
a Bonnard
come alive

spread yourself
across crisp cool sheets
as sensationally

sensuous
as a Modigliani ****
or a Noguchi sculpture

here you
Matisse
if only

for a brief
moment now so
Ernst

now so
playfully
Picasso...ish

I smile
as you
Vermeer

"Come here & kiss me!"
you my Magritte
you my Dali

You my laughing
walking talking
'art gallery
Dec 2024 · 51
!YOU AGAIN!
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
!YOU AGAIN!

Your summer dress
comes to rest

upon the balcony

hung up on a thin
wire hanger

(an exotic bird)        

it cries for your body
weeps at being

parted from you
& your curves

a pool of tears
collects at its hem

as longingly it dreams of
the touch of your skin

asleep now
in the sun.

Later that evening
frightened by the approaching storm

it tries to escape
the clamour of its hanger

almost flies off
beyond the reach of my hands

run away to sea
seeking for further horizons.

I calm it
tame its panic

fold it tenderly

carry it like a dreaming
child

lay it to rest
at the foot of the bed

where all night long it sleeps
at your feet

awaiting your footstep

the sunshine
of being

you
again.
Dec 2024 · 48
SCATTERED DREAMS
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
SCATTERED DREAMS

Whenever I fell
asleep

my father came
& cupped me in his hands

carried me to bed

as if I were as precious
as water
in a hot dry land

or draped like discarded clothing
on a couch...in a garden
on a bench or a beach

I would be gathered up

& awake to find myself
back in the safety of my own bed.

And I would have thought
I had flown

or being magically
transported by a spell

but it was only
the ordinary
magic of my father

cradling me
in his arms

gathering up the littlest
of my scattered dreams

stroking my hair

& tip-toeing backwards
out of the room

his voice
full of tenderness

casting a spell

“Good night son...goodnight...goodnight.”


*


Gold and other such treasure? Forget it...my Da was my treasure trove...moments like these richer than the most precious of gems. My Da was priceless...every second of him was untold riches.
Dec 2024 · 81
SUCH A SUNNY DAY
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
SUCH A SUNNY DAY

the objects
in his pocket

have lost
their identity

their significance
to anyone but him

a hairy comb
photo of an unknown

woman
who can she be

a torn-in-two
train ticket

chewing gum
much masticated

yet put back
in his blazer's breast pocket

small change
a penny and a sixpence and

a button
from the cuff

no clue as to who
he had been

before the water claimed him
as its own

the disgust and fascination
of those

passersby who continue
to pass by

it such
a sunny day

for death to
intrude this way

the miscellany of objects
ownerless now

the waters of the Liffey
calm and unmoved

*

I was just coming up to O'Connell Bridge and the bus got snarled in traffic. It was a beautiful beautiful sunny day and as I gazed idly out of the window a body, sodden and shapeless but still all too human was being winched out of the river. So we were forced to witness this before the bus finally made it to the bridge. It was startling and cut like an emotional knife through the fabric of the perfect day.

My girlfriend at the time told of a friend of hers who had sometime last year thrown herself into the Liffey so that added an extra dimension to the horror. Everyone who had met her on that last day said she seemed so happy and were amazed that she had done so because "...it was such a sunny day." She only had a comb and a button and small change in her pocket...all she owned. A human life shrunk to so little.
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
"...A HEAP OF BROKEN IMAGES. . ."

She would sit beside him
like a distant constellation

trying on what it felt like
to be human.

He observed her
through the telescope of his hate

as if a scientific study
of her distaste

would make her more
understandable to him

but
it didn't.

He remained earthbound.
She an ever expanding universe.

At night they lay like grey
alabaster effigies on a tomb

the close but not touching
classic cliché

except for the cobwebs joining their hands
the odd broken fingers...the chipped chins.

Both pious in the death
of this their marriage.

They tried to resurrect
their long ago selves

who had ate up all
the promises made

before vomiting up
all they had said

like drunks unaware
of puke in their hair

Now *** was engaged in
although boring beyond belief.

He said nothing.
She cried.

Affairs offering little
or no relief

from the prison
of their bodies.

Both their lives
like kitsch touristy souvenirs

gathering dust
on an un-dusted shelf

tatty flamenco dancer
chipped porcelain matador

how they saw
what they used to be.

As if life were a cat
and would with a swipe of a paw

knock them off
broken upon the floor.

How two humans
could come to such an impasse. . ?

Don't. . .
even ask.
Dec 2024 · 60
HOW COULD THE STARS. . .
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
HOW COULD THE STARS. . .

how could the stars
have forgotten you
you who held them in

the surprise of your eyes
floated them through
your wind blown hair

& untangled them
from the tortured branches
of trees

when they had lost their way
or forgotten
who they were

you who had spoken of them
when they were silent
& couldn’t find words

spoke to them
so tenderly
shaping them into poems

now the sky is bereft
only the darkness speaks
as the stars search...seek for you
Dec 2024 · 130
HISTORY. . .HAPPENS.
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
HISTORY. . .HAPPENS.

It is 11.32
in 1132 and  - now.

A sunset sets fire
to Kildare

burns it to the ground.

Night takes the town
in its arms.

Memory sets fire to time.

I, a mind invisible
( divisible by all )

move through the pages
of history

slip silently through
the ages

an unobserved
observer.

The ghost I've
yet to be.

The latitude of now
the longitude of then

the ****** flux
of history.

Voices scattered throughout time
( spoken in a 16th century accent )

whisper to me
greedily

wanting to be
remembered.

". . .the successor of Brigit
was betrayed

carried off...put into a man's bed
forced to submit to him."

"I hear you..!" I say
". . .I hear you!

". . .seven score killed
in Cill Dara...most of it burnt..!

The Chronicles tell
the tattered tale.

The voices once again
lost in the wind.

Diarmud Mac Murrough's
violence on Kildare

happens all over
again and again

written upon the wind.

The **** of the abbess
destroying the divinity

of her authority
her harmony.

A woman baptises
her new born

with milk
as in the old way.

The fires of her age
flickering across her frightened face.

Brigit born anew.

Time tamed
comes to my side

licks my hand
like some mythical hound.

"Take me back..."
I command
". . .to my own now!"

"Now!"
I cry.

Out of the Silken Thomas
one two and three inebriated

merrymakers sway and spill
out into the Christmas of I984.

One big one small and one very very tall
together they sing

informing the yet-to-be
of what is lost and past.

"Rejoyce!" the snow says:
"...snow falling faintly through the universe

and falling faintly...upon the living and the dead."

I tell the night
that is already passing into

the great beyond.

"Remember O Thou Man
Oh Thou Man, oh Thou Man.

Remember, O Thou Man
Thy time is spent.

Remember, O Thou Man
How thou camest to me then

And I did what I can
therefore re. . ."

*

Walking through Kildare one passes through all the history still hanging in the air...once one has heard the voices of those who have passed before us...it is impossible not to hear them ever again...the air is stained with the history of their times and the soul cannot but soak up all that has happened.
Brighid reappears in various guises in various times and seems part historic, part mythic, part Christian, part pagan. One of her dualities is that she is herself but also an incarnate representative of Mary.
She is the protectress of dairymaids and is associated with February lambing day (one of the four primary Gaelic holy days, Imbolc, meaning "bag of cream" or "butter-womb"). She was born herself by manifesting from a bucket of milk being carried out the door by her mother, a milkmaid. And the Irish Catholic Church, before it came under the aegis of the Roman Catholic Church, baptised in milk rather than water. My Auntie Nelly used to put the sign of the cross on the flanks of our cows by dipping her fingers in the milk.
As the first abbess of Kildare ( Church of the Oak ****-dara ) she was followed by an unbroken line of abbesses who commanded great respect from the people and were responsible through the saint’s order for maintaining by precise ritualistic means a continuous fire ignited by St. Brighid before her death in ca. 522. The abbesses were assisted in this by 19 nuns. With the sack of Kildare the fire of centuries was finally snuffed out.
The **** of the Abbess of Kildare in 1132 destroyed her sanctity and rendering her unfit for her office. MacMurrough imposed in her place a kinswoman of his own.
Her **** paved the way for the Norman occupation of Ireland.
James Joyce was intensely proud of being born on February 02, lambing day, that is on Imbolc, which by the old reckoning shares the claim for being St. Bridgid's Day along with February. The Celtic day was measured in a lunar manner like the extant Semitic calendars so that a calendar day begins at sunset, not midnight). Joyce considered St. Brighid to be his muse and liked to have his works first issued on February 02 to honour her.
She is invoked in all post-Chamber Music work. As St. Bride Brighid continues to maintain her abbey, now a "finishing establishment" for the "The Floras . . . a month's bunch of pretty maidens." She is Maria in "Clay," the moocow in Portrait, the old milk woman in Ulysses, the maid in Exiles, the broken branch in "Tilly," (one means allowed to stoke the sacred fire at Kildare was to wave air over it with a branch), and a thousand references to milk and things bovine in FW.
The Norman-Anglo Conquest of Ireland began in 1169, when a mercenary invasion force from Norman-occupied Wales captured Wexford and Waterford. A year later they took Dublin, and over the next century, 75% of Ireland would fall. Dermot MacMurrough's wily reign of deceit, beginning in 1132, paved the way for the Norman occupation.
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
AHHHH BACH... FOR CHRISTMAS! (for my pal Al)

the church orchestra
search around for an
E sharp

the conductor blows his nose.
but as an oboe player points out:
'That's in F sharp! '

they laugh
the singer
starts singing

words like
stepping across ice
as it cracks:

'In the beginning
was the Word
and the Word was

...lilac! '
yet more
laughter

the stained glass
listens  to this
musical tomfoolery

as they practice
their perfection
& the rehearsals drag on

tonight it will be
nothing but
Holy

a pagan tree
cowers in a corner
all Christmassy

a church hanging
proclaiming: 'Praise him
hail and lightning! '

as we two
lost souls
delight

in the music
of being
...human!

*

Up to York on an old fashioned cho choo and not being able to make the concert but they invited us into rehearsal as they worked their way through all the ins and outs of it all...they were just so relaxed and having fun...playing off each other with great good humour. This was so playful and I bet by the time the real performance came around they were nothing but HOLY in big bold capital letters. But here now they were just a bunch of humans having fun and their own talent with a great big bunch of laughter thrown in for good measure. It was wonderful to experience them....an unforgettable joy!
Dec 2024 · 68
CRIES
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
CRIES

I write
these words
to exist you

trap you in this mesh
of consonants &
vowels

flesh you
out
into sounds

here you are again
dressed i
n your yellow dress

a marigold
held between
finger and thumb

offered to me
your young son
the old man who now

writes
to keep you
alive

until the pen
falls from his hand
and
he cries
he cries
he cries

**

Watching my mother dying as outside a badger trundles across a path( the badger is a psychopomp bringing souls across to the other side)and watching my self reflected in the dark window. Remember this simple little moment of her in a yellow dress and being impossibly young and offering me a marigold. Just that. Why that? Clear as day. A beautiful day and this one act etched into my mind with a clarity beyond belief. I thought if I kept writing the words that make up this poem I could keep her alive if only in words. But time must have a stop. Also words.
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
ONE IMPOSSIBLE THING BEFORE BREAKFAST

Alice in Wonderland
rests upon a table
in a ray of sunlight

"When is a book
not a book?"
the sunlight asks itself

I answer it
by opening
the book

it is empty
of words
only an empty space

to place
a bottle of whiskey
in

yet its emptiness
is packed
full of time

the memory
of hands
reaching into it

some of the time
spills out and becomes
now

*

An old guy I used to look after and wasn't supposed to drink. He always had the book at hand whenever I visited him. This time it lay upon the table and I picked it up saying I didn't know this edition....loved that book all my life and...a small bottle of whiskey fell out. After he died the 'book' was still there on the table empty of any words and empty of drink.
Dec 2024 · 77
TWAK!
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
TWAK!

Twak!
  
A knife embeds itself
  
in the space just
by her left ear
  
as if the wood
gulped it...******
  
in
its glint
  
vibrating still.
  
In her head
she plans
  
dinner.
  
She stares
at her husband
  
remembers how
he had come
  
to court her
...twak!
  
Another knife
flashes spitefully
  
narrowly missing
her other ear
  
a little
bubble of blood
  
like a stud
earring blossoming

on a wobbly
earlobe.
  
'Ouch! '
she whispers
  
to herself
guilty
  
at such an over
reaction.
  
Oh how he had
excited her
  
her head
in a spin
  
saying he
was in
  
show business.

Her world
revolves
  
about him
the next knife
  
impregnates itself
in the space
  
between her
legs
  
like a tuning fork  
it hums

her excitement
builds
  
a tiny splinter of
wood
  
nestles in her
left inner thigh.

'Wow...nice! '
she becomes moist.
  
The shimmy of her
spangles
  
as the lights catch
her
  
a little
gasp as
  
she faces him
boldly
  
afraid &
un-afraid
  
upside down now
her world all topsy-turvy
  
she still so
proud of her

husband's skill
to tantalise her
  
his unerring
accuracy
  
the pride of being
(she the knife thrower's assistant)

as well
as wife.

A loud sea
of applause.

Twak!  


*

She had run away to show business. He was exotic...the blindfolded knife thrower who swept her off her feet. Oh the roar of the grease paint the smell of the crowd. Now the circus was just the humdrum ordinary world and she was finding it hard...to get...into...her costume. She still found the act itself exciting especially those near misses. It was the only thing they ever had a row about. The whistle through the air and then the shocking suddenness of the arrival of the knife with its capitalised sharp exclamation point. . .TWAK!
And when she was up she was up and when she was down she was...TWAK! It was always the knife between the legs that drew the biggest baited breath from both the audience and her self. She had to admit it still turned her on but there was dinner to think about and other mundane things like the baby's whooping cough. Oh the exotic...the ****** and the ordinariness as hubby went about his work.
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
INTO THE INELUCTABLE MODALITY OF THE INELUCTABLE VISUALITY

Leopold Bloom
tousles my hair.

Tells me I'm a
"...grand little fella altogether!"

His large black eyebrows
look as if they will leap

off his face and land on mine
chew my mind.

Of course he is
only Milo O'Shea.

Actor extraordinaire
from Strick's ULYSSES.

Some concert in the girl's gym
has made him appear here

before me
quaking in fear.

He is the first man I see
in a tux.

Our class is to recite
THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS.

Was I not nervous?
Jaysus I was so I was!

The spotlight a Medusa
turning us to stone.

An audience a many
headed monster.

I...I...I
petrified.

I throw my voice
out into the dark

like throwing a mad dog
a bone.

"As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle mount to the sky."

Guy beside me starts to cry
wee running down his left knee.

Now it's over and I
am returned to myself again.

Meeting Mr. Milo
is just a happenstance.

Later he will become
Durand Durand

trying to **** Barbarella
with sheer pleasure.

Now, Zeffirelli's kind friar
in ROMEO AND JULIET.

But for me
he always blossoms

into Bloom
tousling my many many curls.

"A wink of his eye and
a toss his head.

soon gave me to know
I had nothing to dread."
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
"...MORE FULL OF WEEPING..."

in the bedroom
from which he first
saw snow falling...


...snow
now
falls

he watches the ghost
of his young self
press his face

against the glass
snow sticking
to his reflection

amazed
that a world
can fall

into such a silence
hide itself
in a white quiet

snow falls
in the old bedroom
where his sister recited

his first Yeats....
kissed him
goodnight

snow clings
to peeling wall
blown against

the remembrance
of things long ago
forgotten

snow covering
his lost sister's voice
"...for the world's

more full of weeping
than you
can understand..."

*


I was about 6 at the time and a great big storm was building up outside and Junie was just saying this off the top of her head as the storm broke and her words were broken into by the thunder and lightening. It was like an incantation and I thought that the poem had conjured up the breaking heavens and that it would always happen when the words had their say. Oh the power of poetry on the very young!
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
THE STONE WARM IN THE PALM

the stone skips
across an ocean
shatters an horizon

the wounded sun's disc
day bleeds
into night

now the skinny dipping
now the excited shouts
we dive into the moon

the moon'******br>broken with our quick nakedness
the sharp knife of youth
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
ALL THESE PEOPLE CAN'T BE ME SURELY?

ha ha and
here I am
a plump baby

as ever there was
the sort
only a mother could love

grown now
into a sturdy toddler
to be sure

and now
a big boy
already

the spit of
my older self
in my young face

and in a snip
in another snap
my teenage self arrives

photo after photo
I grew out of the album
and there my name

written in violet ink
if evidence was needed
of me being me

summers and winters
come and go
as do the years

this surely 1945
this maybe
perhaps 1972

time passes
all in black and white until
there is my Kodachrome self

now I live
my life
in glorious colour

so many
Polaroid
mes to be

the photos change
and age
as time grows older

yet I remain
a man of many years
too many years

still the young boy
I was
trapped now in this old body

soon the album
will be thrown in a skip
along with all the years

the nice lady
who claims to be
my wife

sighs at my indifference
brushes a tear away
when she thinks I'm not looking

but I have run out
of people
to be

tired of
all this
living lark

Death will be
welcomed when
it comes
Dec 2024 · 72
SEO GO DEO
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
SEO GO DEO

a day so huge
it would take a lifetime
to get across

a time so vast
it couldn't be
squeezed into clocks or watches

an unseen bird
the bard of birds
telling me the poetry

of a world
coming into being
that very moment

only in a language
I could not understand
but somehow

know
without
knowing

at peace
with the mystery
of it all

happy to stay here
but time flew
through me taking me

to become
this old man
and the scrape of a pen

trying to hold  
in words
that one eternal moment

*

SEO GO DEO is the Irish for THIS FOREVER...go deo meaning forever or never
Dec 2024 · 72
BEDCLOTHES
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
BEDCLOTHES

my favourite
faded shirt
my tired old
torn denim jeans

that
have aged
along with me

my second skins
as much me
as me

now sit crazily
mixed up stitched up
into a patchwork quilt

that you present to me:
“I went through your wardrobe
& used anything I thought you’d throw out!

.these pieces fitted perfectly!
“Do you like it?
...are you pleased with me? ”

I smile & lie
I am delighted
“It’s such... a lovely...surprise! ”
Dec 2024 · 289
HIS VOICE IN WORDS
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
HIS VOICE IN WORDS

It was a sunny day
in Wales

as it can only be
in picture postcards.

It was pinned
above her bed

but with the picture side
facing the wall

as if she had turned away
from that scene a long long time ago.

I had only ever
seen it once

(when she was asleep
I took a peek)

a scrawl of words
told her that it loved her

in a fadey violet ink

that could now barely be
discerned.

The postcard itself
as fragile as a leaf.

“Don’t turn it! ”
she pleaded in panic.

“I like to see his voice
in words! ”

running her fingertips
over his I LOVE YOU!

letting it speak
to her

from the fragile fading past

letting it speak
to her

even from beyond
his death.
Dec 2024 · 76
THE STATUE
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
THE STATUE

'Dying is fun! ' you say
'...once you get the hang of it...'

'...& as long as
the pain stays away! '

Your face says ouch
without saying 'Ouch! '

'It adds an extra spice to life
knowing how many minutes there are left! '

'I calculated it  with my solar power
pocket calculator! '

'It seems like you live it twice
as fast...twice as intense

seeing everything
so precise

seeing even
what's.. not...there! '

The pain laughs at your puny efforts
to control it.

'Doc...says a year(at the most)  
maybe a matter of months...weeks! '

'It depends on what the cancer thinks! '
you laugh.

'And to think I'm a Cancerian! '
The pain has not got your sense of humour.

Already I can see it is bored by you
tries to wipe that grin off your face.

It almost...succeeds.

'Seems like I'm nothing now
but this cancer! '

'It's all that anybody can see! '

'Like it's been rubber stamped
on my forehead or something! '

'Well, Mrs. Cancer...'
I swore I heard the doctor say.

'And, all that my friends can see is...my death! '
'They annoy me with their crying! '

'Hello...hell.. o! I'm not dead yet! '
'This ****** cancer has taken on a life

of it's own

tells me what I can or can't do! '
'It's the boss! '

'Now...that there's a limit to it
Time...is precious
can't bear...to waste a minute.. of it! '

'It feels as if the cancer
is a famous sculptor

& labours to create
the shape of my death

bit
by
bit! '

'Seems like it's one of those
ugly modern abstract statues

you know

meaning nothing
with a hole in the middle! '

'And everyday the cancer
chiseling away at it

striving for perfection! '

'I tell the cancer
Oh...get on with it! '

'Get it over with! '

'See...I'm becoming quite the philosopher! '

'Now...get out of here! '

'Stop talking to a dying woman
get out in the sun don't waste
a min-
-ute
of
it! '

I laugh.

You're still so.. you!

You ask me for a favour
before I go.

I scratch your ***
(you can't reach it no more) .

You tell me
'That's the best scratch in all the world! '

I smile tell you
you always had the best *** in the world.

You laugh.
(It...hurts) .

I go

Close the door behind me
on your dying.

Step into brash sunlight
that feels like it's lying.

Two months later your death greets me
disguised as an airmail letter.

I missed your dying by a week ...it seems
I'm in a different country...crying.

A weak sun
shivers in the land

of the living.

From beyond
Death

you write me
a private letter

with handwriting
I wouldn't recognise as yours.

It just says:

'Donall Donall! '
on the envelope.

Inside
(a card)  

a wood engraving
by Eric Gill

the one with Mary Magdalene
covering a crucified Christ with her body

her hair like a river
covering them both.

The handwriting almost broken
only kept alive by your iron will.

'Guess the statue's done
&
Death is no Michelangelo

could have done better myself
but I wasn’t up to it! '

My tears
dissolving your words.
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
CLIMBING TREES IN HIGH HEELS

the swish of her
dress as
thigh crosses thigh

the static electricity of her
nylons laddered
from climbing trees in high heels

the rescued cat now
safely asleep by the fire
snoring not purring

the whiskey a jewel
in the cut-glass decanter
the glint in her eye

again the sigh
as thigh crosses thigh
she singing softly to her

self as if
she was the only one
left in existence

the clock leaving
a longer and longer
silence  between each tick

and tock

and tock

the clock now stopped

looking elegant
in a thin white vase
the yellow chrysanthemums

just stare and stared
as if they were frightened
of the silence

a shepherd carrying a lamb
in chipped china
looking out of place

without his companion piece
a ***** shepherdess
broken only last week

it was ten past 7
though the clock did not know
that

Time had abandoned
the room
outside the first snowflake falling

*

Do not attempt this at home children and always remove high heels if you should do so. Make sure you have a responsible child supervising you.

Martha suffered a snapped heel and torn tights due to her hasty action in saving her cat who came down when she came up( thus rescuing itself in reality)and had to be rescued by burly laughing firemen.
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
ALL THE WAY FROM CHICAGO
( for my aunt Peggy )

"I used to
know me
but now

I've become
someone else
another me

at odds
with who
I used to be!"

Aunt Peggy
in her American clothes
American mannerisms

glad to have changed
sad to have changed
at the same time

the girl who
was left behind
fading into a photograph

the young woman
who left
the lady who returned

she mussing my hair
"Gee you got curls
just like a girl's!"

she taking me
into her thoughts
despite my nine years

I loved her
just as
she was

two people
in the one
aunt
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
RACING WITH CLOUDS
(for Benny Kelly)

clouds racing
across a sky
across a river

we dive into the clouds
leaving behind us the sun
wondering where we've gone

two shouty splashes
with legs sticking out of them
the river covering us with stillness

we swim under the clouds
our lungs greedy for air
the silence roaring

we break back into the world
we had left centuries ago
our bodies shedding silver

we flop on the grass
like freshly caught fish
as if we have created ourselves

we the new
constantly coming
into view

we of an age
to be
immortal

a cuckoo's cry
stretching all the way
from there to where we were

joining the distances
together
the countryside dozing in the sun

it seemed that Time
would be always
this one moment forever

and so
it was
and is
Dec 2024 · 92
THE SWAN & LEDA
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
THE SWAN & LEDA

How, like a...God
he comes

taking the shape
& the form of a

swan

who having had
his wicked way

longs
to be

on his
merry way.

But, wait
...what’s this

he can’t....shake
...his fine...feathers...off

feather upon
downy feather

locks him
into the costume

he had put on
& now...can’t be put off.

What magic
can this human woman

weave

& now
having been taken

takes great pleasure
in having her servant

a giant of a man
among men

****** the swan
& begone.

And once
the God

is well & truly
f

he’s plucked
of all

the finery
of his feathers.

Behold, the God
standing in the ****

shivering & ready
for the ***

the final twist
of this fatalistic plot

...his beautiful
neck.

That night
she dines upon

the subtle delicate
breast of swan

served in a creamy
pepper & garlic sauce.

She even has
an extra helping

thinking she can
always exercise it off.

Alas, poor Zeus
wishing he had chosen

to pose
in his usual tour-de-force

a shower
of gold

but thinks too late
(thinking even as he is eaten).

And now, she burps
(“Oh, pardon..! ”)

sleeps
& dreams

of a God
fit for a dish.


**

She was well wicked and gave that God as good as she got. It's always good to turn the tables on a God and put him on the table ready to be carved up...perfectly cooked. Go Leda...gooooooo! After all these years upon years upon years he had it coming to him.
Dec 2024 · 66
LOST ANGEL
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
LOST ANGEL

the universe
waited outside herself
like an impatient taxi

already thinking of
the next fare
after her

"Let it wait!" she thought to herself
In exactly 5
and 25 minutes

Christmas would arrive
in all its customary
vulgarity

it now an Xmas
rather than
a Christmas

she on the other hand
walked through
her memories

adrift  in an attic
looking for a lost angel
her childhood packed away

in boxes broken open
under the constraints
of time and age

days wrapped
in cobwebs
angel nowhere to be seen

here her headless horse
of the rocking
variety

somehow
getting by
on only three legs

Time hadn't been kind
to it and her being such
a boisterous child

and here at last
the angel that had
set her on this journey

of discovery
finding this
lost self

an angel absconding
from its duties
topping the tree

crushed
and glitterless
minus a wing

her first doll still
gazing lovingly
at her

through its one good
button eye hanging on by
a  blue coloured thread

outside Christmas came
without her even knowing
it was Christmas

mist hid everything
instead of snow
erasing reality

as it was
when she was
the little girl of before

the time being
always
a Christmas Eve
that excited hush

of expectancy
rather than
the day itself

the doll remembering her
as she was
when she kissed her

and cried all over her
"Oh oh...she's
beautiful!"

hugging her
once again
to her chest

the bells
mounting the sky
announcing her joy

*

Her daddy used to call her Angel instead of Angela and she called her dolly Angel so she went looking for an angel and found herself.
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
AND THE WORLD WAS AS SIMPLE AS SNOW

You are like. .  .all
the dark shops of my childhood
where you enter with the little ****** of a bell

and the world blossoms

into a myriad of things colourful to sell
stacked in impossible & impeccable order

all yelling shining glinting wild & glassy

and the cash register singing with the hard earned money
and the little ****** of a bell lets you out again

into a world
excited with the falling of  snow

& the palpable approach
of  a Christmas when Christmas was Christmas

and the world
was as simple as snow.

*

It is a love poem for my sister Junie...the YOU ARE LIKE. . .and then I am taken up on the wings of memory and she's alive again and I am 7 and always holding her hand as we go to buy my Ma 4711 eau de tiolette and my Da Old Spice aftersahve. I always got them these presents year after year in the time of my childhood..It took me 6 months to save up the money for them...and I would look longingly at kids ******* ice lollies in the depths of summer but save my little pennies 'til they grew into pounds and Christmas approached slowly and silently but I was always ready for it...and I would go with my sister June up to a lovely old chemist all polished wood and brass and glass...the little bell creating the wonder and with its ****** right on cue the snow would fall and I would hold my lovely sister's hand forever and ever and never ever let go...the delight was in my sister and her love and this is what the poem is all about....Christmas is just the backdrop to my always remembering her so. I can still feel her hand.
Dec 2024 · 107
THE LANGUAGE OF WATER
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
THE LANGUAGE OF WATER

You wait by the lake
alone

except for your self
&
your reflected self

as if the landscape
dreamt you up.

Your thoughts a flock of birds
scattered across the failing light.

Clouds laugh
run along the ground
on tiny unseen feet.

Trees stand on their heads
wriggling their toes in the air

& you
become as two

both real & unreal

as if a living
dream.

You hum
Pachabel's Canon

as sun & horizon
listen.

Not bad for a human
they both agree.

It's as if
I need a key

to enter this magical
dimension

as if I have to
invent one

...a magical one.
I take a little stone

whisper to it the secrets
of flight

and teach it how to say: "Splash! "
in the language of water.

The little stone
transformed  with its new knowledge

does as it is told

shatters
this mirror world

opens
the dream

and I enter
bewitched

as any fairytale
Prince

my voice
calling your sweet name

with longing

you turn
& we embrace

kiss
& look upon ourselves

as the dream
remakes itself

stitching itself
together with silence.

An old artist
(unknown to us then)  

places us
the lovers

at the center
of his composition

adds this
final brushstroke

and pleased
with his efforts

folds up
his chair

packs up
his paints & easel

smiles at our
kisses

wishes
us a goodnight

and is gone
eaten by the twilight.

Our laughter
frail & fragile

lingering on the night air

playing peek-a-boo
with the moonlight.

*

I was ill and in chronic pain and had just got off a late shift...I was sick and tired of being sick and tired'...long sleepless night...dead on my feet and this Serbian gentle man asking for directions made me raise my eyes to the sky and being given the gift to see and let the world shine through me. Human contact and a heavenly body reminding me that just being alive in this moment...despite all the pain and my life unravelling...was what counted.

He was delighted to know that I knew my Popa(and that he was one of my favourite poets)and of The Battle of Kosovo. As we walked he reeled off verse after epic verse and I had the immense pleasure of hearing it in Serbian. I couldn't understand it but the music was in the sound. in  He was a lovely man and so giving...and the final gift of the moon was sublime. His love for his wife and child glowed within him like a spiritual fire. I  had lost my wife due to my paralysis( "I don't want to be with no paralyzed guy!") and this saddened him greatly.

I felt like the Ancient Mariner inadvertently blessing the sea snakes and being blessed in turn.

"Their beauty and their happiness.
He blesseth them in his heart."

O happy living things! no tongue
Their beauty might declare:
A spring of love gushed from my heart,
And I blessed them unaware:

Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
And I blessed them unaware.

"The spell begins to break."

The self-same moment I could pray;
And from my neck so free
The Albatross fell off, and sank
Like lead into the sea.
Dec 2024 · 49
THE GIFT
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
THE GIFT

I wander home
lost to the world

wrapped up against the cold
in my thoughts.

Unbidden
the Heavens

blaze
above me

but I pay them
no attention.

The world covered in
the soft frost of sorrow.

Only to be stopped
by a lost soul

(loster than I?)

a Serbian
not knowing where he’s going

or which direction
home is in.

Lost in language
directions are useless

so I walk him
in the general direction

of where
home should be.

Seeing the poetry book
clasped in my hand

he launches
into verse after verse

of some battle
lost so long ago

but still flashing
in his eyes

alive as
if 1389

were only
yesterday.

He cries
at this old defeat

made new
by his tongue

his syllables
a field of blackbirds.

We arrive
at where

I know
he would not be
lost.

Home beckons
across the water

a sleeping daughter
and a wakening wife

dreaming of his return.

He wants to pay me
for my trouble!

I decline:
“No trouble! ”

Try to tell him
the passion of the poem

more payment
than could have been

hoped for.

He is upset
until...

“Look! ” he says
offering me the moon

(unseen by me
in sorrow) .

A moon so suddenly
throws off her clouds

and stands
naked before us.

“She is beautiful...yes? ”

The naked moon
now hides shyly

behind a massive
tower block

and now peeps out
the other side.

I take his thanks
sweet in his unknown tongue.

I take his gift
of the moon

and walk home
with the river

running beside me
keeping up a non-stop conversation.

Time flows
under the bridge.

Finally I arrive
at where I should be

the gift
of his moon

still tightly
held in my mind.
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
THE VERY THING IT WAS REQUIRED TO BE SHOWN
( for J.L )

"I like birds
more than books."

a young Edward
Thomas thinks

scribbling it
in bad Latin

on the fly leaf of
an algebra book.

A chaffinch chuckles.

"Vink...vink...vink!" it urges
in a regional accent.

"Fringilla Coelebs!"
Edward addresses it.

"Sheld-appel...spink..blue cap!"
the bird disowns its names

content with being
itself and itself

only.

It looks as if it has
just stepped out of the 15th century

illuminated maunuscript
The Shelbourne Missal.

"A caterpillar skeletonising a leaf
mmm...breakfast mefinks!"

The year  1895
madly in love with its own

sunlight
never such sunlight

as this
the window holds the scene

as if it were
a living painting.

The bird behind the glass
poetry in just being.

The torture of
an algebra class

"Quod erat demonstrandum."
Dec 2024 · 105
FASTENED TO THE AIR
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
FASTENED TO THE AIR

Here, your laughter
fastened to the air

with a little twist
of memory.

Time, spell stopped
as it were.

Your laughter
pinned to this

particular place
this

little scrap of sky
and field

that to an unobservant  eye
would mean nothing

...nothing at all.

But see, your laughter
unfurls its flag of self

snapping in the stiff wind
of what's lost is lost.

This simple second
alive for ever.

I pick it as
I would a flower

untouched by either

time or
death.
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
"NOW...WHAT'S WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE?"

the kettle boils
for a nice cuppa
I take it...put it

in the fridge
I stand there
in the open door light

wondering
"Now...what's wrong
with this picture?"

I close the door
the light
goes out.

I call my wife
"Have you seen the kettle?"
surely she would know

we search the kitchen
with a fine tooth comb
nothing

not even
a smidgin
of a kettle

I go to the fridge
to get some
cranberry juice

and there
lo and
behold

stands the kettle
no longer
so hot

I can imagine
the kettle hopping
off its stand

skipping across the floor
before opening the fridge
and closing the door

but why and how
would a kettle
do that?

*

It's where lost objects go to cool off. I wouldn't be surprised that the next time I go to the fridge and find myself there!
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
MEANWHILE, BACK ON THE PLANET. . .

God was having
a hard day.

He was busy
making me.

"Hell & damnation!"
he spluttered his syllables.

"I just can't get
this guy right!"

Mrs. God came
and had a look.

"Oh he's not perfect but
...he'll do!"

"And..." she smiled to herself
" . ..he's kinda cute!"

God threw me aside
in annoyance

meant to get the "Reject" bin
but overthrew and so

I tumbled in to the
"Fit for Earth" bin.

Goes to show the Big Guy ain't
...perfect.

Meanwhile, back on
the planet

I'm just...ya know...
trying to get by.
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
CRAZY LONELINESS HIJACKS MEMORY OF A BEAUTIFUL GIRL. . .

Last night
I missed you so much

that I made love
to your nightdress

passionately

now your nightdress
hides from me

slinks under covers
and pillows

avoids my eyes.

I can't take
another night

without you.

Your nightie
can't take another night

with me.

I am holding
your dresses

hostage
threatening them with

kisses...caresses

if they make one
false move.

The rest of your clothes
tremble in the wardrobe

...come back to me.
***

Ahhh back in the day when poetry was the new rock'n'roll and we sold poetry in broadsheets from pub to pub and all piled into an auld van and headed down the highway to the southern counties and turn up at a local radio station and proclaim ourselves in poetry so that that night people would be enticed into readings at arts centres and the like...those be de days. A mechanic who" didn't give a toss about poetry" and underneath a car tinkering with its thingymabob heard me reading my "nightdress poem" on the radio and came along to hear me read it...he was very put out when I didn't and then I had to read it then and there on the pavement and he went away satisfied.

One of my best performances and one of my best audiences.

Ah I was only a young guy( relatively )then and had just become Ireland's First Poet in Residence in a Secondary School in Ireland in a school called St. Killian's in Bray.

This must be '84 or'85 as in '86 I took the boat to Land of the Angles and ensconced me self there for the better or the worst of it.
Dec 2024 · 63
"MY 1692 OR MY 1773?"
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
"MY 1692 OR MY 1773?"

a group of ghosts standing around
the room chatting pretending to be
sheet-covered-furniture at the human step

the human pops his head in
seeing only sheet-covered-furniture
the ghosts hold their breath

the human shivers
his echoing steps down the hall
"I hate it when they do that!" said a young ghost

an old ghost who had
pretended to be a sofa smiled
"Oh, you get used to that!"

"I find the living tend to
drain one's energy somewhat!"
remarked an even older ghost

outside a car
took itself off
the ghosts all visibly relaxed

the chit-chat resumed
"Now, I consider 1692
to be my finest haunting!"

"Oh no no dear!"
remarks the ghost's wife
"Your 1773 was so much your best!"

outside the car
has returned
the ghost hunters pile out
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
ME MAM’S MIND
(in memory of my mother Ita)

“If you fall
off that wall

& break both
your legs

...don’t come
running to me! ”

Could never understand
my Mam’s mind

& how it
worked.

One moment
she 'had half a mind

to come up there
&' get me off that wall.

Then she 'was in two minds
about' whether to tell me to stop.

“Go ahead...go ahead
& **** yourself

...see if I care! ”

“I’m warning you child
if you fall off that wall

& ****
yourself

I’ll personally
come up there

& **** ya myself
so I will! ”

I used to watch the words
climbing out of her mouth

& fly around the room

looking for a place to land
in my mind.

Never cared
whether she gave out.

I just loved
everything she said

the music of her
& how

she made the words
behave.

I came down
and kissed her

kissed her worry away.

'I'm sorry Mam'
I told her.

And she cried.

*

It was the moment I grew up...seeing her not just as me Mam but as another human being with her own fear and worries...she became a person in her own right. I was so disgusted with myself for causing that fear and after that I tried to look after her as much as I could. seeing the world not just with my eyes but with her eyes. I became in a way her mother. Me mothering my mother.
Dec 2024 · 57
A ROMANTIC AULD EJEIT
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
A ROMANTIC AULD EJEIT

Nat King Cole sings
Autumn Leaves
on the radio - in Japanese

My mother
falls in love
with it

I fail to find it for her
this being
pre-Internet days

so I sing it for her
making up
the Japanese words

I sing
different words
every day

sing she says...
"My...Donie's knee!"
'cos that how it sounds

which is what
we call it
after hearing it only the once

"Share it with Yuku!"
I sing whatever
comes to mind

"Oh more each day!"
the words have a life
of their own

when I have grown
to be this
man I am

I learn the proper Japanese
but she still thinks
I'm making it up

now here in her dying
she says sing me
"My  Donie's knee!"

so I sing
in my broken
Japanese

she squeezes my hand
whispers
softly...

"You were always
a romantic
auld eejit!"

"Ma doe day knee
Shari e yuku
Ha me kay no

Haré hi yo
Oh
mo e day...."
Donall Dempsey Nov 2024
AND I ONLY THE MOST RECENT INCARNATION

thousands of voices
flowing through my head
the ancestors are restless

I borrow their faces
use their voices
inhabit this present

let them live
through me
I a cast of many

and who
will borrow my face
many ages from now

thousands of voices
flowing through my head
the ancestors are restless

I borrow their faces
use their voices
inhabit this present

let them live
through me
I a cast of many

and who
will borrow my face
many ages from now
Nov 2024 · 59
COMING IN FROM THE COLD
Donall Dempsey Nov 2024
COMING IN FROM THE COLD

searching
in a second-hand shop
among the bric-a-brac

I found you
in a white Mac
I in a white Mac too

as if
we were both
spies

& had arranged to meet
here to hand over
secret dossiers

I kissed
the top of your head
as I always do

‘cos that’s how
far you
come up to

“The secret word
is Love! ”
I whisper into your hair

“Love! ” you echo
as if it actually were
a prearranged signal

although
only chance
had brought us here

us two
secret
agents

in the  sacred
espionage
of Love
Nov 2024 · 152
WANTED:
Donall Dempsey Nov 2024
WANTED:

run down human
being
heartbroken

at the end of a tether
wannabe poet
sixty somethingish

must have own mind
Irish or at the very least
able to do the accent

be unable to tell
a lie  & must have
the double initials D.D.

must have seven heads
"Begobs..!" says I
to myself says I

the very job for me!"
I could do it standing on
one of my heads

apply within it said
and so I did on a whim
the job was mine

as long as I could be
all seven of my selves
...simultaneously
Nov 2024 · 41
TO WOOF OR NOT TO WOOF
Donall Dempsey Nov 2024
TO WOOF OR NOT TO WOOF

There wasn't a word
out of the room.

The furniture
was silent

didn't say anything
at all.

A drunken chair
leaned over and

touched the floor
with an arm.

A tipsy table stood up
on its hind legs

looking very very guilty
at being caught thus.

Books ran all about
the floor

like birds that couldn't
fly.

A glass looked shattered.
Milk raced across lino.

"Wot...wot!"
barked Hamlet

the great Dane

trying to look
innocent

lifting his leg
peeing against the wallpaper.
Nov 2024 · 41
THE ME I AM
Donall Dempsey Nov 2024
THE ME I AM

I laugh
with a dead man’s laugh
(a man I never knew)  

my grandfather’s laughter
flowering like Springtime
blossoming in my mouth

not
listening
to the years

Time
joins the dots
Painting by Numbers

I see
with my mother’s eyes
the world

stealing into my mind
become music
anything it chooses

Time joins the dots
Painting
by numbers

This gesture
is my big sisters
gathering me

up into her
nearness
tenderness

Time
joins the dots
Painting by Numbers

My father’s love
beats in my heart
sings in everything

it touches
amuses
me to see

how I am
all those others
as well as me

Time joins the dots
Painting
by Numbers
Donall Dempsey Nov 2024
FESTINA LENTE FESTINA LENTE
(for Bud the Brian)

Up the Green Road
under an arch of sunlight & leaves

I travel through Time & Space
mastering speed.

Balance still a little odd
as I try to...cycle faster...keep up with my Dad

who is forever far ahead
calling: “Come on,Dónall – that’s the lad! ”

All that time I am
that eternal summer

always

struggling to learn

how to do

7 x Tables
(tie my shoe)
master bicycles.

Down the Green Road
under an arch of Time & Autumn

I cycle faster with the wind
behind me...calling to the man

who languishes forever
far behind me:

“Come on, Dad...”

“Take it easy, Dónall lad! ”

*
Festina Lente is the Latin for Hurry Slowly!
Donall Dempsey Nov 2024
STANDING NAKED BESIDE ITS SKIN - SEQUENCE

(1)

A CHAIR SITS IN AN EMPTY ROOM

the woman unhooks
her shadow
drapes it over a chair

she plucks her reflection
out from the mirror
stashes it away

she looks into
the mirror's
nothingness

she strips off
her skin leaves it
on top of the chair

she
switches off
the light

the chair just
sits there
absorbing the darkness

the woman
becomes
her footsteps

light from the bathroom
throws itself into the room
falls just short of the chair's legs

the razor blade
slashes
through flesh

the bites
the tip off
her tongue

she watches her blood
whirlpool down the sink
(she does not stop to think)

washing away
the pain
washing away

this self
a chair sits
in an empty room

(2)

THE MOON REFUSES TO SHOW ITS FACE

an owl is the darkness
only its voice is visible
to the naked ear

it gives voice
to the darkness
the darkness says nothing

it lets
the owl
speak for it

the darkness transforms itself
into the owl
owl becomes darkness

the moon
refuses
to show her face

silence seeps back
the owl
says nothing

the darkness
says nothing
a human cries

(3)

MANY MOONS

she remembers an apple
standing naked
beside its skin

apple cut and cut and cut
like little slices of moon
fallen on the ground

the apple no longer a thing
to be eaten
now only a thing of fascination

the many scattered slices of moon
the earth a black sky
ants walking on the moons

she picks up one of the moons
licks it clean of ants and dirt
places it upon her tongue like a wafer

soon she remembers
nothing
nothing at all

her life the empty space
where she had cut herself
out of her photographs
Nov 2024 · 71
"SPEAK MEMORY!"
Donall Dempsey Nov 2024
"SPEAK MEMORY!"

"Mów!"
commands the cat

in Polish
seeing that

it is
a Polish cat.

"Je. . . ne. . .ige!"
chants the snow

falling in French
seeing that it is

snowing
in France.

"Sneachta...sneacthta..sneachta!"
the child cries

watching her first snow
falling 50 years ago

in her Irish childhood
that is always happening.

This moment is like
a moment in a movie

with subtitles
underneath

so the cat the snow
and the child

can all understand
what each is saying.

The words "Speak!" "I. . . sn. . .ow!"
"Snow...snow....snow!"

blown away now
by a gust of the past.

Only the language of memory
sees them as they were.

*

She was Irish living in France and had got her cat in Poland hence the mix of languages that go to make up the matrix of her world. She would always command her cat to speak( "Mów!" in Polish )and the cat would answer her in what she could only assume in cat Polish! Sneachta of course is the Irish for snow and I don;t know if there is a French verb for " snow!" but I thought...ahhh well...there ya go!

She was reading Montaigne and fell asleep and entered her Irish childhood. She had been telling me abut Montaigne and his cat and his essay on...thumbs! In her youth she had touched the toes of his statue for luck thus contributing to their shininess.

“When I play with my cat,” wrote French philosopher and essayist, Michel de Montaigne, “Who knows whether she is not amusing herself with me more than I with her.*”
Nov 2024 · 65
KILLER INSTINCT
Donall Dempsey Nov 2024
KILLER INSTINCT

The killer
was the type

of nice guy you
know the kind

you could bring home
to Mum and

even she would
fancy him too.

The nice boy who
could whistle all of "Oliver!"

Carry a tune
if called upon

crazy at Karaoke.

He adored apple pie
never refused second helpings.

Ate his greens
even as a kid.

Always cleaned
his plate.

Thought everything was
"Great...just...great!"

He cried at
"Chick" flics.

Always watched Christmas  re -runs
of "It's a Wonderful Life"/ "The Wizard of Oz."

He loved dogs
but was more of a cat guy.

And his victims
were always amazed

to meet their deaths
at the hands of

"...such a nice
nice man!"

*

A friend of mine almost got "strangled by the nicest of nice boyfriends" who just "glazed over with jealousy...just went into one." She left him and left the town...it frightened the life out of her. She said that one could not even begin to believe that this 'perfect person' could change...just like that. She always claimed she knew what it would be like to be murdered.
Nov 2024 · 43
LEAVING THE CHURCH
Donall Dempsey Nov 2024
LEAVING THE CHURCH

Ahhhhh...I think I see
what has happened.

There's been
a terrible mistake.

And so I go
to talk to

talk it out with
Him.

You know
boy to God.

I tell him to
rewind time

surely not such
a big thing for a God

to do
. . .yes?

And where my sister's death is
put her back here...& me. . .there.

A straight
no nonsense swap.

A life for a life.

And if there has to be
a death: then. . .

( I explain as best I can
as if God's a little child )

I'll die
in her
place.

It all seems so
simple.

Deal?

I can't see a problem.
The problem is...

God acts as if -
He's not there.

And although I've dealt with Him
fairly and squarely

He doesn't even deign
to reply.

And, just leaves things
as they are

as if He doesn't
care.

This is not
how I want it.

I curse Him
to Hell

incandescent with rage
white hot anger.

"Call your self a God
( a good God )!"

I spit the words
at Him.

Then I turn
my 9 year old self

away from
HIm.

We don't speak
ever ever again.

I leave
the church.

Dónall has left
the building.
Donall Dempsey Nov 2024
COME VIENE...VIENE! (WHAT COMES...COMES!) - for Paolo Sandulli

The sun is
preaching her sermon

to the town
of Praiano

that clings to the cliffs
in wonder.

Here in her hand
of light & water

she tells the parables
of pebbles.

One wave waves to another
as she walks upon the water.

Bells undress Time
disrobe her of her hours.

Lemons grow
big-bellied on branches

pregnant
with yellow.

The juice
of the Future

praying in a church
of trees.

Here, a congregation
of butterflies & bees.

Grapes dream of being
turned into wine.

Figs ripen
with pleasure.

The gods of pagan times
survive

disguised as statues.

I only believing
in the religion of

a woman’s
laughter.

And even now
as darkness

grows
upon the rose

it’s as if
the sunlight never leaves

only changes
colour

and the sunlight darkens
only to blossom

into the next morning
in love with Time.

*

This was written for the Italian artist/cramic sculptor Paolo Sandulli who has a studio in an old Saracen tower overlooking Praiano called Torre a Mare. His work and his workplace are magical and deliciously fantastic making the mind smile and the soul laugh as he creates a NUOVE MITOLOGIE MEDITERRANEE with his love of place and people. Delightful and enthralling.

Check out Paolo's creations at [email protected]

The title in the English version comes from the Italian menu which is the chief's surprise...eh...what comes...comes..ok? The title like Paolo's work amused me so much that it became the poem's name. The dish itself was a pizza with a midrash of everything and anything.
CHE COSA SI FA

Il sole è
la sua predicazione predica

alla città
di Praiano

che si aggrappa alle scogliere
a meraviglia.

Qui in mano
di luce e acqua

racconta le parabole
di ciottoli.

Una ondata onde ad un altro
come lei cammina sulle acque.

Campane spogliarsi Tempo
disrobe della sua ora.

Limoni crescere
grande-addome su filiali

incinta
con il giallo.

Il succo
del Futuro

pregare in una chiesa
di alberi.

Qui, una congregazione
di api e farfalle.

Uvaggio sogno di essere
trasformata in vino.

Fichi maturi
con piacere.

La divinità pagane di volte
sopravvivere

dissimulata come statue.

** solo credere
nella religione di

una donna
risate.

E anche adesso
come il buio

cresce
la rosa

è come se
la luce del sole non lascia

solo le modifiche
colore

e la luce del sole si oscura
solo a fiore

nella mattina successiva
in amore con il tempo.
Donall Dempsey Nov 2024
PER ARDUA AD ASTRA...THROUGH STRUGGLES TO THE STARS.

the worse thing I
did in the war
was...to survive

when others...didn't
always
the "Why me..?"

others...
better men than I
deserved better

every day
is bitter
a life lost

I breathe the air
that they would never....
for them there was

no tomorrow
I survived
the war

find it harder
to survive
my self

the dead crowd
'round me
wanting to taste

today's sunlight
with their eyes
that accuse

"Macte nova virtute,..."
they mock me
with schoolboy Latin

"...sic itur ad astra!
they say and say.
the Virgil falling

from my hand
from my hand
from my hand

*

Macte nova virtute, sic itur ad astra.

( Blessings on your young courage, boy; that's the way to the stars.)

Virgil - Aeneid Book 9.

"Men die as if a God had blown a dandelion clock...it's seeds scattering like souls lost in time."

Per ardua ad astra is a Latin phrase meaning "through adversity to the stars"or "through struggle to the stars" that is the official motto of the Royal Air Force and other Commonwealth air forces such as the Royal Australian Air Force and Royal New Zealand Air Force, as well as the Royal Indian Air Force until 1947. The Royal Canadian Air Force used it until 1968, when it adopted the motto sic itur ad astra, a similar phrase meaning "such is the pathway to the stars." It dates from 1912, when it was adopted by the newly formed Royal Flying Corps.
Donall Dempsey Nov 2024
IT WAS THAT KIND OF MONDAY

I entered
the house
through the back wall

easier than
messing around
with locks and keys

careful not to
get stuck
halfway through

the cat
sat
on the mat

with a scrap
of sunlight
trapped beneath a paw

"Help!" yelped
the sunlight
fading away with fright

and so
with a snap
of my fingers

the cat sat
in mid-air
still asleep

allowing me
to dust
underneath

and time
for the sunlight
to make good its escape

another snap
of my fingers
and the dog

was walking
in mid-
air

so much easier
than taking him
for a walk in the park

another snap
and the kettle
boiled itself

made the tea
even if only
a bit strongly

the dishes were busy
washing themselves
stacking themselves away

the self-cleaning clothes
were asleep in the wardrobe
waiting for the next role

and wondering who
they would have to be
in the days to come

it was now I
wished I
had paid more

attention
in Magic 101
in Magic 103

as I had run out of
finger clicks and
emergency spells

this time I left
by the back door
as I couldn't

face another
wall to save
my life

I left
leaving
the cat and dog

up in the air
as I hadn't enough magic
to put them in their place

being a trainee wizard
isn't all
it's cracked up to be
Donall Dempsey Nov 2024
I THOUGHT BEING A DALEK WAS A JOB FOR LIFE...

he was a Dalek fallen
on hard times he
got a job on the Underground announcing stations

his wife also
had seen better days
got a job as a talking clock

Mr. & Mrs. Dalek far from
extermination of others
desire for world *******

"THE NEXT STOP IS WATERLOO..."
"AT THE FINAL STROKE IT WILL BE
12 NOON EXACTLY!"
Nov 2024 · 88
LITTLE DAUGHTER MOMENTS
Donall Dempsey Nov 2024
LITTLE DAUGHTER MOMENTS

little daughter
wearing
a strawberry jam moustache

“Ahhhhhhhhh.... babeeeeeeeee!”
she kisses herself
in the mirror

Daddy snores loudly
child wide awake with book
"Shhhh...Daddy sleepy!"

How to answer?
“Why can’t I remember
tomorrow?”

digs hole...pours in water.... covers over hole
"I’m burying the water
. . .it's the water's funeral!"

old tin bath
green plastic frog
children's laughter
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