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Donall Dempsey Sep 2016
DADDY

Always
your love

everywhere
around me

tangible & intangible

as when
sound
becomes music.

As a child
they asked me

what I wanted
to be

when I
grew up

and I ran
through all the obvious choices

a cowboy man
a doctor man
a spy man
a hero man
an astronaut man

but there was
always only

one choice.

I wanted to be
you.

So I blurted out
my child's answer:

"A Daddy!"

The adults laughed
not knowing how

serious
I was.

I wanted to be
the Daddy
my Dad was.

I wanted to love someone
as much as
he loved me.

I still feel
my 7 year old hand in his

as the camera clicks
and captures our smiles.

Me beaming bursting with pride!

"This is my Dad! This is my Dad!"

Always
his love

everywhere
around me

tangible & intangible

as when

sound

becomes

music.
Donall Dempsey Jun 2019
DADDY

Always your love
everywhere around me

tangible & intangible
as when

sound
becomes music.

As a child
they asked me what I wanted

to be
when I grew up

and I ran
through all the obvious choices

a cowboy man
a doctor man
a spy man
a hero man
an astronaut man

but there was always only
one choice.

I wanted to be
you.

So I blurted out my child's answer:
'A Daddy! '

The adults laughed
not knowing how serious I was.

I wanted to be the Daddy
my Dad was.

I wanted to love someone
as much as he loved me.

I still feel
my 7 year old hand in his

as the camera clicks
and captures our smiles.

Me beaming bursting with pride!
'This is my Dad! This is my Dad! '

Always his love
everywhere around me

tangible & intangible
as when

sound
becomes
music.
Donall Dempsey Jun 2020
DADDY

Always your love
everywhere around me

tangible & intangible
as when

sound
becomes music.

As a child
they asked me what I wanted

to be
when I grew up

and I ran
through all the obvious choices

a cowboy man
a doctor man
a spy man
a hero man
an astronaut man

but there was always only
one choice.

I wanted to be
you.

So I blurted out my child's answer:
'A Daddy! '

The adults laughed
not knowing how serious I was.

I wanted to be the Daddy
my Dad was.

I wanted to love someone
as much as he loved me.

I still feel
my 7 year old hand in his

as the camera clicks
and captures our smiles.

Me beaming bursting with pride!
'This is my Dad! This is my Dad! '

Always his love
everywhere around me

tangible & intangible
as when

sound
becomes
music.
Donall Dempsey Jun 2017
DADDY

Always your love
everywhere around me

tangible & intangible
as when

sound
becomes music.

As a child
they asked me what I wanted

to be
when I grew up

and I ran
through all the obvious choices

a cowboy man
a doctor man
a spy man
a hero man
an astronaut man

but there was always only
one choice.

I wanted to be
you.

So I blurted out my child's answer:
'A Daddy! '

The adults laughed
not knowing how serious I was.

I wanted to be the Daddy
my Dad was.

I wanted to love someone
as much as he loved me.

I still feel
my 7 year old hand in his

as the camera clicks
and captures our smiles.

Me beaming bursting with pride!
'This is my Dad! This is my Dad! '

Always his love
everywhere around me

tangible & intangible
as when

sound
becomes
music.
Donall Dempsey Mar 2017
DADDY

Always
your love

everywhere
around me

tangible & intangible

as when
sound
becomes music.

As a child
they asked me

what I wanted
to be

when I
grew up

and I ran
through all the obvious choices

a cowboy man
a doctor man
a spy man
a hero man
an astronaut man

but there was
always only

one choice.

I wanted to be
you.

So I blurted out
my child's answer:

"A Daddy!"

The adults laughed
not knowing how

serious
I was.

I wanted to be
the Daddy
my Dad was.

I wanted to love someone
as much as
he loved me.

I still feel
my 7 year old hand in his

as the camera clicks
and captures our smiles.

Me beaming bursting with pride!

"This is my Dad! This is my Dad!"

Always
his love

everywhere
around me

tangible & intangible

as when

sound

becomes

music.
Donall Dempsey Nov 2019
"DADDY...GONE!"

Too little to know
where father goes when he goes

out the door
his smile left hanging there

an after image
of him.

I touch the air
where he has been

wondering what's become
of him...believing

he has become the sky
the passing clouds

a bird that flies
a cat's meow.

He is now
all things

of what a world
is made.

I stare at the air
willing him to be the shape

I love him in
my big man

who scoops me up
the scratchy kisses of his chin.

He has been translated
into a language of absence

that yet
contains him

decanted from all he was
into whatever I happen to see

whatever he be
a tiny universe of dustmotes

held in a sunbeam's
hand.

And then the coming of a time
when he becomes mine

his smile that I trace
with my fingertip

this the ordinary
miracle of his love.
Donall Dempsey Nov 2018
"DADDY...GONE!"

Too little to know
where father goes when he goes

out the door
his smile left hanging there

an after image
of him.

I touch the air
where he has been

wondering what's become
of him...believing

he has become the sky
the passing clouds

a bird that flies
a cat's meow.

He is now
all things

of what a world
is made.

I stare at the air
willing him to be the shape

I love him in
my big man

who scoops me up
the scratchy kisses of his chin.

He has been translated
into a language of absence

that yet
contains him

decanted from all he was
into whatever I happen to see

whatever he be
a tiny universe of dustmotes

held in a sunbeam's
hand.

And then the coming of a time
when he becomes mine

his smile that I trace
with my fingertip

this the ordinary
miracle of his love.
Donall Dempsey Sep 2017
'**** THAT JANICE WINDLE & DONALL DEMPSEY
. . .**** 'EM!"

January & June
were having fun

hanging out together
not just for

sweet alliteration's sake
but because

- they could.

And they had always
secretly fancied each other.

Time had taken
a holiday.

Not an every day
occurence.

So they took
advantage of

this once
in a blue moon

- happening.

Monday & Sunday
were in bed together

( don't ask me what
they were doing ).

A century & a second
were gazing into

each other's eyes
amazed to see themselves

reflected there.

The hands of the clock
were spooning.

An hour was courting
( such an old fashioned word )

a beautiful young ahhhhh
moment.

Time itself
was sulking

because the lovers
weren't paying him

any mind
what so

ever.

They seemed to live
in the "...now, now, very now"

( as Mr. Shakespeare puts it )

scattering their smiles
here and everywhere

see them blossoming
into squeals and laughter.

A new millennium
had just turned up &

was at once
( "Wot de...!")

press ganged
into one of their forever

kisses.

"**** that Janice Windle & Donall Dempsey!"

Time throwing a hissy fit!

"**** that Janice Windle & Donall Dempsey!"

"**** 'em!"
Donall Dempsey Sep 2015
January & June
were having fun

hanging out together
not just for

sweet alliteration's sake
but because

- they could.

And they had always
secretly fancied each other.

Time had taken
a holiday.

Not an every day
occurence.

So they took
advantage of

this once
in a blue moon

- happening.

Monday & Sunday
were in bed together

( don't ask me what
they were doing ).

A century & a second
were gazing into

each other's eyes
amazed to see themselves

reflected there.

The hands of the clock
were spooning.

An hour was courting
( such an old fashioned word )

a beautiful young ahhhhh
moment.

Time itself
was sulking

because the lovers
weren't paying him

any mind
what so

ever.

They seemed to live
in the "...now, now, very now"

( as Mr. Shakespeare puts it )

scattering their smiles
here and everywhere

see them blossoming
into squeals and laughter.

A new millennium
had just turned up &

was at once
( "Wot de...!")

press ganged
into one of their forever

kisses.

"**** that Janice Windle & Donall Dempsey!"

Time throwing a hissy fit!

"**** that Janice Windle & Donall Dempsey!"

"**** 'em!"
Donall Dempsey Dec 2023
DANCING IN THE SKY

my ancestor
an early Neanderthal
whose name is

something like
a grunt voiced
with open lips

finally makes it
to Heaven
it's taken a long long time

but there are
the Pearly Gates
angels on clouds

harping about
how glorious
it all is

the whole
kit and kaboodle
of tropes

this is not
its idea of
Heaven

Heaven is being
alive in
the here and now

sunshine
on your face
a breeze in your hair

I tell him
it's not my idea either
and we both smile

hold hands
as we walk
back into the past
Donall Dempsey Feb 2017
DANCING WITH MY DA!

as usual the world
is threaded through me
through television

& right now
it's Jimmy Cagney
being 'Biff'

I sit enthralled
engrossed in every move
...each gesture

My Dad comes in
from the garden
as if he were Adam

toiling over
his vegetables
loses the lot

drops his crop
of potatoes on the floor
cries out: 'Oh...I love this! '

sweeps me off
my feet in a gentle waltz
around our kitchen

'Casey...'
(he softly sings)    
'would waltz with

the strawberry blonde
...& the band
played on! '

'He'd waltz 'round the floor
with the girl he adored
...& the band played on! '

'His heart was so loaded
(it nearly exploded) ''For God's sake
Danny put the child down! '

he is scolded by my
pretending to be annoyed
mother.

'...& make us a cup of tea! '
'...& stop acting the clown
....& being an eejit! '

I am deposited
like a broken twig
in a river

on the further bank
of a big arm chair
'Da da da da da...


...da da da da da'
he hums as the kettle
boils and blows its top

kissing my mum
who is by now beginning
to hum:

'Da da da da
da da da da da da...'
...dancing with me da!

...some
lost sunny Sunday
in the long ago
DANNY DEMPSEY'S SON

my name
floated free
from me

like a child's ballon
taken prisoner
by a sky

here at the Old Head
of Kinsale where
my father had been born

I had become
"Ahhh Danny Dempsey's son!"
"Ahhh Danny Dempsey's boy!"

my Donall-self lost
in their delight of my father
"Where's my name gone?"

"He's the spit of ya!"
"The very echo of ya!"
"Hasn't he stole yer face!"

everyone having an opinion
of who it was
I was

and wasn't I only
delighted to be
" Ahhh Danny Dempsey's son!"

*

It was the first and only time I had been taken to my father's birthplace. And despite being long away from here he was instantly  
known by strangers who could tell him by just the look of him. And it turned out everyone was a second or seventh cousin. They delighted in him...sheer happiness to be in his presence as in the wild sky generation after generation linked together in the cry of the gulls.

The lighthouse was too dangerous to go up in so we stood at its base with a storm rearing its head. It was odd that nobody referred to me by my name only as "Danny Dempsey's son!" I wore this naming like a medal...always delighted to be his child.

On my first Holy Communion I was taken to Dublin for the great day. We were walking down Moore Street with the women selling their fruit and vegetables in full voice. A babble of voices....crazy as gulls.
When they saw us the whole street as one stopped and smiled with glee. One after another they declaimed: "Ahhh sure if it isn't Danny with his little fella!"  I was petted and patted and hair ruffled and oooh'd and ahhh'ed over.Money and fruit...fruit and money were ****** into our hands despite our protestations.

I thought it was the Cork effect happening all over again. It was like my Da was The Beatles but they had simply mistaken him for someone else. And the more he tried to tell him who he was...didn't they laugh and say: "Ahh sure isn't it a terrible man y'are altogether...always the joker.!"

We tried to give the money back but they wouldn't be having it. I whispered to my Da: "Who are they...do you know them?" He gulped; "Know them? No!" I gulped: "What do we do?" He told me" "We take the money and run!"

And so we did...dropping oranges and apples as we made our escape. The stall women shouting after us:.."Don't forget to come back!" I still wonder what happened when their Danny turned up!
Donall Dempsey Mar 2024
DANNY DEMPSEY'S SON

my name
floated free
from me

like a child's ballon
taken prisoner
by a sky

here at the Old Head
of Kinsale where
my father had been born

I had become
"Ahhh Danny Dempsey's son!"
"Ahhh Danny Dempsey's boy!"

my Donall-self lost
in their delight of my father
"Where's my name gone?"

"He's the spit of ya!"
"The very echo of ya!"
"Hasn't he stole yer face!"

everyone having an opinion
of who it was
I was

and wasn't I only
delighted to be
" Ahhh Danny Dempsey's son!"

*

It was the first and only time I had been taken to my father's birthplace. And despite being long away from here he was instantly  
known by strangers who could tell him by just the look of him. And it turned out everyone was a second or seventh cousin. They delighted in him...sheer happiness to be in his presence as in the wild sky generation after generation linked together in the cry of the gulls.

The lighthouse was too dangerous to go up in so we stood at its base with a storm rearing its head. It was odd that nobody referred to me by my name only as "Danny Dempsey's son!" I wore this naming like a medal...always delighted to be his child.

On my first Holy Communion I was taken to Dublin for the great day. We were walking down Moore Street with the women selling their fruit and vegetables in full voice. A babble of voices....crazy as gulls.
When they saw us the whole street as one stopped and smiled with glee. One after another they declaimed: "Ahhh sure if it isn't Danny with his little fella!"  I was petted and patted and hair ruffled and oooh'd and ahhh'ed over.Money and fruit...fruit and money were ****** into our hands despite our protestations.

I thought it was the Cork effect happening all over again. It was like my Da was The Beatles but they had simply mistaken him for someone else. And the more he tried to tell him who he was...didn't they laugh and say: "Ahh sure isn't it a terrible man y'are altogether...always the joker.!"

We tried to give the money back but they wouldn't be having it. I whispered to my Da: "Who are they...do you know them?" He gulped; "Know them? No!" I gulped: "What do we do?" He told me" "We take the money and run!"

And so we did...dropping oranges and apples as we made our escape. The stall women shouting after us:.."Don't forget to come back!" I still wonder what happened when their Danny turned up!
Donall Dempsey Oct 2018
DA VINCI'S GHOST

( for my little brother Brian )

I listen to
classical guitar in the dark

with only a single
candle for company.

These my teenage years.

Music and flame
travel through my mind

unveiling thought.

Da Vinci's
Vitruvian man

pinned to the wall
with most pins missing.

He comes alive
in the candle's flicker.

Gets into a flap
each time the door opens.

Little brother is spooked
by that Vitruvian stare

but is fascinated by the fact
that he exists

within a circle
within a square.

Like a priest I
dress my self in the garb

of Leonardo's words.

"Write what the soul is.

Illustrate whence comes....madness.
Whence...tears.
Whence...dreams!"

The whences make him wince.

As he sees it:  "...it is like a man
travelling through time

in his dream machine
and arriving at his own

dying
becoming his own

ghost."

Our mother's voice
calls him

and he is grateful to escape
his own thought.

*

Now, here I am
at your death

as you step inside
the circle
(inside the square).

You stare back at me
with that Vitruvian stare

and I " try to write
what the soul is."
Donall Dempsey Oct 2024
DA VINCI'S GHOST

I listen to
classical guitar in the dark

with only a single
candle for company.

These my teenage years.

Music and flame
travel through my mind

unveiling thought.

Da Vinci's
Vitruvian man

pinned to the wall
with most pins missing.

He comes alive
in the candle's flicker.

Gets into a flap
each time the door opens.

Little brother is spooked
by that Vitruvian stare

but is fascinated by the fact
that he exists

within a circle
within a square.

Like a priest I
dress my self in the garb

of Leonardo's words.

"Write what the soul is.

Illustrate whence comes....madness.
Whence...tears.
Whence...dreams!"

The whences make him wince.

As he sees it:  "...it is like a man
travelling through time

in his dream machine
and arriving at his own

dying
becoming his own

ghost."

Our mother's voice
calls him

and he is grateful to escape
his own thought.



Now, here I am
at your death

as you step inside
the circle
(inside the square).

You stare back at me
with that Vitruvian stare

and I " try to write
what the soul is."



And this is what I was listening to when he came in and encountered the Da Vinci. Back then he was only my little nine year old brother. The drawing spooked him but the music he liked.

Pavane Pour Une Infante Defunte-Ravel-Julian Bream & John Williams Together
Donall Dempsey Oct 2023
DA VINCI'S GHOST

I listen to
classical guitar in the dark

with only a single
candle for company.

These my teenage years.

Music and flame
travel through my mind

unveiling thought.

Da Vinci's
Vitruvian man

pinned to the wall
with most pins missing.

He comes alive
in the candle's flicker.

Gets into a flap
each time the door opens.

Little brother is spooked
by that Vitruvian stare

but is fascinated by the fact
that he exists

within a circle
within a square.

Like a priest I
dress my self in the garb

of Leonardo's words.

"Write what the soul is.

Illustrate whence comes....madness.
Whence...tears.
Whence...dreams!"

The whences make him wince.

As he sees it:  "...it is like a man
travelling through time

in his dream machine
and arriving at his own

dying
becoming his own

ghost."

Our mother's voice
calls him

and he is grateful to escape
his own thought.

*

Now, here I am
at your death

as you step inside
the circle
(inside the square).

You stare back at me
with that Vitruvian stare

and I " try to write
what the soul is."
Donall Dempsey Oct 2016
DA VINCI'S GHOST

I listen to
classical guitar in the dark

with only a single
candle for company.

These my teenage years.

Music and flame
travel through my mind

unveiling thought.

Da Vinci's
Vitruvian man

pinned to the wall
with most pins missing.

He comes alive
in the candle's flicker.

Gets into a flap
each time the door opens.

Little brother is spooked
by that Vitruvian stare

but is fascinated by the fact
that he exists

within a circle
within a square.

Like a priest I
dress my self in the garb

of Leonardo's words.

"Write what the soul is.

Illustrate whence comes....madness.
Whence...tears.
Whence...dreams!"

The whences make him wince.

As he sees it:  "...it is like a man
travelling through time

in his dream machine
and arriving at his own

dying
becoming his own

ghost."

Our mother's voice
calls him

and he is grateful to escape
his own thought.

*

Now, here I am
at your death

as you step inside
the circle
(inside the square).

You stare back at me
with that Vitruvian stare

and I " try to write
what the soul is."
Donall Dempsey Nov 2017
DAY RIPENS INTO NIGHT

Lady on a balcony
remembering what it was

to touch & to caress the trembling
mouth of love

reading Rilke

even as his eyes
had turned to look

upon his death

holding the hand that would never
hold her hand again

( except in dreams )

somewhere in that sunset
his ashes

scattered to the morning
each atom of his being

still listening to the words
that you repeat...repeat

drinking the grief
of silent tears

to touch and to caress

your trembling mouth

my love.
Donall Dempsey Nov 2018
DAY RIPENS INTO NIGHT

Lady on a balcony
remembering what it was

to touch & to caress the trembling
mouth of love

reading Rilke

even as his eyes
had turned to look

upon his death

holding the hand that would never
hold her hand again

( except in dreams )

somewhere in that sunset
his ashes

scattered to the morning
each atom of his being

still listening to the words
that you repeat...repeat

drinking the grief
of silent tears

to touch and to caress

your trembling mouth

my love.
Donall Dempsey Dec 2023
DAYS WILL BE DAYS

the world
awoke
to her

here it was
in all its glory
but

it appeared to be
day-less
as if it was just

a chunk of time
without a particular
day attached to it

"How peculiar..?"
she rubbed her eyes
"How...very. . .peculiar!"

but it somehow
smelt like
a Sunday

that stale smell
of boredom
and time gone rotten

just then the clock
flicked over its neon green
numbers to create

the fact that it was
indeed seven and
indeed a Sunday

she snuggled down
under her duvet
refusing to come out

and meet the world
which sent its sunlight
sneaking through the slats

in order
to spy upon her
search her out

she decided to see if
she could climb back into
the dream she had

been in
but it closed
itself to her

it was no use
seven
of the clock

it was
and a Sunday
to boot

she yawned
like a cat.
and the cat copied her

looking blindly
for her glasses.
finding them with her foot

she tried to
bring the world
into focus

I don't like Sundays she sang
to the tune of
I Don't Like Mondays

Outside the window
the world waited
patiently for her. . .
Donall Dempsey Dec 2024
DAYS WILL BE DAYS

The world awoke
to her.

Here it was
in all its glory

but it appeared to be
day-less.

As if it was just
a chunk of time

without a particular
day attached to it.

"How peculiar..?" she rubbed her eyes
"How...very. . .peculiar!"

But it somehow
smelt like a Sunday.

That stale smell of boredom
and time gone rotten.

Just then the clock
flicked over its neon green

numbers to create
the fact that it was

indeed seven and
indeed a Sunday.

She snuggled down
under her duvet

refusing to come out
and meet the world

which sent its sunlight
sneaking through the slats

in order to spy upon her
search her out.

She decided to see if
she could climb back into

the dream she had
been in

but it closed
itself to her.

It was no use.
Seven of the clock it was.

And a Sunday
to boot.

She yawned like a cat.
And the cat copied her.

Looking blindly for her glasses.
Finding them with her foot.

She tried to bring the world
into focus.

I don't like Sundays she sang
to the tune of I Don't Like Mondays.

Outside the window
the world waited patiently for her. . .
Dearest. . . .


                I know you know the old adage that
you can’t take it with you when you go but

I have only two treasures

ephemeral  as they may be
the feel of your hand in mind
the touch of your mind

your breath upon my cheek
the kiss about to be

I’ll outwit death as yet  steal them with my dying breath.

See the machinery of death unfurl within me
the perfection of its final stop -  a thing of beauty.

Now: in a future. . .you

lie sleeping sunlight warm upon your face
(I, no heavy handed ghost)

leave only a feeling of intense comfort

that makes you smile without the knowing why. . .
Donall Dempsey Jan 2019
DEAREST DIARY

Every year
she asks for

a diary
always a different colour

'86  - pale pink
'87  - saffron

etc., etc., etc.

They line her shelves
in full view

a rainbow
of years gone by

"...they just flew..."

I admit I could never
keep a diary.

"Me too!"
she smiles.

"But what of these?"

"What of 'em!"
she girns

"Look...empty as
empty!"

I take down '86
and it's..true!

Blank as blank
could be.

"I like to read 'em
every now and then

pitt myself
against the date

talk to
the page

see what
it provokes

evoke the day
whatever a past it may be

for whatever
year.

Each diary doused
in a different perfume

'86
Chanel No. 5

the scent unleashing the what was
conjuring up the what was once.

One dog-eared day
in 1990

a blue year
4711 Eau de Cologne

the only mark
in all the days.

"Oh that was when Dillie died!
She was such a loving cat!"

Now that she has died
-July 3rd -

the empty diaries
are thrown out

all the invisible thoughts
falling out

date by date
by date.
Donall Dempsey Jan 2018
DEAREST DIARY

Every year
she asks for

a diary
always a different colour

'86  - pale pink
'87  - saffron

etc., etc., etc.

They line her shelves
in full view

a rainbow
of years gone by

"...they just flew..."

I admit I could never
keep a diary.

"Me too!"
she smiles.

"But what of these?"

"What of 'em!"
she girns

"Look...empty as
empty!"

I take down '86
and it's..true!

Blank as blank
could be.

"I like to read 'em
every now and then

pitt myself
against the date

talk to
the page

see what
it provokes

evoke the day
whatever a past it may be

for whatever
year.

Each diary doused
in a different perfume

'86
Channel No. 5

the scent unleashing the what was
conjuring up the what was once

One dog-eared day
in 1990

a blue year
4711 Eau de Cologne

the only mark
in all the days.

"Oh that was when Dillie died!
She was such a loving cat!"

Now that she has died
-July 3rd -

the empty diaries
are thrown out

all the invisible thoughts
falling out

date by date
by date.
Donall Dempsey Jan 2020
DEAREST DIARY

Every year
she asks for

a diary
always a different colour

'86  - pale pink
'87  - saffron

etc., etc., etc.

They line her shelves
in full view

a rainbow
of years gone by

"...they just flew..."

I admit I could never
keep a diary.

"Me too!"
she smiles.

"But what of these?"

"What of 'em!"
she girns

"Look...empty as
empty!"

I take down '86
and it's..true!

Blank as blank
could be.

"I like to read 'em
every now and then

pitt myself
against the date

talk to
the page

see what
it provokes

evoke the day
whatever a past it may be

for whatever
year.

Each diary doused
in a different perfume

'86
Channel No. 5

the scent unleashing the what was
conjuring up the what was once.

One dog-eared day
in 1990

a blue year
4711 Eau de Cologne

the only mark
in all the days.

"Oh that was when Dillie died!
She was such a loving cat!"

Now that she has died
-July 3rd -

the empty diaries
are thrown out

all the invisible thoughts
falling out

date by date
by date.
Donall Dempsey May 2023
DEARLY BELOVED WE ARE GATHERED HERE TODAY

The death has been announced
of Dónall Dempsey

after he had fallen
into an anagram machine.

Our hearts go out
to all the poems he left behind

and to those poems
he had yet to write.

It is claimed that his last words
were "Wow...the surreal is so real!"

Now that he has shock off
his mortal coil

he has become a nice man
and beloved by all

despite this not being
the situation when

he was amongst
the living.

Strange what
a little death can do.

He has said from
beyond the grave

that he intends to
continue to write

using an anagram
as his nom de plume

And so the poet
Desmond Palely

was born to
the world of words.

Critics have complained
that his more recent work

smacks of Dadaism
and has a strong Surrealist streak

not obvious in
his previous work.

Dempsey's debt to
Addy Nell poems -obvious.

This is his first
dead poem.

DAMPENED LYSOL

by Desmond Paley
( the artist formerly known
as  Dónall Dempsey)

Deny molds leap!
Deny mold pleas!
Deny.... old sample.

Dolmens played
"Do!" Emlyn pleads.

Addy Nell poems
MODELLED *****

Del madly opens
"Almonds deeply...almonds... yelped!

"EMPLOYED LANDS
- dense Lloyd map

LEMONY PADDLES
Demons LP  -Delay!

Doll Mandy...pees.
Many dolls... peed.

Doll's ependyma
dopa end smelly.

Monday spelled -
medleys Poland

"**** Polly seed!"
DNA mopeds yell.

Doped man yells
"Many doped ells!"

Famous poet and critic Ray Pool
observes candidly

"This new nonsense makes
utter nonsense of his old nonsense!"

Heather Moulson is quick
to point out

"Now that he is dead, Dempsey's
interest in a doll's neuroregeneration

may result in many dolls
coming to life and enjoying

normal humans pastimes
like peeing and buying

the Demons long awaited
long playing 45."

But wait...breaking news!
Dempsey has been spat out

of the fatal
anagram machine.

And is now as alive
as he ever was!

We now take back
all the nice things we said

about him
in his obit.
Donall Dempsey May 2020
DEARLY BELOVED WE ARE GATHERED HERE TODAY...

The death has been announced
of  Dónall Dempsey

after he had fallen
into an anagram machine.

Our hearts go out
to all the poems he left behind

and to those poems
he had yet to write.

It is claimed that his last words
were "Wow...the surreal is so real!"

Now that he has shock off
his mortal coil

he has become a nice man
and beloved by all

despite this not being
the situation when

he was amongst
the living.

Strange what
a little death can do.

He has said from
beyond the grave

that he intends to
continue to write

using an anagram
as his nom de plume

And so the poet
Desmond Palely

was born to
the world of words.

Critics have complained
that his more recent work

smacks of Dadaism
and has a strong Surrealist streak

not obvious in
his previous work.

Dempsey's debt to
Addy Nell poems -obvious.

This is his first
dead poem.

DAMPENED LYSOL

by Desmond Paley
( the artist formerly known
as  Dónall Dempsey)

Deny molds leap!
Deny mold pleas!
Deny.... old sample.

Dolmens played
"Do!" Emlyn pleads.

Addy Nell poems
MODELLED *****

Del madly opens
"Almonds deeply...almonds... yelped!

"EMPLOYED LANDS
- dense Lloyd map

LEMONY PADDLES
Demons LP  -Delay!

Doll Mandy...pees.
Many dolls... peed.

Doll's ependyma
dopa end smelly.

Monday spelled -
medleys Poland

"**** Polly seed!"
DNA mopeds yell.

Doped man yells
"Many doped ells!"

Famous poet and critic Ray Pool
observes candidly

"This new nonsense makes
utter nonsense of his old nonsense!"

Heather Moulson is quick
to point out

"Now that he is dead, Dempsey's
interest in a doll's neuroregeneration

may result in many dolls
coming to life and enjoying

normal humans pastimes
like peeing and buying

the Demons long awaited
long playing 45."

But wait...breaking news!
Dempsey has been spat out

of the fatal
anagram machine.

And is now as alive
as he ever was!

We now take back
all the nice things we said

about him
in his obit.
DEARLY BELOVED WE ARE GATHERED HERE TODAY

The death has been announced
of Dónall Dempsey

after he had fallen
into an anagram machine.

Our hearts go out
to all the poems he left behind

and to those poems
he had yet to write.

It is claimed that his last words
were "Wow...the surreal is so real!"

Now that he has shock off
his mortal coil

he has become a nice man
and beloved by all

despite this not being
the situation when

he was amongst
the living.

Strange what
a little death can do.

He has said from
beyond the grave

that he intends to
continue to write

using an anagram
as his nom de plume

And so the poet
Desmond Palely

was born to
the world of words.

Critics have complained
that his more recent work

smacks of Dadaism
and has a strong Surrealist streak

not obvious in
his previous work.

Dempsey's debt to
Addy Nell poems -obvious.

This is his first
dead poem.

DAMPENED LYSOL

by Desmond Paley
( the artist formerly known
as Dónall Dempsey)

Deny molds leap!
Deny mold pleas!
Deny.... old sample.

Dolmens played
"Do!" Emlyn pleads.

Addy Nell poems
MODELLED *****

Del madly opens
"Almonds deeply...almonds... yelped!

"EMPLOYED LANDS
- dense Lloyd map

LEMONY PADDLES
Demons LP -Delay!

Doll Mandy...pees.
Many dolls... peed.

Doll's ependyma
dopa end smelly.

Monday spelled -
medleys Poland

"**** Polly seed!"
DNA mopeds yell.

Doped man yells
"Many doped ells!"

Famous poet and critic Ray Pool
observes candidly

"This new nonsense makes
utter nonsense of his old nonsense!"

Heather Moulson is quick
to point out

"Now that he is dead, Dempsey's
interest in a doll's neuroregeneration

may result in many dolls
coming to life and enjoying

normal humans pastimes
like peeing and buying

the Demons long awaited
long playing 45."

But wait...breaking news!
Dempsey has been spat out

of the fatal
anagram machine.

And is now as alive
as he ever was!

We now take back
all the nice things we said

about him
in his obit.
Donall Dempsey Feb 2024
DEATH AIN'T GOT NO
SENSE OF HUMOUR

Stopped at
a red light

when who should pull up
beside us but Death

driving a fancy
invisible car.

He is dressed in
the usual trope

cowl and scythe
how cliched can one get.

He just sits there in mid air
tapping a bony finger

on  a wheel I
can't see.

His scythe sits
in the passenger seat

looking like a tame
pterodactyl

smiling with neon
and moonlight.

He nods to me.
I nod to him.

"Hope you haven't
come for me!" I grin.

He shakes his skull
back and forth.

"Just practising...what's de matter
you ain't got no sense of humour?"

He points a long bony finger
at the green car jumping the lights.

"Holey Moley!" I holey moley to myself.
"If that car don't stop it's gonna crash into us!"

And into us
it does.

But before it does
time goes AWOL.

The moment stretches into infinity and
the next second lasts for ever.

I nonchalantly watch the green car
hurtling towards us for an eternity

and just wish it would
get on with it and be done.

Even the rain falling
stops in mid-air.

A bird's flight freeze frames
above the stilled trees

despite the bluster
of the wind.

Then as if someone had
pressed a button

infinity snaps back
into the moment's reality.

The green car bites with a roar
into my side door.

I watch it buckle and
stop a centimetre from my thigh.

I go out like a light and
the world does a runner.

The darkness is so
thick solidifying around me.

And then the world shamefacedly
comes back to me.

"Wot's yer name..." a voice keeps
asking "do you know your name?"

Over and annoyingly
over again.

"*******!" Death
curses.

"How in Heaven's name
did you get out of that!"

My voice forms a cloud
in the cold night air

like a cartoon
speech bubble.

This breath is the sweetest
I ever have breathed.

The joke's on Death.
Death ain't happy.

"What's the matter Mr. Death..."
I quip all cocky like.

"You ain't got no
sense of humour?"


*

We were on our way back from a bookfair in Belfast and nearing home when this happened. The shelfing units slid forward from the back and karate chopped me on the neck. I went out like a light...darkness invading my sight. When I came to a man was asking me if I knew( over and over again)if I knew who I was and what was my name. I recovered quickly but forever after suffered from headaches and breathing problems but ****** I was amazingly untouched and unscratched.
Donall Dempsey Feb 2021
DEATH AIN'T GOT NO
SENSE OF HUMOUR

Stopped at
a red light

when who should pull up
beside us but Death

driving a fancy
invisible car.

He is dressed in
the usual trope

cowl and scythe
how cliched can one get.

He just sits there in mid air
tapping a boney finger

on  a wheel I
can't see.

His scythe sits
in the passenger seat

looking like a tame
pterodactyl

smiling with neon
and moonlight.

He nods to me.
I nod to him.

"Hope you haven't
come for me!" I grin.

He shakes his skull
back and forth.

"Just practising...what's de matter
you ain't got no sense of humour?"

He points a long boney finger
at the green car jumping the lights.

"Holey Moley!" I holey moley to myself.
"If that car don't stop it's gonna crash into us!"

And into us
it does.

But before it does
time goes AWOL.

The moment stretches into infinity and
the next second lasts for ever.

I nonchalantly watch the green car
hurtling towards us for an eternity

and just wish it would
get on with it and be done.

Even the rain falling
stops in mid-ari.

A bird's flight freeze frames
above the stilled trees

despite the bluster
of the wind.

Then as if someone had
pressed a button

infinity snaps back
into the moment's reality.

The green car bites with a roar
into my side door.

I watch it buckle and
stop a centimetre from my thigh.

I go out like a light and
the world does a runner.

The darkness is so
thick solidifying around me.

And then the world shamefacedly
comes back to me.

"Wot's yer name..." a voice keeps
asking "do you know uour name?"

Over and annoyingly
over again.

"*******!" Death
curses.

"How in Heaven's name
did you get out of that!"

My voice forms a cloud
in the cold night air

like a cartoon
speech bubble.

This breath is the sweetest
I ever have breathed.

The joke's on Death.
Death ain't happy.

"What's the matter Mr. Death..."
I quip all cocky like.

"You ain't got no
sense of humour?"
Donall Dempsey Feb 2020
DEATH AIN'T GOT NO
SENSE OF HUMOUR

Stopped at
a red light

when who should pull up
beside us but Death

driving a fancy
invisible car.

He is dressed in
the usual trope

cowl and scythe
how cliched can one get.

He just sits there in mid air
tapping a boney finger

on  a wheel I
can't see.

His scythe sits
in the passenger seat

looking like a tame
pterodactyl

smiling with neon
and moonlight.

He nods to me.
I nod to him.

"Hope you haven't
come for me!" I grin.

He shakes his skull
back and forth.

"Just practising...what's de matter
you ain't got no sense of humour?"

He points a long boney finger
at the green car jumping the lights.

"Holey Moley!" I holey moley to myself.
"If that car don't stop it's gonna crash into us!"

And into us
it does.

But before it does
time goes AWOL.

The moment stretches into infinity and
the next second lasts for ever.

I nonchalantly watch the green car
hurtling towards us for an eternity

and just wish it would
get on with it and be done.

Even the rain falling
stops in mid-ari.

A bird's flight freeze frames
above the stilled trees

despite the bluster
of the wind.

Then as if someone had
pressed a button

infinity snaps back
into the moment's reality.

The green car bites with a roar
into my side door.

I watch it buckle and
stop a centimetre from my thigh.

I go out like a light and
the world does a runner.

The darkness is so
thick solidifying around me.

And then the world shamefacedly
comes back to me.

"Wot's yer name..." a voice keeps
asking "do you know uour name?"

Over and annoyingly
over again.

"*******!" Death
curses.

"How in Heaven's name
did you get out of that!"

My voice forms a cloud
in the cold night air

like a cartoon
speech bubble.

This breath is the sweetest
I ever have breathed.

The joke's on Death.
Death ain't happy.

"What's the matter Mr. Death..."
I quip all cocky like.

"You ain't got no
sense of humour?"
Donall Dempsey Aug 2016
DEATH IS A MIRROR LEAKING LIGHTNING

Death is a mirror
leaking lightning.

Time alters to fit
around the fact.

The sunlight empties itself
of warmth

merely picks out the world
as if the effort hurt.

Time unpicks
stitch by stitch

Life’s rich embroidery.

A constellation comes
to comfort me.

It hovers awkwardly
above my pain

unable to comprehend
its tiny immensity.

I have become the rabbit
staring at me from a trap

watching the world
erase itself

second by second.

Two crows
perch upon your tombstone

gossiping about how
the world comes and goes.

I throw angry words
at them.

They caw off into
an empty sky.

A marble angel & I
standing sentinel.

The marble angel
trying not to cry.
What lightning is, and what it can do. People covered all the mirrors in their house because they can “catch and reflect” lightning…mirrors leak lightning. It was thought that lightning can behave like light and be reflected. Lightning of course is not light, but a raw, electrical charge.

When large turbulent clouds form, they build up a powerful electric charge through a mechanism that’s only partly understood, although the general principle is the same as when you make static electricity by rubbing a balloon with wool.  As the charge builds, it creates an electrical field between the cloud and the ground.  As that field gets stronger, the air begins to ionise until there are enough ions to provide a path for the electricity to discharge.  Once current begins flowing down this path, the air in that path gets hotter and ionises even more, which lets more current flow to make the air even hotter and more ionised.  Within microseconds, the amount of energy passing through that path heats the air so much that it begins glowing – not red hot, or even white hot, but ultraviolet hot.  For the brief moment that the current is flowing, what we have is a lightning bolt which is basically air heated so much that it acts like a wire in an electric circuit.  Once all that energy has been dumped to Earth, there’s nothing to sustain the electric field, the current stops flowing, and the lightning bolt disapears.  Meanwhile, all that superheated air has expanded violently, in a loud explosion which we hear as thunder.  Fun fact:  This happens somewhere on Earth many times every single second!

So we’ve established that lightning is an extremely intense electrical discharge flowing along a temporary path of ionised air.  Suddenly the original question, about lightning being reflected by mirrors, doesn’t even make sense.  Although a mirror could possibly conduct electricity (they’re made by plating the back of a piece of glass with silver or aluminium, which are both highly conductive), it certainly couldn’t reflect it.  If a bolt of lightning were to strike a mirror, it would simply blast through the mirror.
Now lightning is very bright, emitting a lot of light.  Mirrors can reflect this light, if it happens to shine on the mirror, with ease.  But the actual bolt itself won’t deflect from its original path towards the mirror simply because the light is being reflected.
That said, lightning can do some pretty weird things.  There are records of lightning bolts striking and killing a man inside a movie theatre while leaving the building intact and his fellow patrons unharmed.  Lightning bolts have been known to strike telephone wires and **** people using the phone kilometers away.  The faint electrical fields around radio transmitters (like the ones we all carry around in our cellphones) have occasionally been known to attract lightning.  So it certainly is possible for lightning to enter your home and strike your mirrors, if you’re spectacularly unlucky.  But it could just as likely avoid them.  Covering them up makes no sense, and certainly won’t change that particular roll of the dice.
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
DEATH IS A MIRROR LEAKING LIGHTNING

Death is
a mirror
leaking lightning

Time alters
to fit
around the fact

the sunlight
empties itself
of warmth

merely picks out
the world
as if the effort hurt

Time unpicks
stitch by stitch
Life’s rich embroidery

a constellation
comes
to comfort m

it hovers
awkwardly
above my pain

unable
to comprehend
its tiny immensity

I have become
the rabbit
staring at me from a trap

watching the world
erase itself
second by second

two crows
perch upon
your tombstone

gossiping
about how
the world comes and goes

I throw angry words
at them and they caw
off intoan empty sky

a marble
angel & I
standing sentinel

the marble angel
trying not to
cry

*

That last long long telephone conversation...three hours then my phone ran out and he called me back for another three hours. One of the topics was...what lightning is, and what it can do and the superstitions that grow up about it.

People covered all the mirrors in their house when a person died or because they can “catch and reflect” lightning.  "Mirrors leak lightning." it was believed.  It was thought that lightning can behave like light and be reflected. Lightning of course is not light, but a raw, electrical charge.

The phrase "leak lightning" really struck me and I hadn't heard it before.

As a electrician he was able to tell me in detail what lightning was and does!  All the technical stuff I can no longer remember but everything said in that last telephone conversation has now taken on life of its own..
Donall Dempsey Sep 2018
DEATH OF A JAZZ MAN
( for Jazzman John Clarke )

It was as I
expected

there was these
angel chicks

playing on harps
on Cloud 9

other angel dudes
playing trumpets and horns

but man
there was the Big Guy himself

playing a mean baritone
saxophone

like he was Gerry Mulligan
or something

the lyrics were
you know

hard to catch
"...you are the music while the music lasts..."

or something
Eliotish like that

I strode up
to the Big Guy

checking his *******
with a grin

"Man, that's real
solid gone!"

"I shall be made
thy music..."

The Big Guy
smiled...blew

one long long
final note.
Donall Dempsey Feb 2021
DEATH OF A JAZZ MAN
( To Jazzman John Clarke )

It was as I
expected

there was these
angel chicks

playing on harps
on Cloud 9

other angel dudes
playing trumpets and horns

but man
there was the Big Guy himself

playing a mean baritone
saxophone

like he was Gerry Mulligan
or something

the lyrics were
you know

hard to catch
"...you are the music while the music lasts..."

or something
Eliotish like that

I strode up
to the Big Guy

checking his *******
with a grin

"Man, that's real
solid gone!"

"I shall be made
thy music..."

The Big Guy
smiled...blew

one long long
final note.
John Robert Clarke as facebook suddenly decided to call him was of course known to us as Jazzman John Clarke and was a revelation on the spoken word scene. When I first started going to poetry events here I would invariably meet John homing in on the venue at the same time I did. I always knew I was at the right gig as John would always appear at the same time.
We were trying to cross a busy road and he was so caught up in what he was saying that he stepped out into the road and nearly got run over but I managed to pull him back just in time. "Woah....thought I was a goner there!" he wiped the sweat off his brow. I told him he could have been an angel on a cloud by now and picking the trope harp.

He laughed and said" "Hell no....that wouldn't be my Heaven...I would be a young man with a horn and blowing up a storm. I'd blow with Bix and Gerry Mulligan. Then all night he was scatting to Mulligan's  Song for Strayhorn.. Four years after that and many gigs later I wrote him this poem. It was four years before he died and he laughed and said I had written his obituary but too sooooon man....tooooo soon.
Donall Dempsey Jul 2015
The ship moans
in the fog

like a Kraken
that has lost its way

leaving its myth
in the mist

stumbling into
fact

only to find
it doesn't exist

Time calls it
by its childhood names:

"Hafgufa...Lyngbakr!"
"Sea Mist...Heather-Back!"

The Kraken moans
in the fog

like words
that have lost

their way.
***

Having lost the belief that humans once had in it...the Kraken dies from modern human understanding that kills the myth with knowing.

The Kraken is a legendary sea monster of large proportions that is said to dwell off the coasts of Norway and Greenland. The legend may have originated from sightings of giant squid that are estimated to grow to 40–50 ft in length, including the tentacles. The sheer size and fearsome appearance attributed to the kraken have made it a common ocean-dwelling monster in various fictional works.

In the late-13th-century version of the Old Icelandic saga Örvar-Oddr is an inserted episode of a journey bound for Helluland (Baffin Island) which takes the protagonists through the Greenland Sea, and here they spot two massive sea-monsters called Hafgufa ("sea mist") and Lyngbakr ("heather-back"). The hafgufa is believed to be a reference to the kraken:

The English word kraken is taken from Norwegian. In Norwegian and Swedish, Kraken is the definite form of krake, a word designating an unhealthy animal or something twisted (cognate with the English crook and crank). In modern German, Krake (plural and declined singular: Kraken) means octopus, but can also refer to the legendary Kraken. In Dutch, the verb Kraken means breaking or the sound of cracking.
Donall Dempsey Mar 2015
I tell her
her butterfly

resting on the tip
of her finger

is an angel
disguised so she

can visit
the human world

passing herself off
amongst the flowers

keeping an eye

on us
humans.

I wake to her crying
in a night gone cold.

“I captured
an angel...! ”

she cries

“...trapped her
inside a bottle! ”

“She fluttered about a bit
and died! ”

“Will God
**** me

for killing
his angel? ”

“No...no...don’t even think so! ”

“It was time for her
to go back to Heaven

& when you do
you got to

leave your body behind.”

She sniffles and finally
falls asleep in a sob.

I take her angel
put it on the compost heap

pray to God
to look after

all his little creatures

all creatures

great

&

small.
Donall Dempsey Apr 2024
DEATH OF A PERFECT UNIVERSE

puddles
capture
stars

throw them
at our feet
where we with each

hurrying footstep
destroy each
perfect universe.

and now that
we have gone
(lovers eager to be home)

puddles
patiently
reform

wrestle stars to the ground
(trapped in the rain’s
shattered mirrors)

reflect yet
another
perfect universe

that trembles
at the approach
of a pair of bright

newly
red
stilettos
Donall Dempsey Jan 2016
DECEMBER DAFFODILS

******* blossom
on the dancing washing line
December daffodils

her blouse
wearing only weather
blooms bustily

all her clothes
mimic the body
that has worn them

"Come...dancing!" hollers the wind
"HeeeehAWWWW!' shout the clothes
line dancing

an infatuated ra-ra skirt
jumps off line
goes solo

ra-ra skirt elopes with wind
over the wall it goes
scaring the cat

******* cling on
for dear life
oooOOOPS...they're down

a bouquet of *******
scatter over lavender bushes
daffodils dancing

now the wind falls
asleep
the clothes ashamed of themselves

a pink *******
perched rudely
upon the rue

I go gather 'em up
the ******* blush
at their misbehaviours

the ra-ra skirt
knows the game is up
comes quietly

only the daffs surprised
to find themselves here at all
giving themselves airs and graces

daffs yell in yellow
bow their lovely heads
pray to whatever God made them

"Dear Lord..." they passionately pray
"Thank you for giving us
this delightful December!"
DECEPTIVE CADENCE
( In Memory of June Dempsey )

her fingers
caress the keys
and music blooms

the dusty piano
sitting in a corner
comes alive again

eager to tell us
what each note
tells it to tell us

she places my hands
not on the keys
but upon her hands

a musical piggyback
my hands riding
the waves of music

and I living
the beauty of it all
tremble to the touch

the music enjoying
this shadowing
so much so

that it never wants to
let go
of us

but time
erases us and we
fade with the music

*

This little bit of broken memory...just this little fraction of time keeps getting played and just as it fades out then begins again. And so it begins and ends...begins and ends.

A deceptive cadence occurs when a chord progression seems to be coming to an end but doesn’t. In major keys, a deceptive cadence often happens when a minor 6th chord is played rather than a dominant 5th chord.

This is a tool for composers and songwriters to play with listener expectations, and it helps them to extend and develop their musical ideas.
Donall Dempsey Jul 2021
DECEPTIVE CADENCE
( In Memory of June Dempsey )

her fingers
caress the keys
and music blooms

the dusty piano
sitting in a corner
comes alive again

eager to tell us
what each note
tells it to tell us

she places my hands
not on the keys
but upon her hands

a musical piggyback
my hands riding
the waves of music

and I living
the beauty of it all
tremble to the touch

the music enjoying
this shadowing
so much so

that it never wants to
let go
of us

but time
erases us and we
fade with the music
Donall Dempsey May 2024
DÉCOUVRIR LE CIEL

doesn't even know
another language
exists

but he likes
the sound
steals this 'CIEL'

from a passing conversation
hoards such words
...such sounds.

loves their texture
their taste
upon the tongue

he thinks it says
"See...L."
why the hell - 'L'?

can't count for nuts
so doesn't even know
it's the alphabet's 12th letter

but likes the fact that
he has 2 'L's'
in his name

and so he acquires
language in such
little broken bits like this

his dyslexia loves it
that's enough for him
he's fallen for the letter 'L'

he's amazed when
in palm and psalm
it refuses to speak up for itself

years later 'CIEL' will
become the sky
in French

well, well..'CIEL'
who would have
thought it

even now
his dyslexia
that magpie of the mind

will morph words
shape shift
sound

his brain
second guessing
what it's found

so that passing in a car
the Clavadel Convalescence Home
you know the one

with the cow outside
in its pyjamas
and with a bandaged knee

becomes....the clavicle
in his warping mind
and his head chants

"the clavicle...the clavicle
there's nothing like
the clavicle . . .

for extending
the manubrium
of the sternum

and the acromion
of the scapula!"
before the dyslexia lets go

and so
Eliot's mystery cat
becomes

a mash up with
filched medical
knowledge

the dyslexia laughs
"That's my boy!"
ah well...

the English language
goes to 'L'
in a handcart

and all's well
that ends well
even if it doesn't

me and that boy
I was and
still am

continue
in tandem to
both invent and

...discover the sky
...découvrir le ciel
...inventer le ciel!
Donall Dempsey May 2020
DÉCOUVRIR LE CIEL

Doesn't even know
another language exists

but he likes the sound
steals this "CIEL"

from a passing conversation
hoards such words...such sounds.

Loves their texture
their taste upon the tongue.

He thinks it says
"See...L."

Why the hell
"L"?

Can't count for nuts
so doesn't even know

it's the alphabet's
12th letter.

But likes the fact that
he has 2 L's in his name.

And so he acquires
language in such

little broken bits
like this.

His dyslexia loves it
and that's enough for him.

He's fallen for
the letter L.

He's amazed when
in palm and psalm

it refuses to
speak up for itself.

Years later "CIEL" will
become the sky in French.

Well, well.."CIEL"
who would have thought it.

Even now his dyslexia
that magpie of the mind

will morph words
and shape shift sound.

His brain second guessing
what it's found.

So that passing in a car
the Clavadel Convalescence Home

you know the one
with the cow outside

in its pyjamas
and with a bandaged knee

becomes....the clavicle
in his warping mind.

And his head chants
"the clavicle...the clavicle

there's nothing like
the clavicle . . .

for extending the manubrium
of the sternum

and the acromion
of the scapula!"

And so Eliot's mystery cat
becomes a mash up with

filched medical
knowledge.

The dyslexia laughs
"That's my boy!"

Ah well
the English language

goes to L
in a handcart

and all's well
that ends well

even if
it isn't.

Me and that boy
I was and still am

continue
in tandem to

both invent and
discover the sky

...découvrir le ciel

...inventer le ciel!
Donall Dempsey Aug 2017
"DELIRIUM FLAPPING ITS THIGH-BONES!"

SHOUTS AUNTIE GRIZELDA




It was said

( though never to her face )




that Aunt had given

her maidenhead too eagerly easily




- away.




But being underwhelmed

by the whole process




gave it up as

a bad lot and




became instead a faux

maiden aunt.




Her world intact.




Unlike other ladies she

smoked a pipe.




Her beloved Maigret

so permeated with pipe smoke that




one could never read them

a minute or more before




succumbing to the smell.




Her books death to the non-smoker.




It also served to preserve her

for far more than her natural




span &

it came as a great surprise




that she could ever die but

...die she did.




The hyacinths in bowl after bowl

wondering where she had gone




and why the dusting had not been

done.




A great silence

filling up the room.
***




Aunt Grizelda would often recite Amy Lowell's poem and would use this phrase when she wanted to curse without cursing. If you heard this Lowell  line then you knew she was mad! An old old man with the silverest of hair told me about his aunt 'cos he saw I was reading about the Imagists on a train heading into the long long ago.




I would have loved to have encountered her.




This is the end of the first movement of her STRAVINSKY'S THREE PIECES




"Bang! Bump! Tong!

Petticoats,

Stockings,

Sabots,

Delirium flapping its thigh-bones;

Red, blue, yellow,

Drunkenness steaming in colours;

Red, yellow, blue,

Colours and flesh weaving together,

In and out, with the dance,

Coarse stuffs and hot flesh weaving together.

Pigs' cries white and tenuous,

White and painful,

White and --

Bump!

Tong!"
Donall Dempsey Aug 2018
"DELIRIUM FLAPPING ITS THIGH-BONES!"
SHOUTS AUNTIE GRIZELDA

It was said
( though never to her face )

that Aunt had given
her maidenhead too eagerly easily

- away.

But being underwhelmed
by the whole process

gave it up as
a bad lot and

became instead a faux
maiden aunt.

Her world intact.

Unlike other ladies she
smoked a pipe.

Her beloved Maigret
so permeated with pipe smoke that

one could never read them
a minute or more before

succumbing to the smell.

Her books death to the non-smoker.

It also served to preserve her
for far more than her natural

span &
it came as a great surprise

that she could ever die but
...die she did.

The hyacinths in bowl after bowl
wondering where she had gone

and why the dusting had not been
done.

A great silence
filling up the room.
***

Aunt Grizelda would often recite Amy Lowell's poem and would use this phrase when she wanted to curse without cursing. If you heard this Lowell  line then you knew she was mad! An old old man with the silverest of hair told me about his aunt 'cos he saw I was reading about the Imagists on a train heading into the long long ago.

I would have loved to have encountered her.

This is the end of the first movement of her STRAVINSKY'S THREE PIECES

"Bang! Bump! Tong!
Petticoats,
Stockings,
Sabots,
Delirium flapping its thigh-bones;
Red, blue, yellow,
Drunkenness steaming in colours;
Red, yellow, blue,
Colours and flesh weaving together,
In and out, with the dance,
Coarse stuffs and hot flesh weaving together.
Pigs' cries white and tenuous,
White and painful,
White and --
Bump!
Tong!"
Donall Dempsey Aug 2024
"DELIRIUM FLAPPING ITS THIGH-BONES!"
SHOUTS AUNTIE GRIZELDA

It was said
( though never to her face )

that Aunt had given
her maidenhead too eagerly easily

- away.

But being underwhelmed
by the whole process

gave it up as
a bad lot and

became instead a faux
maiden aunt.

Her world intact.

Unlike other ladies she
smoked a pipe.

Her beloved Maigret
so permeated with pipe smoke that

one could never read them
a minute or more before

succumbing to the smell.

Her books death to the non-smoker.

It also served to preserve her
for far more than her natural

span &
it came as a great surprise

that she could ever die but
...die she did.

The hyacinths in bowl after bowl
wondering where she had gone

and why the dusting had not been
done.

A great silence
filling up the room.

*

Aunt Grizelda would often recite Amy Lowell's poem and would use this phrase when she wanted to curse without cursing. If you heard this Lowell  line then you knew she was mad! An old old man with the silverest of hair told me about his aunt 'cos he saw I was reading about the Imagists on a train heading into the long long ago.

I would have loved to have encountered her.

This is the end of the first movement of her STRAVINSKY'S THREE PIECES

"Bang! Bump! Tong!
Petticoats,
Stockings,
Sabots,
Delirium flapping its thigh-bones;
Red, blue, yellow,
Drunkenness steaming in colours;
Red, yellow, blue,
Colours and flesh weaving together,
In and out, with the dance,
Coarse stuffs and hot flesh weaving together.
Pigs' cries white and tenuous,
White and painful,
White and --
Bump!
Tong!"
Donall Dempsey Aug 2016
"DELIRIUM FLAPPING ITS THIGH-BONES!"
SHOUTS AUNTIE GRIZELDA

It was said
( though never to her face )

that Aunt had given
her maidenhead too eagerly easily

- away.

But being underwhelmed
by the whole process

gave it up as
a bad lot and

became instead a faux
maiden aunt.

Her world intact.

Unlike other ladies she
smoked a pipe.

Her beloved Maigret
so permeated with pipe smoke that

one could never read them
a minute or more before

succumbing to the smell.

Her books death to the non-smoker.

It also served to preserve her
for far more than her natural

span &
it came as a great surprise

that she could ever die but
...die she did.

The hyacinths in bowl after bowl
wondering where she had gone

and why the dusting had not been
done.

A great silence
filling up the room.
Aunt Grizelda would often recite Amy Lowell's poem and would use this phrase when she wanted to curse without cursing. If you heard this Lowell  then you knew she was mad!


This is the end of the first movement of her STRAVINSKY'S THREE PIECES

Aunt Grizelda would often recite Amy Lowell's poem and would use this phrase when she wanted to curse without cursing. If you heard this Lowell  then you knew she was mad! An old old man with the silverest of hair told me about his aunt 'cos he saw I was reading about the Imagists. I would have loved to have encountered her.

"Bang! Bump! Tong!
Petticoats,
Stockings,
Sabots,
Delirium flapping its thigh-bones;
Red, blue, yellow,
Drunkenness steaming in colours;
Red, yellow, blue,
Colours and flesh weaving together,
In and out, with the dance,
Coarse stuffs and hot flesh weaving together.
Pigs' cries white and tenuous,
White and painful,
White and --
Bump!
Tong!"
Donall Dempsey Apr 2019
DELIVERING HER SOUL

You could hear
the ocean in her voice
see the sea in her eyes.

She lives
amongst mountains now
but the sea lives inside her.

The clouds cast
shadows that roam
across her fields.

Cloud shadows
grazing
in great herds.

A mountain looking silly
wearing a cloud
for a toupee.

She was still
her father's daughter
lost...at...sea.

"If I am to die
and I don't think I will ever
I hope the sea takes me!"

She laughs
at the old captain's bravado
"Got what he wished for!"

"If you cut me
why I'd bleed
pure seawater!"

His voice scattered across
the landscape of her
memory.

Clouds tower over her
build themselves up before
becoming everything...anything.

Here a cloud pretending
to be a dinosaur
one a dead ringer for France.

Now a Salome
with the head of the Baptist
now a kitten.

"The mountains don't own me
never have
never will!"

Always paraphrases Psalm 22
or something...what was it now
"Deliver my soul...

'''from the mountains
my only one from the power
of the clouds!"

"Does it really go like that?"
we unable to quote
Scripture.

"It sure as hell does
well sorta...when
I says it!"

"Am of no country
born in the middle
of the Indian Ocean!"

We scatter her
ashes to the sea.
Taking back its own.

The boat changing its mind
drinking in the wind
delighting in itself.

Her ashes
running before the wind
before diving to the depths.

"Deliver my soul from the sword;
my only one from the power of the dog."
the priest intones

silently I substitute
her clouds and mountains
her wrong footing the word of God.

"Then to the elements...be free!"
I offer
as if I were her Prospero.
Donall Dempsey Apr 2018
DELIVERING HER SOUL

You could hear
the ocean in her voice
see the sea in her eyes.

She lives
amongst mountains now
but the sea lives inside her.

The clouds cast
shadows that roam
across her fields.

Cloud shadows
grazing
in great herds.

A mountain looking silly
wearing a cloud
for a toupee.

She was still
her father's daughter
lost...at...sea.

"If I am to die
and I don't think I will ever
I hope the sea takes me!"

She laughs
at the old captain's bravado
"Got what he wished for!"

"If you cut me
why I'd bleed
pure seawater!"

His voice scattered across
the landscape of her
memory.

Clouds tower over her
build themselves up before
becoming everything...anything.

Here a cloud pretending
to be a dinosaur
one a dead ringer for France.

Now a Salome
with the head of the Baptist
now a kitten.

"The mountains don't own me
never have
never will!"

Always paraphrases Psalm 22
or something...what was it now
"Deliver my soul...

'''from the mountains
my only one from the power
of the clouds!"

"Does it really go like that?"
we unable to quote
Scripture.

"It sure as hell does
well sorta...when
I says it!"

"Am of no country
born in the middle
of the Indian Ocean!"

We scatter her
ashes to the sea.
Taking back its own.

The boat changing its mind
drinking in the wind
delighting in itself.

Her ashes
running before the wind
before diving to the depths.

"Deliver my soul  from the sword;
my only one from the power of the dog."
the priest intones

silently I substitute
her clouds and mountains
her wrong footing the word of God.


"Then to the elements...be free!"
I offer
as if I were her Prospero.
Donall Dempsey Sep 2016
DE MA & DE DA & US

Her voice
ran out

to meet us
before she did

her singing
gathering us up

held invisibly
in each note

as if already
we were a bunch

of flowers
in her hand

before she pulled us close
to her cuddly warmness

all *******
& softness

my mother’s love
enclosing us

as if she were
prepared to die for us.

She, the mother hen
and we her precious chicks.

My Dad’s bicycle bell
& laughter

conjuring him up
before he turned the corner

and presented himself
to us

as if he were
the most wonderful present

we could ever desire

His love all full of fun
and songs and laughter.

Us kids
stood enraptured

captivated by
these beings

and their out of this world

...love.
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