Lost Beings

Antisocial and a Hazard

They stare at their rectangles
and expect others to move,
as if they are royalty.

You wonder why someone creeps along,
one inch behind you,
and when you turn, they expect you to step aside.

They no longer see the sky, the sea;
they only feel the need to be validated
by a cold, lifeless rectangle,
an all-consuming obsession.

They stop suddenly in your path;
the rectangle is more important than your comfort,
or the real world, or real life.

I sometimes wonder if they know
that their behavior is bad,
and that people still in the real world
are not impressed,
or whether they’re too far gone
to care about anything
other than the rectangle controlling them.

Some shout into their rectangles;
they seem to need an audience,
a captive audience,
such as people trying to sit peacefully on a bus.

Many of these beings, once human,
also put chemicals in their mouths and lungs
and blow them across others,
making strangers cough and grimace.

These beings, once human,
are now lost beings.

The Whereareyoufrom

The Whereareyourfrom

It’s uniquely Irish.
No other country would dare.

No polite how are you?
No what do you do?

It’s the where are you from?
Straight away —
to put you in your place,
to tell you they don’t consider this your home,
even if you do.

Where are you from?

“South Dublin.”
Not with that accent, you’re not.

And with that,
they dismiss you —
for your skin, your accent, your faith, your culture —
as not belonging,
not welcome.

Think

It’s bleached and bare as skeletal remains,
the creed they give us for our own good.
Those who learn to rely on direction without question
accept it with thanks,
keep their heads down,
and comply.

Many times they tried to press their will onto me,
but I think — sharp and clear —
and I don’t submit.

It’s easy enough to be led by others,
to stop thinking for yourself.
But when the party’s over,
you realise you’re alone
and have no direction at all:
a grown child searching for the adult to guide them,
when they are long of age
to make their own way.

So think before your brain absconds.
Question.
Challenge.
Never mind the cost.

Life only comes around once —
don’t spend it captive.

ka haere tonu te ora

 Kei te haere tonu te ora, āe, kei te haere tonu te ora, kei te mātakitaki tonu ahau i a koe, e aroha ana ki a koe, kāore i tino ngaro, nā te mea ko te hunga i roto i ō tātou ngākau kāore e whakarērea i a tātou,

Life goes on, ah, life goes on, I remain watching over you, loving you, never truly gone, for those in our hearts never leave us, 

Maxime dit à Yaku : « Ceux que nous aimons sont dans nos cœurs, c'est là qu'ils sont, ils ne sont pas séparés de nous. »

Maxime says to Yaku, those we love are in our hearts, so that is where they are, they are not apart from us, 

Ní chuirtear grá ná muinín amú choíche, mar shaibhríonn sé sinn, tógann sé sinn agus athnuachanann sé sinn, níl náire orm gur ghráigh mé thú, tá grá agam fós.

Love and trust are never wasted, because it enriches us, builds us and renews us, I am not ashamed that I loved you, I still love you.

Leenane

Leenane

I recall stumbling down the mountain at dawn.
On the road, sheep scattered as I walked,
and down below the fjord gleamed in early light,
while above, the waterfalls fell so far
they seemed almost static.

In the village, men prepared kayaks
and lines for an early trip,
and I waited in the silence
as the sun crept slowly round to warm me.

The majestic fjord ahead of me as I waited—
so loved by tourists, but to me,
living here and knowing,
there’s nowhere I’d less rather be,
beautiful as it is.

The Cold Institution

The Cold Institution.

I still recall the harsh, unblinking light,
The laughter gone, the corridors made bare;
The endless ends when help was out of sight,
The bowed-down heads that learned to breathe in fear.

I entered full of hope, alive with flame,
And crossed those doors in trust, intact, and whole;
Too soon the ache, the terror, dulling shame
Crept fast, yet could not fully take my soul.

I’ve faced far worse than ignorant men like these,
Yet scars remain where cruelty held sway;
I fled, still marked, but claimed my right to breathe,
Escaped the cold, punitive display.

Their voices blamed me — don’t survivors know
That wounds may heal while injustice stays?
Still I will stand, remember, watch it go,
This brittle rule, this barren, joyless maze.

For kinder things will rise to take its place;
I’ll claim the aim I carried through that door.
Their arrogance will fail, their power waste,
While I endure — and stand, and am, and more.

Dedicated to the survivors of the schools and a certain cold institution of which I'm a survivor. 

I'll always remember you

I’ll always remember you at Christmas Time,

the rain falling and falling,
my head hurting and hurting.

I remember the tree,
a thousand stars shining,
I can only choose one to follow.

I remember the meal,
the bright chatter and laughter.
She seemed so happy—
was it because she brought me back?

I dreamed of you
and it was Christmas again.
You made canapes and made it a lesson.

She was hanging round you and being silly,
as she did the day of the Christmas meal.

I remember the joy and brightness,
and the contrast of the emptiness, the end.

I remember you at Christmas,
the cheerful jumpers which hide so much.

I remember the rain falling
and my delirium as the flu hit.

I remember how I walked and walked,
out of my mind,
knowing goodbye was the only word
but not knowing where I’d go.

I remember how my memory came back in my fever,
and it flipped a switch,
things started to change, to move powerfully.

But I will remember you,
stuck in a timewarp, that wet December night—
the thousand stars shining,
but I can only pick one,
and follow it.

The land without fear

The Journey

The journey was long, and I was tired.
No strength in my arms to reach out.

It was so dark for so long
I never thought it would grow light.

But as I fell
and thought I couldn’t rise,
someone held out their hand
and said, I’ll get you there.

And as dawn broke
I rested, exhausted.

I made it.

And now
the real journey starts.

For those who lent a hand.

See ya fella

See Ya, Fella

Sometimes you meet someone
and you like them,
and you can just like them—
nothing else needed.

And you never get close.
They are there in your life,
and they make life sweeter
just by being themself.

You slide the fader up,
mic on,
and get on with life,
broadcast.

And so life slips on.
We can’t stop the motion.

And so they fade out,
like a song on the radio.
You slide the fader down,
turn the mic off.

Transmission ends.

See ya, fella.

Legs

Legs

I used to grumble about legs—
mine don’t work well.

But now I think
how wonderful they are:
to perambulate all around,
wherever I wish.

I can say, I will go there,
and the legs say, okay,
and off we go,

movement steered by brain.

And so we enjoy the Shannon,
and the park,
and shopping—well, maybe not.

And then the legs
get me home.