Aisling is on a roll before Jeanette
- who thanks Andrew profusely -
launches into a few words
on “Cow Sex”
and other rural pursuits in Canada.
Confused Culchies ask her
in the childhood reminiscence
if she desires an “organism”
with their “beef dip?”
She shifts off for another Canadian poetess
whose work’s drawn from her masters study.
Nervously, she first wobbles into “Touchdown” and
after “Christine Reveres” we hear
“Why I have decided to sandpaper my fingerprints”
then, with a stutter she pauses in the light flash of cameras,
prelude to a “long poem” about herself
and her life.
All Lassie like niceness and white
smiling teeth
whisked up to a shine in this dusky room
of Guiness smells and cartwheels hanging
between exposed purlings.
She leaves to cheers and mild applause
MC, Andrew
is concerned with the list number
and limits performers to a “one of your best” shots.
US Uni tutor Denise fronts up
“Post Poet Obit”
lots of alliteration with the letter P
particularly the prefix “Post”
paving the way for Mellisa Garcia,
Cuban Squeeze of Welsh Kelly
and clear spoken in
the joy of surrendering quick to love.
Sweeney reappears
others come
then myself, failing miserably
the words slipping out of my head;
My one shot over before it’s begun.
When I return to the audience
after a long smoke break with the UCD crew
Mairead is onstage asking
“have all your relationships been with alcoholics
and the mentally ill?”
Similarly strung script read questions posed in the poem
if answered in the affirmative suggest
“Crumbletouch” and some “spic and span”ness
I transform into
bathroom grafting angelic devil.
Later
Jackie Kerouac mass sooth sayer Mairead
is heard delivering a sermon to bonging music
before the crowd welcome Connor
“leading into and accompanying”
Eurolux Cork mungrel Phil
I first thought of as A Nother coz
his name escaped on air, leaving the rustle
bong drummer Connor on stage alone
to tap awhile before Euro Cork projected his web
of elegy and lyrical magic
onto a fantasy millionairess no less.
I exit
drink orange squash
and upon my return catch the finale
of the mournful bullet headed singer’s set.
He slips aside and after a toilet mix up
the dead drunk Dublin runner steams in,
a silky cadence “clasping the emotional soul”
ordering adaptations on the page before me,
ignorant and mid way from knowledge
until the mirage of reflection falls silent upon
“my whole body shakes with creation”
Michael Rothenburg, flaming onstage
talking mysterious words
his club mustering stick lips climaxing
“weapon,” prematurely,
stuttering as the crowd fleece
“tractors….overlooking the mountains of Mourne”
Thank you Andrew
are the next words I hear, then “prostitution”
from an aforementioned one time journo
who couldn’t sleep nights
so composed “Early Morning Dublin”
a “love” poem spoken in a prose like cadence
borrowed maybe, but still the truth of herself
an orderley, mixing Capel Street James Kelly
with Blake and Yeats
in mildly satirical mock elegy
to all the too many to mention greats
of a global Ireland lit crit list
she culminates into a database of worldclass
and street poets
using life as art.
I continue with my scratch at knowing,
break once more, talk with Mike and take his card
as Frank Philly Power Tools Walsh
cranks his warm up rant of sonnets
interspersed with a politically sounding
mellow coarse edge rhetoric of “busy bee talk”ing.
Michael stands as Frank is mid way into an elder spokesman
of croaky loud voiced wisdom mode,
“the slime of dead concepts” and the “self inflicted throne”
of chow wow chin wag calls
“O for the heart of a supervalium.”
Would this calm down the “rouge” of his falsetto “quack”
rising loudly above the murmering fuse of chatter
so that even “The Sharp Eyes of Jeronimo” insists
on being heard as a crescendo of shout?
I pluck “superhero” from
“the class war hard on of a happy meal” victim sound
swerving into “the Disney hole”
all filthy McNotsy prosody.
But I am only jealous through my failure to perform
as well as the beret toting Kurt Cobain
mixing Lennon American Greek geezer kid;
for that is what he is
a tender sidewalk blues maestro of nonchalant grace.
Night over
I indulge in observing kerbside debate
wishing to pitch in
resolution sounding cadences of my own
extemporised devising;
sort out the immediate grief
by toying with words alive in the moment.
To further this aim I turn sounds out
into the air between those present,
then remove myself to personal space
and perform ritual,
clearing the decks for a push torwards
recovery and/or replication of moments in the beat
I imagine they’s all whoopin n’hollerin about
in the reading matter which passed my eye
prior to the breakdown I suffered
when attending Scry Future Knowledge College,
situated within deeply warped muse wear tricks of fancy …
makin it up as I go
wonderin if you’ve cottoned on to understandin stuff
that micro sparking dart of belief wishes into the
unreal fantasy of life’s true sound pondering on
the potential decision of additional words
that go roll out understanding,
the context of which establishes all that jive talk
assorted folks is chatterin through swappin writin
Meltzer D seems top honch in the go roll out words just read,
his communication a flow of gossamer
compared to some
who’ve weaved into record
their own linguistic licks.
Whalen P is in Micks mind
facilitating an immediate connection to
Ferlinghetti L
and the non physical relationship we share
of isolating image through white space on the sheets
we both seem to be singing from.
I knew from Isoltimage onward
how madness osscillating between wholly contrived and not
unlocks the page and voice as one.
But the names are only part known
let my cast list of involvement introduce Young K
who stated “a monk’s a monk no matter what silly clothes
his order…has him wear”
in his e mail concerned with exploration of the epideictic
within Celtic verse and with helping to hope it all goes well
when Mike chats to students about the connection between
Irish and Beat poetry.
Kyger J is the next to stir
“make a name for yourself” immediately adjacent to
“really.” Please implore me too Jo
coz I need mind recognition for monetary purposes
if nothing else.
I have slavered over my devotion to Dan
or art in Irish
for three full years
and I am getting to know that
Aisling is on a roll before Jeanette
