EVERY TIME IS THE LAST EVER "We know not the hour" How many more times will I walk downstairs and what last things have I already seen? The day before the night, the last round of the clock. The year I went home, never to see Dublin again. Our last Christmas dinner: that was it, no leftovers. L’chaim! When we met in the pub in twenty-eighteen, We shared those last embraces before the pandemic. And the last poem I ever wrote, well is this it?
Photo: Bathmat towel with a random thread that looks like the number 78 on it.
Your forebears could hunt an epiphany through the great forest of Um without breaking a twig and spear it with words sharpened on the soles of their feet. Arise, put on your leotards and send in your short stories, ye of this century…(Enough, thank you. Get to the music. Ed.)
One-Off Mug inscribed
Short Story Prize 2022
SHTISEL SAID IT ALL Nobody's dead, it's okay. The people who made you are in you. And those you knew, whose folks were in them too, came into you as well. And the crowd of you mingled into the crowd of them, Late arrivals ringing, appeared and oh the reunions, the smiles, the sorrys, and the laughter.
Photo: The Bohemian Society, Dublin. My grandfather Peter Moran is seen in profile, seated on the right. I don’t know who the others are or the date, possibly late 1930s.
LAST DAY, FINAL REDUCTIONS Wake up to A bubble in my ear. And in my other ear. Sit. A gap under the door. The idea of a mouse exhausts me. My attitude is no good. My skin is no good. My history is no good. My character is no good. My personality is no good. My behaviour is no good. My poetry is no good. I am no good. Make a note.
Photo: Mothercare store closed (Harrow, June 2022). Handwritten signs on the windows say “Last Day” and “Final reduction” .
12 June 2022: It was a pleasant Sunday evening of poetry and friendly chat, meeting local poets and listening to the top of the bill, Judi Sutherland’s commentary and excerpts from her epic poem, Following Teisa.
For the record my “set list” (because I’m like Bob Dylan y’know) was:
- Sonnet for Dandy
- The Holy Child of Sudbury Hill
- High-Flying Birds Know
- Outpatient segue to
- The People Who Did Good Things
- Winter Thoughts
- The Possibility of Skipping (Day of the Flying Leaves)
- In the Waiting Room of the Western Eye Hospital (Day of the Flying Leaves)
- Ballad (The Hour of Waking Alone)
As well as getting two poems out of my referral to the Western Eye Hospital, as I said at the Torriano, I also got this blog post, which should be subtitled “Angels or Demons,” and several other mercifully unpublished poems.
Photo: “Frankie Pedantic at the Apollo” cartoon by Zoz (aka yours truly.)
THE WEIGHT OF WORDS The number of all the raindrops that ever fell on England raised to all the snowflakes that ever fell on Japan that number of words, would not outweigh a pinch of wild cotton as would make a pillow for a fairy.
I shared this on Twitter today. Previously unpublished flash fiction. (Stephen)