Did you kiss him

Did you kiss her
No Nora saw you
No you didn’t
Your nothing but a bastard
Fuck off
Scum
Don’t cry
You never loved me
I will always love you
You couldn’t
I could and i do
Was it her legs
I didn’t kiss her
Nora said you were behind the hotel wrapped around each other
Ouch what you do that for
I had to hit something
I just gave her a hug
I knew it she is a tramp wearing a skirt showing of all she has to the world
She was upset about her father
Do I look stupid
Her father died last week she was crying
Okay
I have known her for years and she was crying I just hugged her
Nora said you were all over each other
Nora is jealous

Extract from a book of conversations I am working on

(C) frank Mcgivney 2014

Too late

It’s too late for writing poetry and the time for prose had passed by with the closing of your eye lashes and the yawning of your mouth. You sit facing the screen wanting to go to bed but hear words hold you in place. You wonder why you do the things you do. The clandestine things of love and lust , of procrastination and laziness. But yet all around the birds sing a merry tune to the silence of my discontent. The priest has lost its grip . The ages of youth have passed me by laughing in contempt at my folly and I smile for all beyond that wall is full of wonder and joy

Writing as a hobby

It’s the realisation that writing can be a hobby that has really made a difference in my life.
When people hear that you write they ask questions such as those on this picture

Which I think can get you into that frame of mind where everything is aimed towards been published. It came to me the other day that this was the wrong approach as it somehow stifles your writing when you know it’s going to be sent to someone for approval. Where as when your mind has decided it’s only a hobby then you are free to write what you want to write yourself . That’s when the real pleasure for me anyway has come into this writing malarkey.
So today I worked on a play about two people having an affair which is all dialogue and is so much fun to write and tonight on a novel about an Irish writer and his quest to write a book . This novel has loads of sex and violence and humour and the madness of an Irishman .

Tuesdays with Morrie

The pair of them were on the stage of a Friday night while she sat beside looking beautiful and meaning all that anyone could ever mean to a man. There wasn’t a whole lot more people in the theatre but if the whole of Ireland was there it wouldn’t have mattered. They drew me into the cocoon of their play. Mitch Albom’s words touching me with sadness and wisdom in equal measure. The drama of his book been replicated on the stage. The book while one of my favourites did at times border on been dogmatic in my opinion.But maybe its good to read a whole load of wisdom at times. Afterwards we walked back to the car in the cold and i felt lucky to have her beside me and to have the world of books as the place where my mind resides. One day someone will perhaps walk that walk and think the same of something i have written (I hope)

Borstal boy at the gaiety

The Fenian blood would be stirred in the dead body of a watery pike watching Brendan Behans play the borstal boy. A story of a boy sent to do a mans job in a world where civilisation is still in the last dieing grips of an empire that had lost its purpose and its power to the passion for freedom of indigenous peoples. The cruelty and discrimination a weak force against the heart of a poet ,a patriot and a boy who was at 16 already more of a man than his captors . Half time in the Gaiety theatre in Dublin where the Liffey flows down to the Irish Sea