Morning

Pen in hand searching for words . The other gripped firmly. One used the other motionless. Words spill out on to the page slow at first then erupting . Sprouting out in fountains of sentences and paragraphs. They speak to my soul telling me their plans their past their future.
Starting in a field not knowing where the path will lead but not that it matters. It’s the sights along the way, the words of the people you meet the smiles the tears the dreams. None of them are yours they belong to the story to the characters. They take your hand some hold tight and some loose and they lead you to their world

Irish education

Sound this word is used extensively in Ireland to designate an individual as been a good fella. For example paddy is a sound lad, means that paddy is a lovely fellow that you could entrust your mother to without having to worry about her safety.
Sound also means that something is build securely and safely. Eg jaysus lad that’s a sound tractor means the tractor would pull a herd of cattle up Mount Everest with out any bother.
It also refers to the noises that things make like in normal countries

A Child’s hunger for hope

A Child’s hunger for hope

“Can you keep going for another while Liam?”

He raises his head and it slumps back, to stare once more at the dirt of the road. She takes this as a yes and keeps going. Words use too much of the small amount of life left inside of them. Her hair hangs limply reaching for the ground. Her head is too heavy for her to hold up.

The twilight is fading to night, another day further from their home, another day closer to no where, for there is no where to go. There is no rainbow to slide down to find a slice of bread, not to mind a pot of gold. Yet still they continue on, like all the rest, shuffling from one place of hunger to another. The eternal hope of their hearts being bleed dry by the road as it stretches out ahead of them. Each mile takes its toll from their gaunt bodies and minds. The heartbreak, of leaving their mother in her bed to lie alone for ever, grows in their hearts, threatening to spread out and consume them. The priest hadn’t opened the door when they knocked.

“I have the sickness children” he had called out from behind the wooden door.

“But our mammy is dead Father, what are we to do?”

His sobs took another  bite out of their hope as they listened to him crying behind the door.

“There are no men to dig a grave children”

She had caught him by the hand and taken him back to the bedroom where she brushed her mothers beautiful red hair and washed her face and then as the corpse lay in the bed with her hands joined together in an eternal prayer for salvation they set off on their journey.

The water of the stream cooled their weary feet. They starred up at the moon afraid to move.

“I think mammy is up there with daddy side by side just like us, watching and waiting for us Lizzie”

He moved his eyes and he saw that his sister was sleeping. Her pale skin translucent in the moon light. He wondered had she gone to heaven, as sleep took him away from the pain of his empty stomach for a time.

“Liam wake up, look what I found”

In her hands were berries. She put one in his mouth. An explosion of taste hit him and he stood up and fought to keep inside that which was so hard to find, his stomach rebelling against the foreign feeling of something been fed to it.

Their hands were purple after they had eaten as much of them as they could find.

“My face feels funny Lizzie”

“Its just you are smiling Liam, it always feels funny when you do something you haven’t done in a long time.”

The water from the stream tasted better than last night and they felt for a moment that perhaps they could fight on against this famine, as they put one foot in front of another along the gravel road once more.

They only saw the cottage when it was beside them, their heads cast too low to notice anything but the distance they were going. She saw the look of hope in his face.

“Its too dangerous Liam, they might have the sickness”

She stood watching him, too weak to stop him, as his tiny hands knocked on the door.

A child’s voice cried out

“We have the plague, move along”

But the door creaked open in response to Liam’s sobs.

A boy stood looking at them, his hunger as evident as theirs. His eyes sunken into his head were glazed over as he joined them as he also leaves behind his lost family, just as thousands of other orphans that year. All three joined in one hope all heading for nowhere with everyone else on the roads of a country of forgotten people..

© Frank McGivney 20 January, 2014

ramblings 26.09.14

The character from a book I most feel I am like is Walter Mitty . Standing gazing into space with my imagination travelling to new worlds and waking from a daydream to the look of people wondering am I a bit on the slow or weird side. Thinking that normal is the one place I’d hate to end up to be

If words are bricks then poems are the palaces that rule the world. The ultimate play with words to express the inner thought. Poems are the sculptures moulded from the poets words

is there anything as good as meeting new people who just hold you with fascination. From work today and yesterday and from the writing class last night I had the pleasure of listening to people who were more refreshing to listen to than standing under an ice cold waterfall in the middle of the Amazon..

I came out of the high court today and walking down the quay to my car i seen a right looking boyo and his girlfriend and he with that head upon him and he looking into the windows of all the cars obviously waiting to find something to rob and all I kept thinking to myself was one question “do scum bags float in the liffey” .

My first short story to be published was launched last night in the Castle arch hotel in Trim. The night was aspectacular of poets and authors reading the most wonderful peoms and short stories and drams.

It was an experience I sharded with my wife and two kids and one I hope the children will always remember. They of course reckioned mine was the best, slight bias there.

boyne berries family boyne berries

Coal man

He came with his red van and his coal and it still hot of a September day and I asked him had he an ice-cream machine that I would buy a 99 of him but he hadn’t so i didn’t. Two weeks later i bought two bags of coal of him just in case and just for peace and well just cause he a good bloke. The weather is still hot so when he called today in his shiny new white van (okay it was new to him and not really new and far from shiny) I gave him €30 and his young lad €2 and told him the young fella was doing all the work and he needed to start doing a bit do shift a bit of the weight he had accumulated around the mid section.I offered to sell him a few bags of blocks I still have from last year, sure the wife hasn’t even light the fire yet and the sweat pouring of the whole of Ireland with the unseasonable warmth we have upon us. But he wouldn’t buy them of me and left me with a warning that “he would be back”. I told him I was an accountant once and gave him my card if he had an inclination to pay tax of a day. i nearlyhad to ring the hospital with the fit of laughing he fell into.

Poem Slowing down

Age is defeated in its need to slow me down
When the quest for speed was never desired
The pace designed by my indulgence in the path
Languishing in the beauty of good and bad
The trail of the flash misses all but the light
Meandering To absorb all you can offer
I walk beside the Tortoise seeing the pattern
Hidden in the hares trail of dust
(C) F McGivney of a night because the words just typed themselves

First post

I started a writing course last night and the lecturer told us that starting a blog for writing is a great idea. I have always been a fan of the whole concept of great ideas so here we are with a blog. Just me really at the moment until all you people out there cop the feck on and realise that you need to hear what i have to say. Its important stuff so put down that facebook remote and come listen to me. I imagine you can hear me even though you cant because its on paper unless you have a talking computer.

I also did a morning pages this morning, I hope the wife never reads that or I’m rightly shagged and not in a good way.