Tag Archives: prose

Irish strength

When the crown killed

Our children with hunger

Feed through greed

A nation learned to fight

By

Talking with words

Rhyming lyrical beauty

While saying nothing at all

A rich culture

Devoid of material wealth

Adorned with tales

And sceals

Of Swans sailing across

The wide sea to heavens door

Silence holds the strength

The foreigners never could

Sense within the feelings

Of the mothers in the uplands

Who dug stones with hands

Worn of nails

And skin trailed with tears

Wept for children

Starved

A genocide fed

Of potatoes rotted

And crops on ships

Set sail for English lands

Frankie mcgivney writing of a march day after listening to a historian waxing lyrical with mr tiernan

A seat

The bench, old and worn, was cold to the touch through the wool of my trousers

Hi

I could see a line of grime etched into the lines beneath her face as she looked up from her can and threw the shortest of dirty looks expertly mingled with a sound mixture of disinterested distain

Sometimes no doesn’t have to be put Into words or perhaps a look is the strongest no

Still and all it’s not a bad day all things considered

The look again this time I noticed a bunch of her hair stuck together with blood or sweat or vomit or whatever sticks hair together when a member of the human fraternity doesn’t get to avail of the washing facilities of a day or even a month

You can go fuck of if you think you getting something out of me I’m no hooker

I’m no punter either

Good cos I’m particular about who I be having the fun with

Me too

Yeah right

Yeah right exactly

Don’t be getting fucking smart you fucker

I just saying I not into hookers

You should be

Ah here

Well the state of you with the head on you and that Gammy eye and you look like your mother picked out the clothes. Is that wool?

Feck sake you’re worst than a commentator on one of them shows

What shows

You know the xfactor bollixology

Here listen don’t be using that kind of language in front of a Lady

Fair enough

And a slow breeze trailed across our path while we both looked on at the city passing by. a quietness in the kaleidoscope of hustle

You know no one talks as they walk

I looked up and listened and watched

Your man over there is talking on his phone

I thought I told you not to be a wise fucker

You only mentioned being a smart one

Whatever. He is on a phone that don’t count

Why not

It just doesn’t

Why

Cos it’s like the mad cunts who talk to themselves it’s not real talking it’s just pretend chitter chatter

I see what you mean

About the phone

No about them not talking they just are all rushing

Yeah

Yeah

Have you a light

Have you a fag

Yeah

Right then

And I saw her eyes were brown when she held the flame

She would have been a beautiful daughter to some Da a long time ago

She held the smoke deep inside, feeling it’s warmth before slowly releasing it back into the world

I better make a move

She nodded and looked back down

I touched her shoulder gently when i stood, the briefest of contacts; she didn’t react, maybe she hadn’t noticed

I walked on with out a word been uttered to a soul, a member once more of the rushing throngs

(C) frankie mcgivney

Just a random story of top of my head I hope it reads okay. The words I love to write

she left of a sunday

She left of a Sunday

Hello is there anyone there

Up here paddy

Is Mary about

No she went out.

Right

Make yourself a cup of tea,

Sound

Make me one too will you

Right, I didn’t see you at mass on Sunday

No I wasn’t able to get away.

Right you are, it wasn’t much good anyway

Come on up, drop of milk and one of them sugar cubes

Where are you

in the bedroom

Hi , that’s looks uncomfortable

Ah you get used to it.

Will I leave down the tea

No no give me a sup of it. Hold it there for me

Right you are

Jaysus that’s some weather hah, no wonder you’re in the nip

true, that’s a lovely cup of tea

So Mary she isn’t about

No she went out.

And left you there

Yeah she said she would be back soon

Ah fair enough so.

You wouldn’t throw the quilt over me there.

Right did she leave the keys to them

I don’t know I’m not sure.

Your hands look a bit pale.

Ah they’re grand

Fair enough are they regulation issue

She got them at a party

Ah right, I heard of those ones, the bolde Maggie ryan holds them

So was there many there

Half the women of the parish

No, at the mass

Quiet enough, loads at the early one for the match

The Usual

Yeah the usual

Give me another sup of the tea

That’s a fair small one you have there

What

You know your weaponry

Ah right

Never grew for you then

Nah that’s the length of it

Right so mary’s left then

She said she’d be back

Right so will I leave you to it

Yeah fair enough

See you then

Good luck

When did she leave by the way

Oh Sunday

Sunday, that two days ago.

Well you know yourself Sunday is fun day

Fun day?

Yeah you know, rolly polly day

Ah right, Sunday, sure that’s right

Right

Right do you think she will come back

She usually does

Has she gone before

Ah yeah, regular

Ah right

Right

Good luck then

Bye thanks for calling, give Josie my best

Fair enough

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

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What to write

I dream of writing both awake and asleep, it’s something that reaches into my soul at all times. Both sides of the same coin it doesn’t matter which side that pops up head or tails . The two side being reading and writing. I don’t feel I have achieved any real quality in my writing but I do sometimes see where I want to get to as a tiny pinpoint far distant in my horizon. I stretch and reach for it and someday I hope I get to it. If it turns out good then I will look to the next horizon but I know it won’t be everyone’s cup of tea. That’s the aim of course to be different so that those who like it love it and those who dont well they can only hate it because of its distance from the norm of warm comforting sunsets.
I was listening to stories and thinking to myself sure wouldn’t it be great to be able to write them lovely tales of times gone by or of lovers in fields of gold or of a fisherman sailing across the broad Atlantic foam.

Then I realised the reason why I cant tell you about the green leaves melting into the crimson beauty of autumns rain. Why I can’t tell you how the sunset looked of a winters day as the purple of the evening sky faded into the star filled world of dreams. I also realised I didn’t want to tell you those things because I have read stories by people much more talented than me who have in beautiful prose and with elegant sentences alreadydescribed the sentiments and the beauty.

I want to look at the other side I want to see how the moon looks on the dark side away from the earth. I want to tell you how the drug dealer feels as he put a bullet into your knee cap. Its my job to tell you how the mind of the crazy person works as he stumbles along lonely roads stretching his hand out to spread his madness.

My stories want to lie in that rat infested corner where damp seeps into the lost child’s clothes and tell you how he escapes from the crap the world throws at him but maybe he doesn’t escape.

When the hunter is standing over the dead prey I want to tell you the feeling in the jaws of the lion as he attacks and tears his skin from his bones.

But then I want to tell you how the lonely man feels inside how his hearts yearns for the plain girl with the cross eyes and the pimples. If you want to read about the blonde blue eyed girl and the handsome lover then mills and boon is awaiting for your money

Most of all, I say most of all I want to write what the people inside my head tell me to write which from the echoes i am hearing is different to what I expected and sure isn’t that something to aim for. To meet the definition of normal is a boring objective but to look at things from the inside out while hanging upside down well then that makes me want to tie a rope to my feet and jump of that bridge.

boat on lake

Writing

You sit and listen and learn and the desire to write builds up inside of you. She has a look about her and a way of talking that makes you wonder. The words of another resonate in the air and you wonder could you ever, would you ever write as well.
Then you realise you wouldn’t want to because it’s not you. You write your way and yours alone which mightn’t be the best or even that good but by jaysus it’s your own. As wilde said be you own person because all the rest are taken or something along those lines.
You come home and what you write is different and perhaps mysoginistic and definitely violent and perhaps loving and yet you like that character and you want to hear his voice as he talks to you.