PBR

Pabst Blue Ribbon

Spain From a Train

Flat fertile fields,
Stretching smooth to the sea
Slide silently faster
Between her and me
The distant peaks move parallax slow
My vision confused by the grimy window

But now the sun shines on the huerta pueblos
After we’ve left the grey suburbs and polígonos
Passing pre-war churches and Art-Deco stations,
Palm trees and pine trees and weird rock formations.

The sky remains blue, full of clouds like wool
And I love everything in the land of the bull.

Florid Apology

The yellowed corpses of flowers droop
their heads towards the rain
Like giraffes trying to drink
But they'll never drink again
The shrivelled soil in their pots points to their decay
Our neglect, like fathers or uncles, while a mother is away
Who can't (or don't) keep their child
fed, and clothed, and kept from going wild.

The weeks of sun seemed long, and while
I was immersed in rhymes, I know
I should probably have found the time
To give the kids a drink, and kept them from going wrong.

When you voiced your disappointment
I couldn't meet your eyes.
and later on it felt like it was too late to apologise.
So I hope this poem helps us see eye to eye
And let it be
An apology
That I let your flowers die.

Spring Dawn, Indiana

Watching the Indiana countryside pass by in the dawn light. Skies pink and blue like a baby's wallpaper, with barely visible tendrils of navy-blue cloud crossing in Indian file, hang over the flat fields, which still exude a luminescent white coating of frost and low morning fog over the straw-brown colour of winter grasses. The fields are neatly tilled with cornrows worthy of a 90s reggae singer, and stretch far away from the highway, and are most often lined with arboreal borders. Tucked away in those trees here and there one can spot a house. I spied one with smoke curling up from a chimney, barely moving in the air, meaning that it must be one of those unusually still mornings which are so pleasant in the countryside. The trees are still bare and spindly from the long winter, and the strengthening light throws them into much sharper relief.

I pass by a tumbledown red barn with a green tiled roof, missing more tiles than it has left. to one side of it, a large, recently-built mansion seems an incongruous sight. Gradually the trees and houses get fewer and farther between, and the fields to each side open up into vast acres of arable land, well irrigated and fertile, waiting for the summer heat to bring up the crops.

At long last, a bright orange orb shows itself above the eastern horizon, dispelling the earlier pink to the edges, and suffusing with the baby blues, turning them into a much darker shade of blue, and adding hints of grey.

Looking Outwards

thanks to my former colleague +Amy Mc, and the late greats John Steinbeck and W.G. Sebald for inspiring me to write more about my travels. This is just a bunch of thoughts strung together while looking outwards.

While spending a hungover morning in a moving vehicle doesn’t sound like much fun, the constantly changing landscape outside povided a beatuful distraction. Staring silently and vacantly into the distance is one of my favourite hungover pastimes anyhow, so the flat plains and badlands of Wyoming and eastern Montana were scrutinised (albeit none too closely) by my heavily lidded eyes.

What struck me most prominently was the discrepancy between the views on each side of the highway. In various parts , we would be hugging the base of a cliff or butte, a scree-covered rock face climbing steeply to our right, while to our left, a vast, snow-covered landscape would stretch for miles, with nary a tree to be seen, to break the expanse of white. In those parts I almost found it more akin to Minnesota or Wisconsin, the cold, flat, dairy states to the east, from whence we had come. Those places had their charm and innate beauty too, like the frozen waterfalls that hang like overcooked icicles at the edge of the highway, or the brief glimpses of the Mississippi River in the distance, framed between opposing icy bluffs. To walk out into the snowy night in simply a pair of shorts and to feel the falling flakes sting my skin as I stand waist-deep in the hot tub. Yes indeed, the Midwest has been beautiful, breathtaking and eye-catching. However, this is my first time in Montana, the country that has been immortalised in soft-focus filter in movies like ‘The Horse Whisperer’ and ‘Legends of the Fall’, and burned into my emotional memory, as one of those absolutely awe-inspiring landscapes that I must experience before I die. This is going to be my first experience of that.

Our only stop in Montana was in Billings, just off I-90, at a Holiday Inn with an impressively open-plan lobby, and a casino in the bar. I went for a meal at a suitably dilapidated-looking restaurant nearby, which aso boasted a casino in the bar. The waitresses in the restaurant had very thick Western accents, and, if possible, thicker glasses. The entire place was crying out to me to order steak, and lo and behold, steak and eggs was the order of the day. A good thick steak was placed before me. That seems to be the way it is here. All the buildings are low and thick as well, to defend against the chill winds sweeping down across the plains from Canada. The landscape here revolts against conventional towns and cities. All the urban areas look like they have been plonked down randomly in the wilderness. It doesn’t feel like anybody actually lives in them. It is a ghost town. As we pull back out on the highway, the haphazard buildings fall away, and we are once more driving through cattle country. The sage brush and low scrub are interspersed here and there with patches of snow in the gullies of the undulating landscape.

As we chase the sun further and further west, the rises get steeper, the gullies become ravines, and the landscape definitively becomes the foothills. The Rockies certainly live up to their name. Pine-covered slopes rise up on both sides, wirth glimpses of craggy rockface between the branches. As one of the cast observed, one could totally hide a yeti in there, and never have anyone discover him. The trees make a nice break from this morning’s bare, flat, landscape. I love trees. At this point also, the mountains start very suddenly, and curve away just as quickly. The highway seems to be built on a high plateau between ridges of the Rockies. You can feel the altitude, but the land is flatter here, with peaks towering in the distance to the north and south. We are once more in ranchland, well-watered with lakes and rivers coursing down from the continental divide, still somewhere ahead of us, deeper into the mountain range behind which the sun is sinking fast. There is still more, so much more, of Montana to see, but not on this trip, becaue soon all we will see are the far-spreading lights of Butte and Missoula in the darkness.

The Rockies, in my experience, create a unique type of sunset, prolonged much longer than other sunsets, with the clouds and sky a blue-steel grey, tinged with trailing skeins of pastel yellows. The colours of the grass even change perceptibly at this time of day. The light scrub has brightened almost to the colour of sand and resembles a desert. The grasses, conversely, have deepened in colour, and seem a deep green, with golden tints at the tips. As I stare outwards, a stereotypical red barn with a white roof grabs my attention. Such a splash of colour in the darkling landscape is almost as surprising as a ship in the desert. After the barn, the land starts to rise again. The plateau has ended, and now the real mountainous Montana begins. I lament the fact that it is now simply too dark to see out, and I return to the table where a near-constant game of cards has been occupying the attention of various cast members throughout the long nights on the bus. But that is a story for another time.

Atop Cerro Negro

The yawning crater feels open and deep,
With an aching blue sky
Atop walls so steep.
We stand at the base and marvel at the size.
Nature’s destructive beauty
Laid bare before our eyes
My hiking boot blisters my heel as I run,
And my bare shoulders too
Blister in the sun
That’s beginning to sink
Toward the distant ocean
But still requires a reapplication of lotion.
At the summit we pause to eat our small meal,
And take pictures to show the exhilaration we feel
To our loved ones at home who won’t really care,
Except to comment on how the wind tousles our hair.
And soon, as we all must, we begin our descent,
And head homewards in jeeps full of bodily scent.

I'm not usually competitive, but...

Okay, so my first time entering a poetry competition yielded no results. That probably should be more demoralising than it is. The rules stated that the entries had to not have been published elsewhere beforehand. I took this to include online media (i.e. this blog), so the poems I entered were a mix of things I either had lying around, finished or semi-finished, and one that I scribbled about ten minutes before the deadline. To be honest, I think that's probably why I don't feel so bad about it. It was a last-minute idea that didn't go as I'd hoped. Oh well.
Anyway, since the competition is now over, I assume it's okay to stick the entries up on the blog, so I'll be doing that over the next few days. Here's the shortest one. I originally wrote it as a song verse, but the rest of the song never got written. It would have been good though, I'm sure of it.

Oh the howling gale blows
But not as loud as my nose
The rain on the windowpane
Could well drive me insane
But that I’m stocked well with porter,
With whiskey and rum,
And I’ll sing songs and tell stories
Until Doomsday comes.

Isabella meets the stranger.

Isabella shivered and clutched the blanket tighter around herself. The sole candle in the room had flickered and died when the stranger rushed over to the small window. In that instant she knew she'd made a serious mistake. The local men were on their way through the forest, but this one was on his guard. There was no light for them to aim now. Indeed the whole setup had been risky. She should have known, she thought. This one wasn't like all the others. He had a sinister way about him, a dodgy sort of chap. Sounded like he was from further east, when he spoke at all. He didn't have a farmer's hands, either, they were too slender and quick. But he had seemed weary, and eager for refreshment of all sorts. He looked to have money, and Isabella was only too happy to play him along. She needed the help of the men in the village. She would get her share, once Angelo the butcher greased the palms of certain local officials. Angelo could gut a man in seconds. Isabella knew this, she had seen it as a child. He had killed her gypsy father, when he made the foolish mistake of returning to the village. She bore no grudge, he had always taken care of her and her mother. Now Angelo was advancing through the trees alongside Bernardo the farmhand and Luca from the inn.

How the stranger knew they were there shocked her, although her attention had been quite distant. Her cabin was a little way from the village, secluded in some trees, with a small paddock on one side, holding a donkey and two goats. The stranger had retrieved his cloak, and extracted from within a concealed pocket a velvet roll, which he unrolled to reveal a series of short knives. He unlatched the door quietly, then turned violently towards Isabella.

"You must now help me. Or else you will follow your friends. You must make the sounds of making love. They must not suspect a thing." This change in demeanour from the quiet traveller at the inn shocked her into compliance. While she moaned quietly in the corner, mostly to herself, the stranger took up a position near the semi-open door. He stared patiently into the darkness, and presently noticed a movement near the edge of the trees. He knew what to expect, Giovanni Vertese (for indeed it was he!) as he had pulled similar stunts all his life, from Venice and since leaving there, never leaving an eye-witness who could send help hunt him down. Until recently. His sojourn in Savoy was only a temporary stop on his way to France, to evade capture by the authorities, who wanted to hang him as a murderer from Trento to Torino, and had but one old hag's word as evidence. He had avoided the major routes, and stopped in this isolated village to rest and eat. Damned if a rustic peasant with a meathook would be his end. Gio saw his moment, and let loose one of his small knives with deadly accuracy. A stifled gurgle and he heard, rather than saw, the large man from the inn fall into a bush.

The lack of moonlight made it easier for both sides, but Giovanni had the advantage of being indoors. He rounded on Isabella. "Shut your mouth now, gypsy girl. Tell me. How many are out there?" She looked back at him, terrified yet growing angry. "At least five, you filthy son of a Turk. You will never leave here alive." Giovanni's face split into a grin, accentuated by his missing teeth and he leered at her. "Five you say? This should be fun." At that point he whipped the door open, as he heard the running footsteps of the butcher and farmhand. The farmboy was stopped short by a cane to his windpipe and shortly afterwards lay on the floor with blood pumping from the main artery in his leg while he gazed in wonder at the silver knife which had sprouted from the wound. The butcher was a different matter. He had remained outside and out of view, evidently intending to launch a surprise attack from somewhere. Isabella looked at poor Bernardo. He was only a kid, she thought. She'd helped him out from time to time, as he had her, and it was rather sad to see him go this way. She'd seen men die before, though. Armies had marched through Savoy for years, and where there are armies, there were local people willing to "help out". As she was lost in her thoughts, however, she became aware that the wailing in the room was not solely Bernardo's, but also her own. The stranger turned from the window, and drew a longer blade. He quickly put poor Bernardo far beyond the pale. Isabella screamed and ran to the door. This was not how it was supposed to happen. As she ran to the door, she saw Angelo to one side, underneath a window, and started towards him. He reached up to grab her by the hand, and as he did so, his face froze. "Angelo. Angelo, what is it?" But it was too late. She saw the hilt of a large dagger protruding from between his neck and shoulder blades. Looking upward, she saw the stranger hidden in the eaves. She turned and began to run, expecting to feel a knife between her shoulders at any moment. But there was nothing. Until a moment later, she felt the stranger scoop her up over his shoulder and he ran, jingling like a merchant of Genoa, through the small strip of trees to the inn nearby where his horse was stabled. He handed her roughly to the ground, and quickly saddled up. He looked at her with his unflinching green gaze and said
"You're coming with me to France"

Feicim féin le súilín d'éan

i dtús na hoíche
feicim
an lá dár gcionn
feicim
idir an dá linn
feicim

an shower sin i nDáil Éireann?
Feicim!

Aiféala

here's an old poem from 2009 that I just found scribbled in an old notepad

Ar na Staighre Spainneach, tógaim grianghraif di
Turasóir álainn, meangadh gáire uirthi
Amharc eadrainn, lán le paisean
Cúpla focal, agus d’iompaíos liom
Ag breathnú siar anois, tá fhios agam nach ndearnas
Leath-iarracht dul i ngleic léi
An radharc is fearr sa Róimh

Thoughts on a rainy night

In the dark hours of night with the sodium glow
permeating the sky and making me feel low
I stand in the downpour and get soaked to the skin
I raise my face to the sky and senses reel in
they've been gone for a while, as I wandered in rags
accosting strangers and tourists begging for fags
screaming at ghosts, clawing at the air
sleeping with women who weren't really there
I met cowboys and Indians, liars and crooks
I met men who appeared from the pages of books
they taught me to see the real world that we're in
I tried to warn people, but they wouldn't listen
they call me a madman, a hobo, a drunk,
it seemed like my senses were all in a funk
but the rain washes away my physical sheen
my body is ready, my mind is pristine
I'm watching them both from a really great height
And I know the rain can't wash away the truth in the night

I've been doing a bit of narcissistic photography recently, especially since the weather's so good, it's nice to play outside. If anybody uses Instagram, I upload a lot of my photography on there. Look me up under the username 'dermhurl' - same as Twitter and Youtube. No real other reason for this blog post, I just feel like I haven't done anything in a while. I've spent the last 2 weeks reading 'Rubicon' by Tom Holland, which I should have easily finished in a few days, if it weren't for the constant distractions one tends to find on sunny summer days. such as the following snaps:

beside the whitewashed stone shed in the home place, Co. Donegal

looking across the bay to Clare

down by the Plassey wreck, best known from the opening credits of 'Father Ted'

looking west towards America

leaning on a hedge in 'the street', Bruckless Co. Donegal

Máiméan - scéal. scríofa.

Bhíomar ag bun an tsléibhe. Ní mór dúinn fágáil, bhí an oíche ag titim anuas. Bhí teas sa ghréine go fóill, agus tar éis an dhreap, ní raibh éinne dínn nach raibh tart fulaingteach orainn. Cuimhnigh mé go raibh uisce sa charr agam. Iontach dearfach. Bhí Cholm an duine is deireanaí síos ón tsliabh. Agus, mar is gnáth, bhí seisean ag tiomáint. Muide thíos ag fáil bháis ón tart agus eisean ag siúl mar ná raibh aon dualgas air ar domhain. Shroich Choilm an charr, agus shín sé a lámh ina phóca chun eochair an charr a fháil.

"Ó MO DHIA!!!!! CÁ BHFUIL NA FECKIN EOCHRACHA!!!!!"

B'é sin an chéad rud a chualas uaidh. Fear ciúin ann de gnáth, ach nuair a bhreathnaigh mé thall ina threo, bhí sé ag déanamh hurlamaboc den chineál nach chreidfeá dá raibh aithne agat air. Gach uile rud tógtha as a phócaí agus caite ar an talún. Chuile rud caite as a mhála chomh maith go dtí nach raibh pingin aige nach raibh i gcnoc beag ag a chois.

"Jhaysus, caithfidh siad bheith fágtha agam ar bharr, áit a raibh an phic-nic againn..." ar sé agus ní fhaca mé fear chomh dólásach agus díomách riabh, agus é ag smaoineamh faoin sliabh a dhreap arís. Ansin thosaigh sé ag rith, ar ais i dtreo bharr a sléibhe. ní raibh sé imithe i bhfad nuair a fhuair muid amach nach raibh an charr faoi ghlas in aon chor. Chuaigh Dáire, Caomhín, Aindrias agus mé féin sa tóir ar na heochracha laistigh den charr. Bhíos féin ag tógáil rudaí amach as tóin an charr, nuair a chonaic mé iad ansin: ar an talamh. Ar an feckin talamh. Nach muide uilig na heejits cheart? Bhíomar.

Nuair a bhí fhios ag gach éinne go raibh na heochracha faighte, bhí sceitimíní orainn ar fad, thosaigh Caoimhín ag rince ar díon an charr, bhí sé chomh áthasach. Rinne muid iarracht scairt a chur ar Choilm. Bhíomar in ann é a fheiceáil, agus é fós ag rith, igcéin uainn. Bhí an fón aige fanta ar an talamh sa chnoc bheag. Faoi dheireadh, agus na guthanna beagnach imithe uainn agus le cabhair ó chorn an chairr, thug sé faoi deara muid, agus thuig sé céard a bhí i gceist.

Deich nóimimt ina dhiaidh sin, bhíomar ar ár bhealach abhaile.

The Golden Hills

The cattle they were sleeping, and the hillside it was bare,
Even the farmers were getting out of there,
Monaghan was freezing, the ice was cool and still,
When Richard Conroy and his miners found gold up in the hills.

Clontibret, they all say, is a sleepy little town,
And the most gold they’ve ever seen might be a half a crown
But the news of the find shook them all up to the gills,
When Conroy and his miners found that gold up in the hills.

The councilmen unwrapped their shovels and their picks,
Loaded up their Transit vans, and headed for the sticks.
With silence and intent, the moved in for the kill,
To stake a claim, and make their name, in Monaghan’s golden hills

The press soon smelt a story, and came from far and wide,
To see the hills from where soon would flow a golden tide.
Such a crowd had not been seen before in these quiet hills
Since Sir Paul McCartney got himself hitched to Heather Mills

Well, now it’s two months later, and the cynics still abound,
They say Clontibret’s gold deposits never will be found.
It’ll never stop the optimists, who seek their glass to fill,
And they still continue searching for the gold in them there hills.

Feeling lost?

When you've happened to lose
that thing you most need
there's only one man
who can help you indeed

He doesn't ask much
whatever you can give
and he'll always be there
for as long as you live

So say it three times
and mean it as well!
His name is St. Anthony
couldn't you tell?

mind how ye go