That's it : I'm outta here!

I haven't been posting much here over the last while - been quite busy with other stuff.

One thing I finally got around to was moving my blogging activity over to the Wordpress platform, which just seems to allow a little more flexibility. Blogger seems to be attracting more spam too? So, from now on, I won't be blogging here, I'll be over there. The Scaldervillage Voice has hereby closed shop.

Hope to see you over at the new spot. Its a work in progress at the moment - plenty of tweaking left to be done. I'm also going to be on Facebook over here. As for Twitter? We'll see.

I've enjoyed the run here - and, in truth, the content will probably be quite similar at the new place - it'll just be a bit more integrated with my artwork etc.

Thanks to all the visitors and those who left comments - it's been fun! If anybody has me bookmarked or blogrolled, I'd politely ask you to please update your links to my new abode? I'll aim to reciprocate asap.

Ciao fer now!

Poetry Bus : Early Morning

This week's Poetry Bus driver is Chiccoreal with a prompt to write about the first thing that pops into the head on waking up - so here it is;


Again


Light bleeds along the edge of drawn blinds

Monday and the working week is drizzling to focus

beyond the window raindrops spatter sycamores

like silent neighbours popping corn



Summer shrinks away, this week our second child

is starting secondary school

soon the morning schedule won't accommodate

five minute blinks at sullen numerals


I close my eyes again - a temporary flatline - listen

to the rain shower slide away, down over Sallynoggin to the sea

rinsing early morning swimmers towelling down at Sandycove

freshwater back to salt - an opposite of tears.



© P Nolan 2010

(edited 24.8.10)

Poetry Bus : Confusion, she says

So the Poetry bus rolleth on. This week's theme is 'confusion' as decreed by this weeks driver, Niamh Bagnell - with plenty of passengers over on her blog.

I'm confused. A lot. I think. Who knows? Happy July. Innit?

contour

journeys taken
asphalt or otherwise
must abrade certainty

worthwhile destinations
require navigation and detour
often into knot and tangle

slowed along the route
strained along the rise
stopped along the level
skewed along the decline

sputtering into glare
to find the sea

swell and return

Poetry Ireland Introductions : Glóry be!

Off to the Irish Writers Centre last night, for the first reading in the Poetry Ireland Introductions Series 2010. Four poets read, each a very distinct and individual voice and the overall effect was an enjoyable, rich and varied evening of new poetry, well presented and warmly received. Judging by the quality on offer, I'd recommend making the effort to get along to the other readings in the series, tonight and Thursday.

Joe Woods of Poetry Ireland gave each poet the briefest of introductions, leaving their own voices to do the talking. Andrew Caldicott kicked things off. A former Dub, now well settled in Wexford, I became familiar with his work a few years back from the mutually encouraging ambience of the Poetry Ireland forum (a resource which seems to have unfortunately lost some of its brio of late). Andrew's work is considered, crafted and concerned with the shadows of history, travel and family. He read a body of warm, poignant poems, sourced from the soul, but with their feet firmly in the physical world.

Jessica Colley came next, a US expat, exceptionally well-travelled in her guise as travel writer, but longtime resident in Dublin. I've bumped into Jessica at workshops over the last few years, but hearing her read a body of work tonight really brought her particular voice into focus. Fragmentary and atmospheric, her poems conjured shades of their subjects as if layered together from ricepaper.

Then came Martin Dyar, winner of this year's Patrick Kavanagh award (for an unpublished collection). When this poet's first collection hits the shelves it is going to make a very big impact indeed! I'd read some of his work, yet here again his overall presentation brought new levels of poetics to the mix. Sometimes a misjudged performance style can overpower a poet's work - here the poems flourished under supremely confident iteration - his subjects never allowed to overwhelm their honed colloquial voices. This was seriously crafted material, merging the structure of tradition with the workings of today's language; formal scaffolding folding into some very original organic expression.

Peter Goulding had the unenviable task of following these three distinct voices. Within a minute, he had the room in the palm of his hand. With a track record in humorous poetry, the manner and ease of this prolific writer was apparent from the off. Irreverant, and with a fair smidgin of cheekiness, his work nevertheless displayed a depth and ability which respected subject, tradition and audience. A fitting end to as enjoyable an evenings poetry as I've experienced in yonks.

Kudos too to the Poetry Ireland crew, for their lowkey organisation and upfront hospitality.

Out the door of the IWC and the night was still young, so it seemed only logical to head across the Liffey to the Glór session, hosted - as ever - by the ebulient Stephen James Smith. I've been meaning to get to this gig for a while now. Along with Nighthawks at the Cobalt, The Brownbread mixtape, Milk and Cookies and others, Glór is part of a vibrant landscape of "old school craic" as Kalle Ryan would have it.

Being on a tight (public transport) schedule meant we couldn't stay all night, but we caught SJS himself, Eddie Keegan's street-rap-rousing, Hitman Lord's (Lord Hitman's?) urbanbeatnik ballads, Lou McMahon's whirlygig, ethereal splashsongs and the ever-mighty Bernie O'Reilly (of the Valentine poets) with fistfuls of pared back scenes of peacefulness and empowerment. A packed house. A positive vibe.

Two quite different gigs, so many different voices - and all on a mild Monday evening for the price of a few pints and a bus ticket! Folks, there's a lot to be thankful for. The weathers getting better for a start. Might be time to get off that computer and out that door!

Poetry Bus : Sign O' The Lino

This week, TFE's Poetry Bus is in the safe hands of the good Barbara Smith - and her prompt involved responding to the line;

'I got down on my knees and smelled the brand new linoleum,' from a story by Edna O'Brien, with emphasis on responding with longer lines.

Which I did - like this;

Trackstopper

I got down on my knees and smelled the new linoleum
and blessed the modern age that threw this dreamtime down

unrolled a pristine plane across my gritty concrete cage
clapped into place a slippery playground, this stage

across which - newly confident - I'd glide, a dancer born
my encores blowing faded floral curtains wide

a technicolor faun cavorting in my den until
I'd curl to snooze - a faded star becalmed again

alas, at other times my knees would squeak and drag as if
arrested by some drogue, a limpet smacked in place

I'd stick - just like that - scabbed knees turned to roots, topple
face down, cheek pooled cool to ground - looking back I'm glad it wasn't jute

The Poetry Bus : Scalderville Request Stop

World Wide Weird. One of the other poets mentioned a bizarre coincidence in terms of the image this project threw up for them.

Now I've just had mine. Shvvvvvr. I went with the number 12. The 12th square linked me into the image archive of the Musée McCord in Montreal. The McCord Museum is a public research and teaching museum dedicated to the preservation, study, diffusion and appreciation of Canadian history. Now here's the spooky part.

I counted down the page to image number 12, which turned out to be the photo of the august gentleman you see above. The caption describes him as "Mr. Whitney(?), Enniscorthy, Ireland, about 1885." An Irishman! What a coincidence, eh? Not major though - except that Enniscorthy is also my hometown, where I was born and raised. WTF? The universe is definitely trying to tell me something. Very 'Artists Way' indeed :-o

Enniscorthy is a beautiful place, culturally and historically rich, yet there's sadness too. The local landscape is dominated by Vinegar Hill, where the 1798 rebels were finally defeated, blasted back against the bare rock, as commemorated in Seamus Heaney's poem Requiem for The Croppies.

For a small enough town, it has produced a great many writers, including Anthony Cronin, Colm Toibin, Eamon Wall and - a more recent addition - Peter Murphy, whose novel John The Revelator, garnered noteworthy reviews and heavyweight fans.

Anyway, enough metaphysical tourism - how to deal with such a familiar subject in this particular context?


Around 1885

There was river traffic still
though the forest had long been cleared

In Deadwood they were mining seams
at home the gold was barley, harvested and brewed

Rabbits scattered - just as now - bared on stubble
cropped by hand, the season still the same

By the gate, Whitney saw a final coney jink to cover
opened his eyes to Montreal snow


© P Nolan 2010


And now, a warm Scalder welcome to my fellow Poetry Bus passengers. Tayto anyone?

Karen is thinking thrashy.

Rachel Fox Mad Max, the opera?

Dominic Rivron is having a Kiwi moment.

Enchanted Oak is laying down supplies.

Sandra Leigh is getting minty fresh.

Niamh B with a touch of Poe.

Titus the Dog is feeling a little 'ruff', yet experiencing the Poetry Bus twilight zone.

The Watercats are seeing Goblins.

Argent is time travelling.

The Bug is sizzling.

Jeanne Iris is setting sail.

Uiscebot is getting frisky.

Poetikat razzes the moneymen.

NanU is catching toads.

Swiss considers British algae.

Crazyfieldmouse is parched.

Pure Fiction is exorcising.

Great stuff and thanks to all!

The Poetry Bus conductor is hanging out the back with an outstretched hand for tardy travellers - make a dash for it!

* ADDENDUM * Here's a response to the prompt from my non-blogging friend, poet Chris Allen;













Not unlike the Trees at Dyrehaven

Tomorrow in this place the sun will shine,
The choirs of old will be recalled in the acoustic arch,
The beauty of nature reign supreme
And the holly trees squat and summer green,
Their thorns a little rounder - berries gone,
November passions fallen – their reds fired to earth.
This formal wheel - its turn in turn will take.

And I cannot imagine the face that I might have
There in the moment to carry the tides of existence,
To turn into the wind of shapes and matters
This final record of the watch.

Tomorrow as you rise above the valley
Move beyond the canopy and linger
Fluid and abiding like a river returning

The berries I saw fall here last October,
A velvet vein of wine in the still of winter
Sweetened and distilled by time and distance
A moment alive in the breath of it all to trace
Elements as periodic as a glimpse of the eternal
In which a man might make his soul a shelter.

If everything is thrown before the heavens,
Exposed to every weather in acceptance,
Home, is a memory sustained
By forces which are more than we can name
Of moments felt and entered in the heart -
A place existing always where you are.

© C Allen 2010

The Poetry Bus : All Aboard!

So the Poetry Bus has been rattling away along its circuitous route for a while now, and.. Parp! Parp! Good Lord, here it comes, hurtling with a distinct lack of decorum down Scaldervillage's main street, mit ye merrye olde buschauffeur ag gáire amach as an fuinneog. Let the dust settle, stock up on Tayto and Red Lemonade and step onboard to partake in this week's trip.

So, first things first. Before going any (ahem) furthur, please pick a number between 1 and 14.

Ok? Got it? Certain? Right, onwards.

The following link will bring you to a web page. To the right - just below the main image on that page - you'll see a group of 14 small squares. Each of these is a (randomly generated) link to a particular archive of photos. Click on the square that corresponds with your chosen number. Count down to the image in that particular collection that matches your chosen number. Let that image (or whichever tickles) be your prompt. Write.

Here's the link.

These photo archives are part of a larger project called The Commons on Flickr. Be Careful! You could quite easily spend the rest of your day (and then some) browsing the visual riches therein.

Don't do that (now). Instead, write! Then post your poem on your blog and comment here to let me know when your work is online. I'll post again on Monday.

Note : In general, the photos in The Commons are intended to be used for personal, educational or research purposes, so there are usually "no known copyright restrictions" - allowing you to reproduce them on your blog if you wish. But please respect any restrictions that may apply to any individual image, if so stated beneath the image.

Have Fun!

Poetry Bus : The Dury is Out

Well now. I've been a-walking the inner wilderness this last few weeks. Beats sleeping in airports, I guess. Really haven't had the wherewithall for blogging, nor much else beyond the necessary and rudimentary. Yet the poetry bus trundles on, and a new prompt from glorious sonicists The Watercats referenced one of my all-time favourite groups, lyricists, musicians and songs - so the universe reached out across Babylon, you could say - and here's my ting!


Slaughterer

Lugh's weapon buried in its sack of dope
dark light under a bushel
a hunger drowned in dregs

If every sleeping spear's a gift
perhaps the loss of that vainglory
may yet prove to be the kinder cut

© P Nolan 2010

(My image above is a response to a 'memories' theme on Scamp.ie)

Poetry Bus : Monday Poem

This week's Poetry Bus prompt is the wonderful couplet "She was wearing Stella McCartney /I was drinking Stella Artois".

As tempting a prospect as it was to flesh out this tale of designer gear and Belgian beer, I found myself tugged in a more imagistic direction - as follows;


Stella

I was struck
not by a star nor that quality
about her

stuck nonetheless
my frozen face before
the heat of her

jaw slack, molten
mouthful held stock still

grazing suspended

shocked as a calf
witnessing this meteorite
plough my pasture


© P Nolan 2010

Winding Stair : Vintage Irish Book Covers

Anyone interested in retro book design, illustration or the history of Irish publishing would do well to check out this nice little show curated by Niall McCormack’s blog Hitone: Vintage Irish Book Covers.

“The good people in The Winding Stair Bookshop have been kind enough to ask me to put together a small exhibition of Irish book cover design. The exhibition, which will feature a small selection of books published between the thirties and seventies, will be on display in the shop for two weeks from Saturday 13th March. All of the books have been selected for their striking cover artwork. The Winding Stair Bookshop is at 40 Lower Ormond Quay, Dublin 1.”

Details: Irish Book Cover Art 1930s – 1970s

March 13th – 27th, 2010

at The Winding Stair Bookshop

40 Lower Ormond Quay, Dublin 1

Niall does a nice job of book cover and poster design himself - check out his work.

Via The Small Print.

Poetry Bussing : Training Day

Totalfeckineejit's Poetry Bus rolls along, forming an integrated public transport interlink with this weeks theme, "TRAINS". What with all the connections, I though I might as well get the ferry in there too (well, being honest, this particular image was in the old headnotebook a while now). So - no planes, no automobiles, but rail, sea and myth are present and quite possibly correct;

Transit

Winter early afternoon
the wane of waxy light

Off the west pier a ferry clots from fog
seethes beyond the carriage pane

Hybrasil unmoored and restless
looming into town for the weekend

© P Nolan 2010

Magpie Tales : Photo Prompt Poem.

Magpie Tales is another blog running a regular photo prompt for aspiring writers to throw an eye over and see what results. Here's my first stab at this week's 'weighty' topic;


Shelter


Days build like scales

each a measure, particular unto itself

accumulating combined heft


new weight thrums to composition


chiming into place a melody

which, in twining towards the familiar

cools to a carapace



© P Nolan 2010

Deansgrange Writers : Crossroads anthology

Well, it's all coming together! After months of chat, planning, submission, editing, tweaking, confusion, collaboration and ehhhh... a bit of writing, Crossroads is with the printers! We'll be launching this immaculate anthology at Bakers Corner, Kill Avenue, Dun Laoghaire, from 7.30pm, Tuesday, December 8th. Why not join us for a bit of pre-budget shenanigans? You're all welcome.

Guest speaker on the night will be novelist Julie Parsons, herself an excellent example of how the whole Writers Group thing supports those aiming to develop their writing. I haven't heard Julie speak before, but she comes highly recommended. After that, some of our group will read a selection of work from the book. There will be wine. Possibly even Porter. A good time will be had, and the book will be on sale - there may even be Special Offers ;-)

It's worth noting that all proceeds from the book will be donated to the National Rehabilitation Hospital. Our group has a long history with the NRH; one member is an ex-patient, and the group has facilitated writing workshops there in the past.

Crossroads will be on sale locally and will be available to purchase online soon, at deansgrangewriters.com

We're all very proud of this book - a first publication for several members - and there's quite a range of voices here. As our editor, Katie Donovan, says;

‘Here is a variety of voices, drawing in politics, satire, family life, travels abroad and classical mythology. There is a ghost story about a shipwreck, a story for children about leprechauns, a memoir of the Dalai Lama, and responses to the recession in both verse and prose. Although each writer possesses his or her own distinctive style, there is, overall a confidence in tone and an ability to summon up a scene – from a crowded train station in Belfast to a lamplit farmhouse in Waterford – that makes this book consistently enjoyable and entertaining.’

Two words; Christmas Present!

Monday Poem : Laughing Lenny

Another Monday Poem, in response to Totalafeckineejit's ongoing prompts. This time, the prompt was that modern classic of Irish cinema, Lenny Abrahamson's Garage. Responding to this low key tale of a life caught in the cracks was always destined to result in a fairly sombre tone - and so it proved.

Precaution

given time, the incidental
sweetness held too tightly
can stifle as much as any
relentless night

sugarcubes pocketed
will curb, losing their chastity
to the silt of pocket lint
dissolving finally

as hips immerse
wading into that water
shoes, socks on the bank
trouser legs rolled

As The Crow Flew : Temple Bar and beyond

Well, the Crow Gallery show was a resounding success! A great turnout for the launch itself, with plenty of interested bodies through the gallery over the course of the exhibition. It was a real treat to get the work in front of a new audience - and the paintings got a great response all round. I sold about 70% of the work - which is remarkable given the CEC™ (current economic climate). Huge thanks to all those who purchased, attended, sent good wishes etc. It's been memorable!

I also had the opportunity to attend 2 really excellent exhibition launches last thursday; Comhghall Casey at the Merrion Hotel, courtesy of Solomon Fine Art, and Joe Dunne at Ib Jorgensen - two serious painters in fine fettle and full flow at the mo.

Also, due to being in town, I got a chance to take some photos of those Edward Delaney sculptures I mentioned earlier- that's them up top - epic work!

I missed TFE's poetry bus this week - but hope to have something for next monday's challenge. Should be a good one.

Off to the Crow Gallery again tonight, for the launch of Cloudburst - new paintings by Helen McNulty, also curated by my colleague Tony Strickland. Looking forward to this one - the work should be good, and I'll be off-duty :-)

Monday Poem : A Teddy Buoy

So, into the choppy waves of inspiration, good old Total Feckin Eejit threw his bright, bobbing challenge; to absorb a couple of poems by Ted Hughes - namely The Thought-Fox and The Horses - and see where that might lead.

I thought this could be a tricky one. Hughes's works are a bit of a touchstone for me - I'm a sucker for all that elemental, pagan countryboy schtick - so this felt just a bit close to the bone. Often, those inspirations closest to your heart can provide very little in the way of actual stepping-off points - bringing as they do a certain 'frozen in the headlights' effect. Lamped by your likings, as it were.

However, the particular bea(s)ts in these poems felt very familiar, in many ways - before long I had a line, which bubbled and simmered for a few days, before spilling over into my notebook. So here's my response to TFE's prompt - you''ll find plenty more respondents via the comments on his blog post.



Ruffle


I see my youngest son lay down his head
upon our dozing hound and close his eyes

and I look on and know that kind of comfort
those several warmths of breathing ribs and what they bring

slipping among species, slow and sympathetic
within shared sureties - life's broadest senses

_


For now we’ll close the midden from our minds
ruffle the drum of a resting torso, settle

into one more slipped Sunday - supplemental
seeking wrestled down - no family tripping in breathable hides

_


Recall instead houndstooth tweed - born wiry,
unforgiving to young fingertips, later worn smooth

from the workings of a man, drowsing in his familiar chair
diaphragm at rest - yet never resting - until starting unexpectedly

awake in another place entirely, another kind of reverie
rousted by no drumroll



© P Nolan 2009

Monday Poem : Hometown Thoughts




Monday again, and here's my contribution to Totalfeckineejit's Monday Poem exercise. Another quickie, broadly on the theme of hometown / leaving;


Coronation

Aged five, we moved two miles outside of town
trees greened and became my playmates

hunkered snug between their roots
to shelter from a squall

toting arm-thick branch lengths, lancing
through head-spun territories

or serving as a gnarled Lee Enfield
from the comic strip trench of a laneway ditch

gleaming hazel rods forked, bronzing
some never-certain divination

early Autumn rain drummed down mystic jewels;
chestnuts, glowing burnt umber

then - older - the tempation of those lowest boughs
hoisted me, finally breaching the canopy, a head

among the beech tips, wondering how I measured
on the grey cathedral spire of a world left behind.

© P Nolan 2009

The Heaney Factor : Snipe and Awe

I'll try to make this the last Heaney-themed post for a while - but there's a couple of interesting tidbits related to the man's work which have recently popped up online.

One of those pesky lit-scraps is blossoming nicely over at The Jacket, where poet Jeffrey Side takes issue with comments made by Heaney regarding perceptions of the 'avante-garde'. Sides sees this as revealing Heaney's sensitivities to criticism of his own poetic as being ' ...distinctly old-fashioned, a sort of neo-Georgian retrogressive "poetic" utterance.'

Needless to say, there are plenty of alternate points of view, resulting in a growing body of response to Side's article, with contributions from Jamie McKendrick, Todd Swift and our own, ever-fluent, Desmond Swords among others.

In counterpoint, Mark Thwaite has a short interview with Dennis O'Driscoll about Stepping Stones - his book of interviews with Heaney - over at The Book Depository (a great online bookstore, just in the middle of a major overhaul).

Byrne and Eno : Its-a Happening (again)

.


Well whadyaknow - those erstwhile mavericks of the New Wave are now quite middle-aged. Hasn't stopped them getting back together to do the collaboration hustle. Good thing? Bad thing? Thing Thing!

I've quite a soft spot for their 1981 album 'My Life in the Bush of Ghosts'. Along wih whale sounds, The Cramps and The Goon Show, it brings me back to the hazy basement rooms of my studenthood. A hugely influential album, this new one (with its Miranda July-ish title) isn't really along those lines, but these two particularly crispy heads are always going to bring some sonic sparks to the equation - so check it, Brethren (Sisters too!) There's a free download of the warmly funky track Strange Overtones waiting for you!

Byrne and Eno : Its-a Happening (again)

.

Well whadyaknow - those erstwhile mavericks of the New Wave are now quite middle-aged. Hasn't stopped them getting back together to do the collaboration hustle. Good thing? Bad thing? Thing Thing!

I've quite a soft spot for their 1980 album 'My Life in the Bush of Ghosts'. Along wih whale sounds, The Cramps and The Goon Show, it brings me back to the hazy basement rooms of georgian houses, back when I first to entered studenthood. A hugely influential album, this new one (with its Miranda July-ish title) can't really be anything along those lines, but these two particularly crispy heads are always going to have some sonic sparks to bring to the equation, so check it! Here! The whole album is streaming for your listening pleasure and there's one track available as a free download (once you submit yopur email address to the cybermephisto).