| PEN&INK |  |
WRITING |
Here is a selection of short pieces by Pen&Ink members:
A Sense of Occasion
By Úna Flanagan 2010
The old man toiled
upwards, refusing help
from the younger
as he bore his burden
The mound of
freshly turned peat
crumbling underfoot
did not deter them
At the top,
deep breaths
of bog air
joined in duet with
staccato
tractor sounds
as a
summer’s sun faded
through levelled fields
into the distant
mountain
The old man
removed fiddle and flute
from his sack and they
tuned up.
They took their time
listening to the country calm and
playing into it
a slow air
some jigs and
a reel
blending into
past and present
and
the following day
foundations were laid there
for the
control tower
at Knock airport
CCTV
By Úna Flanagan 2008
Its for your own security
This growing lack of privacy
We want, you see, transparency
In everything you do
We know about your bank accounts
When you spend, in what amounts
We could, you see, decide to pounce
On everything you own
Don't worry we'll look after you
You're well behaved, you're no yahoo
We keep you constantly in view
Everywhere you go
Just stay like that and you'll be free
To play within our boundaries
Its for your own security, so
Smile, you're on CCTV!
The Cloud
By Brian Glavey
My being twists,
is thrown, ever-changing
An absence of will,
a tempest of
Violence and Darkness,
with frenzied attacks amidst the throbbing
power of the ocean
Colder now and colder still,
but peaceful, calm,
and tolerant,
blankets of
downey white form serene settings for the
dreams of children
Altered once more, poisoned, churning,
Spewing darts of fire on the heads of civilisation’s
most civilised
And destructive.
Wrath in the form of
Consequence
Smaller now, quieter than before,
Glowing with the heat of the world,
Sweet and benign
without a trace of bitter regret.
For I am nothing but constant change.
Worlds Apart
By Brian Glavey
The businessman frowns at his world, a mixture of contempt and
disgust dancing across his features as he glares down on the
street below his watch tower. He stares at the
filth-ridden creature before him, covered in rags - a battered
and bruised hat thrown before him inviting the rattle of
infinitisemal amounts of cold metal. It is of little
consequence to the officer of enterprise, who is trapped
within the confines of jewel-encrusted suits. Still, he
stares, a tempest raging inside him. ‘how dare this peasant
parade in front of the civilised, dancing madly, oblivious to
the absence of music’. Without apparent reason or rhyme
the old beggar suddenly stops, turns and twists his
weather-beaten face towards the businessman’s cold glass
prison. It seems to the bitter rich man as if the other
can see into his very soul. Then the ultimate crime, the
pauper smiles, leaving the enraged businessman filled with a
sense of longing for a life that could never be and an
emptiness caused by a life that actually is.
The Joy
of a Full Fridge
By Patti
McNicholas
My fridge looks full to me
if there is anything in it at all. When I open the door, I
see one carton of skimmed milk, one carton of ordinary milk,
four hard boiled eggs, a jar of black olives, a jar of green
olives stuffed with pimento and a small jar of Hellmann’s
mayonnaise.
For me, the purpose of a
fridge is to be able to see in a single glance everything I
have available, and I don’t mourn the almost empty shelves
and lack of so-called luxuries.
Most people would say, when
confronted with the contents of my fridge... “But you’ve got
almost nothing in it!” Yet to me it’s full and contains all
I need for a veritable feast.
I don’t live to eat ... I
eat to live. In a world where so many people are starving, I
am lucky to have the ingredients for two wholesome meals in
front of me.
Therein lies the difference
between contentment at having enough and the craving for
more which is never satisfied.
So I consider my fridge is
full.
Oh joy!
Villanelle
On a Stormy
Winter's Day
On a stormy winter’s day
In the cottage by the sea
The woman knelt to pray
For her husband far away.
A crow sat in the tree,
On a stormy winter’s day.
The sky was damp and grey.
Loud wailed the old banshee.
The woman knelt to pray.
The foam danced at the quay,
And seagulls white and free,
On a stormy winter’s day,
As if they loved to play,
Sailed in the wind with spree.
The woman knelt to pray.
The boat sank in the bay.
And no god heard her plea,
On a stormy winter’s day.
The
woman knelt to pray.
The Common Bed
By Tom White
You own the fridge (the plastic’s chipped)
the CDs halved, we’re both tight-lipped;
this TV’s mine, that suite is yours
love may be dead, but sense endures
I want no hurt or tears for you-
determined, though, to see this through;
the split’s the thing to keep us sane
two islands in a sea of pain
Yes I must go- all that’s agreed
and you should have all that you need
Removal men are booked at dawn
Tomorrow lunchtime I’ll be gone
You’ve noted, I suppose, all day
There hasn’t been a word astray
We’ve worked together, calm and free
Ate ginger snaps, drank cups of tea
And I washed up- let that be said!
Now do you wish to own the bed?
The bed we’ve loved in all these years-
Do I detect the start of tears?
A cuddle would be somewhat sweet
Appropriate, adult and neat
And other words that point to “yes”
I’m feeling loving, I confess.
If no-one wants to take the bed
Let’s shove it in the garden shed
But why not chuck it out in style
And celebrate love one last while?….
Defeats the purpose? I suppose-
There is a teardrop on your nose-
Let’s pull the curtains, lock the door
Love’s sweetest last, then “Nevermore”.