strange visitors

come with me
to the darkest most beautiful night
that the world has ever seen
and ever might
we can sit on the straw
we'll get warm from it
and watch the stillness draw
a cloak of peace
through a time of war
lambs are calling in the fields
that this night is forever
and forever yields
to this night
we are there
caught in the warmth
from things that are old
and things that are rare
look look my friend
gold
frankincense
and myrhh

checkpoint maggie

Mags Masefield proffers me some socks disguised as a Christmas present.
We are in the hall at the Chateau de Healy.
I proffer her a box of chocolates.
It is like an exchange at Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin during the Cold War.
Nervous soldiary keep an eye on things from both sides. That is to say the Mammy and the Dad are lurking in the kitchen with Mags' daughter Petunia, anxious to monitor events.
One wrong move or word could set off a conflagration that will engulf us all.
I take my socks.
Mags ditto the chocs.
We back away from each other.
I am smiling with genuine pleasure because I know I am ahead.
In the past six months Paddy Pup has destroyed virtually the entire indigenous sock collection at the Chateau.
For the first time in my life socks are actually a good present.

waiting for the light of the world

the night visitor

you stood by my bed
i thought to plead
how can you be phantom
you are not dead
and you replied
except that i live
truly have i died
but i came here to forgive
outside in the east
the sun took dominion
never was a dawn
so like redemption

this post shall be forever nameless

The Spanish Professor stood up.
I stood up.
She looked at me with her big brown Spanishy eyes.
I looked at her with my small Irishy blue ones.
She buttoned up her coat.
I pulled up the zip on my anorak.
The zip caught part of my neck near the throat.
A gout of blood came out.
Not a drop.
A gout.
A veritable gout.
Ah truly my gentle friends of the internet...
Truly...
I have a talent.

bring me the chocolates of heeler the peeler

Morning at the chateau.
The lady known as Lildebeest looked up from her newspaper.
"What are you going to do with the chocolates Aine gave you?" she enquired.
The mighty Heelers looked up from his How I Turned My Back On Jihad by Nonie Darwish.
"I thought I'd just leave them in the kitchen and see if any passers by would take them," he said. "After a few days I'll throw them out. I can't give them to anybody else because they're awful."
The Lilt nodded sagely.
"You could give them to Mags," she suggested.
She was referring to Mags Masefield... the cleaning lady from Dante's inferno.
A strange light came into my eyes.
"Why yes," I mused. " I can give them to Mags."

a la recherche de hoddlebun perdu

Dublin at evening.
My mobile phone trills.
It is the Bun.
"Jamie I need to see you for coffee," sez she.
Interestingly enough I do not leap at the opportunity. Instead I make my famous patented noncommittal sounds of dubious reluctance.
(They're sort of like a dolphin in pain - ed note.)
"Um, er, wellllllll..."
Big Hair is not deterred.
"I want to give you your Christmas present," sez she.
Ah. She knows my weaknesses.
Deep intake of breath for Ireland's greatest living poet.
"That's okay Hodders," quoth I grimly, "as long as it's not a candle, a coffee cup or a photocopy of one of your paintings."
A short silence.
"It's not," sez she.
Half an hour later we are sitting together in the Mac Cafe on Grafton Street, quaffing the usual.
She Who Knows Not Taste passes a brightly wrapped package across the table.
I open it.
And lo.
Uneatable Belgian chocolates.
"Hoddlebun," I murmur tenderly, "this is quite the best present you've ever bought me."