the bulldog spirit

We will go on to the end. We will fight them in the fields and in the streets. We will fight them in the news agents. We will fight them by establishing freesheet newspapers across South Kildare. We will fight them in advertising. We will fight with growing strength and growing confidence on the internet. We will defend our sublimely humorous writings, whatever the cost may be. We will never surrender.

(Dedicated to all the spies and spivs currently monitoring this site on behalf of the imperialist oppressors of the masses. Remember lads, just like me, you're accountable to a higher power. No, not Monty Bates.)

paean

A carpet of blossoms from the cherry tree had fallen on the garden of my father. I stood there savouring the full flight of morning through the universe. Paddy Pup snuffled about near the hedge. The swallows, just back from Africa, dipped low over the garden to greet me. A bumble bee hovered. I felt a sudden surge of awareness. The creation. The whole lot. I could feel it all. Praising by its very being.

a rann for rwanda

half a million leaves
fell from the tree
a man might count forever
before he'd count their beauty

i wake or sleep
sitting or standing
in a vision of leaves
and everything ending

evening at the chateau

fair stood the wind for snurdville

And after the soap opera of the last few days comes this...
A phonecall from the sister formerly known as Petal, that is to say my Yogic sister Marie.
"Did you hear?" sez she without any formalities.
"Hear what?" quoth I.
"The editor is leaving," sez she.
"How do you know?" enquireth me.
"I read it in your newspaper," answered the Yoganaut. "They've advertised for a new editor. Did you not see it?"
The noble Heelers grinned ruefully.
"I never read the Leinster Lootheramawn," I told her. "So no, I didn't see it."

poets don't have jobs