The Heelers Diaries

the fantasy world of ireland's greatest living poet

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Location: Kilcullen (Phone 087 7790766), County Kildare, Ireland

Monday, May 07, 2007


"Who would you vote for in the French elections?" quoth I to the Mammy this evening as we sat in front of the television.
"I'd vote for the girl," replied the aged parent.
"Why?" sez I.
"Because she's a girl," explained the Mammy without hesitation.

Sunday, May 06, 2007

stephens green

lesser spotted yobs
spreadeagle on the lawn
a long tied businessman
whoops into his phone
golden breasted secretaries
cluster round the fountain
preening at their feathers
and cackling with abandon
whilst an elephantine matron
trumpets for her young
and a herd of student sexalopes
gambol in the sun
each creature happy
in its cacaphonic fate
save a lone wolfen poet
hunting for a mate

Saturday, May 05, 2007

in the gathering dusk

Friday, May 04, 2007


A night of strange and perturbed dreams.
I dreamed I was hiding in the bushes watching as Pauline's open air wedding took place.
The guests were all dancing in a green glade on Aran island.
And horror of horrors.
Each guest was dancing not with another guest, but with a painting from my private collection.
Uncle Scutch was dancing with a Josephine Hardiman study of Banna Strand.
Yogic sister Marie was snuggling up to Scuplticus's monk.
Gambling cousin Vincent was gyrating with Mariana Gabor's nudey thing.
Even my brother in law atomic physicist Phil was tripping the light fantastic with Diana Becerra's stunning Homage Aux Snots Verts.
Troublingly enough, I could see the paintings were really enjoying themselves.
But worst of all gentle travellers of the internet...
Worst of all was the band.
The band was the Beach Boys.
And they were playing one of their surf songs from the 1960s.
Only they didn't sing the famous lyric: "Two girls for every guy."
Instead they sang:
"Two paintings for every girl."
It was unholy.
I awoke in a cold sweat.

Thursday, May 03, 2007

the may revolution

in my selfhood a revolution
against the pain the shame the dissolution
of loving you
i see again trivial things
and do not care
what you'd have thought
the chains of pain and shame
all are unwrought
and sunlight holds the bastille

my spirit has regained the lofty places
the high ground of heart and soul
i've won shadow
the revolution is over

Wednesday, May 02, 2007


Sitting in the kitchen at the Chateau de Healy with my feminist cousin Pauline.
Dusk crowding around the window.
She's getting married on Aran island this Saturday.
I am asking her why I haven't been invited.
"There were a few reasons," she muses. "But really I knew you wouldn't have been into the druids."
Even though she hasn't invited me to her wedding Pauline has an odd and enduring friendship with me.
She knows me like few others do.
Our friendship is not so much proof of the existence of the divine, as proof God has a sense of humour.
We chat pleasantly for a few more minutes before I decide to give her a preview of the latest acquisition to the art collection at the chateau.
"Wait there," sez I to Pauline. "I've something to show you."
I duck down to my room to fetch the Josephine Hardiman painting I bought last week.
The painting features Ms Hardiman and her late husband in a silhouetted embrace. All is done in shadings of blue. A Des Egan poem has been calligraphed around the forms. It's remarkable I tells ee. A genuine work of art struck from the gemstone of life.
I bring it to the kitchen.
"How d'ya like that?" sez I.
Pauline's eyes fill with tears. She jumps to her feet and hugs me tight.
"Thank you James," she breathes. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. This is so typical of you."
Dimly I realise something has gone awry. She has understood me to be giving her the painting as a wedding present.
My feelings about this misunderstanding might be described as somewhere a hundred miles the far side of unmitigated panic, shock, horror and despair.
I control myself with no little difficulty before she breaks the embrace.
My mind is working feverishly.
Maybe I can just say to her: "No Pauline. You misunderstood." Or some other light remark. There'll be no problem.
At this point my guardian angel whispers: "Heelers it was meant to be."
Pauline leaves the chateau clutching Josephine Hardiman's incomparable visual paean to the beauty and pity of love.
I sit alone in the kitchen for long moments.
I cannot believe what has just happened.
I make a decision.
"Well, well, well," I murmur grimly. "The druids and everybody else on Aran island are going to get some surprise on Saturday when I show up. Because Heelers is going to the ball."