heartbeats

Sitting on a bench in the Stephens Green Centre.
Laura from Rome has just texted me that she is with child.
A moment later the Mammy rings to say that our friend Mrs Walsh has died.
I sit amid the cacaphony of a Dublin evening.
One has been called.
Another has been sent.
I am sensing the eternity that lies just a heartbeat beyond the ordinary.

a child is born

the drunk and the drug dealer
from the ashes of their lives
have brought forth this jewel
shining like the centuries
their own and others ruined by what they are
but their blood will know the future
curse them
curse them as they writhe
i am sick of their riddle
a buffoon and a criminal
between them can make a miracle
what idiot tortured destiny is this
how i envy it
envy beyond saying or sensation
for as the child's face lit up with sweetness
never was a smile so like redemption
proof positive there is majesty in the universe
and i must learn to live again

the labours of Heelules

Evening at the chateau de Healy.
Ireland's greatest living poet is posited in an armchair in front of the television.
He is at peace with the world.
His phone rings.
He answers it.
The voice of a certain renowned American harridan summons him to a new adventure.
Ah yes.
It is she who knows not kismet.
It is she who knows not fate.
It is Big Hair. It is Fiddlybits. It is Hoddlebun at the gate.
Well you know what I mean.
"Jamie," says Calamity Annie pleasantly.
A shiver runs down my preraphaelite spine.
Pleasantly is not good bold readers.
For I do fear her pleasantness more than anything else.
No seriously.
It means she wants something.
So it transpires.
"Would you be able to store some luggage for me this Summer?" she asks sweetly as though steinervortzels wouldn't melt in her mouth.
Now by an odd accident of nature, she has timed her question perfectly.
For I've been watching the Southpark episode where Santa Claus goes to Iraq.
This is the funniest thing I've ever disapproved of.
Hence I am relaxed and happy.
In a moment of weakness I agree to take her luggage.
We bid our farewells and she rings off.
The Mammy sticks her head around the door.
"Who was it?" quoth she.
"Hodders," sez I.
"What did she want?" wonders the Mammy.
"More luggage," sez I.
The Mammy grins.
"That girl," she murmurs, "will have you driving up and down the road to Dublin with her luggage for the rest of your life."