provincial poets

this morning i read through the works of billy byrne
traced the words and music he had drawn
and after wondered as to what degree
his musings held in the rank halls of poetry
i scorned the traipsing metre and the mind
which brought it to the world i became
a defiler in the temple of the muse
now in broken spirit i start again
let the works of byrne shine thus
no greater and no less
than the darkness glistening in homer's verse
no more high or low
than keats' first pure clarion call
which whispered in the timbrels of its gleaming
even a savage has feeling
even the gods must fall

I Spy (on The Heelers Diaries)

A HUMOUR COLUMN
By IAN O'DOHERTY

Coo blimey.
Whar.
Couple of salacious references to sex.
Wharrghhhhhhhhhhhhhh
(Blah, blah, blah. - Ed note.)
I'm a superhero but sometimes I use my powers for good.
Couple of jokes a bit like something from The Heelers Diaries.
Whargh.
Ha, ha.
(Yadda, yadda, yadda. - Ed note.)
Priapic.
Priapic, priapic, priapic.
I love that word.
Priapiccccccccccccccccccccc.
(Steady. - Ed note.)
An anecdote from The Simpsons.
Anyhoo.
Catholic church repressed me.
Catholic church ruined my sex life.
If it wasn't for the Catholic church I'd be having great sex all of the time.
(Oh shut up. If it was that simple we'd all be getting some. - Ed note.)
I love the O'Reilly family.
Hail to the chief.
Oh I'm such a radical dude.
Hail O'Reilly.
Hail.
Oh pale parvenu.
How thou has conquered.
(You what guv? - Ed note.)
Piece of analysis about Bob Geldoff and the Ethiopian Famine taken from The Heelers Diaries.
Heartfelt.
I feel it in my heart.
Doesn't matter where I got it from.
(Yehaaaaaaaaaaaaa. - Ed note.)
I'm going to introduce some new characters which I feel the audience will enjoy.
A sheepdog called Laddy Pup.
And an aged parent known as The Gammy.
Nobody can say I've stolen those.
Arf, arf.
(Arf, arf indeed. - Ed note.)
I love Ed notes, don't you.
(They're getting a bit wearisome. - Ed note.)
There's no God.
If there was a God how could he let me use the style, insights and sensibilities of a sublime writer like Heelers to gild my drivel.
Ha!
A few more salicious maunderings.
Whargggggggggh.
Whoar. Whoar.
Some nifty pop cultural references appearing in print for the second time in the history of humanity.
Er.
That's it.
(There's nothing James Healy can do to stop me reading his website. Nothing. Nyah, ha, ha, G-Force. - Ian O'Doherty note.)
(I can make it a lot less fun for you. - James Healy note.)
(And if you keep ripping James Healy off, I might have to punish you. - God note.)

thus spake zarethustra

The share price of the Johnston Press is 6.56 pennies.

morning tide

I awake and feel the soft presence of dawn creeping into my room. From the window I can see the eternal glory of first light announcing the will of God to the creatures of the world. Nestling in the hedgerows myriad birds answer in song that tehy have heard the call and will perform their duty in the creation. They are singing now. They sing the world into being. The ancient fields stir with new life. Shadows are lifting. Time and tide cease surcease. The numbers we give years are flung like chaff from the plough. I am allowed to see hence, and thence, and now. And at last I see more. People past, passing and to be. Come streaming from the fields. I believe.

the number of the boors

The share price of the Johnston Press on the British Stock Exchange this morning is 7.04 pence.

rhapsody in blue

sports round up

The share price of the Johnston Press is 8 pennies this morning.
No more and no less.
8p.
What a magnificent demonstration of the skills and abilities of the sublime and enlightened men who fired me from my job at the Leinster Leader three weeks before last Christmas.
8p.
It's the price of them.
The Johnston Press has the lowest share price of any of the 20 companies whose prices are cited by the Daily Mail as media sector companies on the British stock exchange.

Yesterday the investment brokerage known as Teathers downgraded its earnings per share estimates for the Johnston Press. Teathers said: "We have amended our advertising fade assumption for Johnston Press in line with our thinking on Trinity Mirror. As a result whereas we saw a covenant breach as improbable in our comments in the wake of the Interim Management Statement (given the levels of advertising fade in our prior estimates) this now looks likely in our revised numbers."

I wonder what all that means. Something called Teathers thinks the Johnston Press may be facing a covenant breach. I've been told the term covenant breach refers to a company having difficulties paying the banks what it has undertaken to pay them at a particular time.
So Teathers thinks a covenant breach is likely now for the Johnston Press when the share price of the Johnston Press is at 8p.
Well.
Duhhhhhhhh.

Amidst the momentous events unfolding in the city of London, it is strange to see up to twenty visits being registered at The Heelers Diaries every day from Johnston Press offices.
With their share price in free fall I'm surprised they have the time.
And when do they ever get around to producing newspapers?
Presumably when they're not so busy popping in here to read up on Paddy Pup and the Mammy.
Occasionally in recent months someone operating from a Johnston Press office in London has mustered the chutzpah to leave comments on this blog.
He has a Bulldog DSL internet connection.
There have been four comments from this source.
They reveal something of the calibre of the individual concerned.
The first comment was: "Why were you fired from the Leinster Leader?"
The comment might more aptly and more honestly have read: "Why did we fire you?" But let's not sweat the small stuff.
His second comment came a few weeks later and was also: "Why were you fired from the Leinster Leader?"
He must have thought it was a good one.
Having spent two years coming up with the courage to leave a comment at all, I suppose it was difficult for him not to use such class material twice.
The third comment was: "Shut up and move on. Build a bridge and get over it."
Clearly this man should be writing novels.
He's literate.
That's what he is.
His fourth and final comment was a sneering aside about my dropping two grand in a bet on John McCain to win the American Presidency.
I thought this comment was funny, so I didn't delete it.
But naughty, naughty, very naughty.
Hopefully God will give him a good smiting in the bawls.

a satire on the reporting style of the independent newspaper group

the pope looked old
the pope looked very old
he looked like an old pope
the pope looked old his voice shook
the pope looked old and frail
the pope looked old and frail his voice shook he walked with a stick
the pope looked positively decrepit
he can't last long
soon he'll be an ex pope

not like tony o'reilly
that gay young thruster
with his shock of golden hair
glinting like the sun
and his fascinating rugby stories
and his great wad of cash
and and and
loved by millions

the sincerest form of flattery

Sitting in the Costa Cafe at the Whitewater Centre this morning.
My eye fell upon a copy of the Irish Independent which someone had left lying around.
My hand slipped and I accidentally started reading it.
And lo!
I chanced upon Mr Ian O'Doherty's inspirational humour column.
It is called "I Spy."
It is called "I Spy," because Mr O'Doherty regularly spies on this website in his search for ideas.
The fact that my life affirming elevated prose should be used by an anodyne, atheistic, self promoting pill to propagate the Irish Independent's witless, worthless, valueless credo is beyond irony.
(Actually O'Doherty's not an atheist. He worships Tony O'Reilly the owner of the Irish Independent. - Ed note.)
I read the column.
As per usual, it was indeed inspired.
Inspired by what is written in The Heelers Diaries, I mean.
Today's piece of petty thievery had a nifty little innovation.
It concerned the use of notes supposedly written by an anonymous editor, interspersed in the text like heckles from an imaginary audience.
Such notes add a most engaging dynamic to a written piece.
They provide an almost efferfescent duality, a surrealistic seditiousness, along with a feeling of heightened discourse for the reader.
Notes supposedly written by an anonymous editor.
Ed notes.
Wonder where he got the idea for those.
Ah he's a genius.
Once again we discover there's no idea or intellectualism or humorous innovation that I can't originate here, which Tony O'Reilly's cloth eared minions can't reproduce there.
(Do you remember the time you wrote the word priapic, and the next day it was all over the I Spy column? - Ed note.)
The only drawback is that it's impossible to steal sincerity.
The quality of the genuine.
The more they try to pilfer my greatness, the more it slips through their fingers.
So I reckon I can live with it.
Truth be told, I myself am hardly the first one to insert Ed notes in his own material.
I'm just the first one to do it and actually make it funny.
And if I've been hard on O'Doherty, let me temper my remarks with a nod of recognition.
Ian O'Doherty, for all his faults, at least recognises great art when he steals it.
(Heelers means that Ian O'Doherty is a porcine cannabinoid plagiarising pleistocene priapic little git. - Ed note.)

from our sports desk

This morning in the city of London, the price of a share in the Johnston Press is nine point eight eight pennies.
That is 9.88p.
Up to now I never realised there was such a thing as 0.88 of a penny.
We live and learn.
The share price when the company fired me from the Leinster Leader less than a year ago was nearly £4.
Seriously though, they're doing a brilliant job.

vintage lilism

Beetling into the Whitewater Centre with the Mammy for coffee.
She's in fine fettle.
"Look at ould baldy," she whispers as one of the burlier security men passes us.
"Shhh Mother," I exclaim, "you can't be saying those sort of things when they can hear you."
The aged parent shrugs aged parently.
By way of changing the subject she mentions Father.
"You won't believe what happened this morning," sez she. "I heard your father in the kitchen saying f---, f---, f---, over and over. And I went out to him and asked: What are you cursing about. And he said: I can't remember."
I found this anecdote highly amusing.
We laughed ourselves silly on the escalator up to the Costa Cafe.
By the way noble travellers of the internet, "I can't remember" would be a standard piece of Daddler plausible deniability.
It's loosely translated as "I'm not telling you."
The Mammy turned her attention to weightier issues.
As we entered the cafe she began one of her trade mark diatribes about my enemies.
"Why are you still writing about the Johnston Press?" quoth she. "It's not like they're going to understand anything you say. Those sort of people wouldn't have a clue about Ozymandias. They'd all be running away to look up the books and see who he is. They wouldn't know Percy Bysshe Shelley from their elbows. It's not far from the half door they were reared. You're throwing your pearls before swine."
I said nothing.
I didn't want to interrupt her when she was on a roll.
And the caffe latte tasted like the ichor of heaven that morning.

the heelers emails

From Avid Fan to Heelers.
Healz.
You published an article called A Charter For The Defeat Of Al Qaeda recently. It has since been taken down. Why?
Avid.


From Heelers to Avid.
The article was taken down because the morning after I published it, I woke up with an excruciating back pain. Couldn't care less about the Jihadi's but thought God might have been annoyed with me. Wasn't willing to risk it.
James


From Frank Taaffe, Trial Lawyer, to Heelers.
James.
Have the shares really fallen to 13 cents since you left that centre of excellence? I see from the latest photo that you're putting on excess pounds! Are you writing a book by any chance, or even by dint of your undoubted talent?
Regards,
Frank.

From Heelers to Frank Taaffe.
Frank. Would I kid about a serious thing like the Johnston Press share price? The photo was done with special effects. The book is underway. Send a hundred quid immediately to help with story development. The hundred will get you an ad on The Heelers Diaries. A lot of criminals visit my website Frank. Many of them could do with a good defence attorney. It'll be money well spent.
Thanks.
James

From Michael Appourchaux to Heelers.
Well that was a laugh! First time ever I'm mentioned in a blog; Which is no wonder since I've not gained half the recognition u seem to bestow on me care of French critics...
Might be good for my ego, yet I'm quite worried 'bout your sanity!
But then again, all great poetes maudits are outcasts and incompris.
It'll all pay off when U've met your maker.
Slain.
M
PS: Might have been nice to get actual news from u, like do u still write or do drama? But I don't wish to torture u further.

Heelers to App.
Appershocks will you just stop. But no hard feelings, eh? I, er, hope your next film flops.
J


Serafina to Heelers.
jamie.
the old number is alive with my flatmate Juanita. I get my messages if left on the phone but you should be using the new number now onwards.
The power keeps going off in Caracas and it's quite bugging. We spend a lot of time in the dark, but it's refreshing otherwise. Only when I need to work on the computer it is problematic.
So I spent my dark time in writing for the astrology blog. Yes, that is still sailing through the deep dangerous oceans.
Among other important things, I went to a party, but it was more like being taken to it by Elena. She fears me becoming anti social. I don't call anyone or meet anyone. I make absolutely no effort so I must go to this life altering party and i did. At the sort of end of this party which was about 5 in the morning, I was in no mood to go home. Note: these parties in Caracas include drinking. I don't know why but the city seems to be obsessed with converting everyone to drinkism. very very guilty.
No, no, no, this time there was no Rudigore, just a friend's friend I met two days ago. he is just incredibly funny. I like when men are not hitting on me, when its just a friendly conversation. So Arturo, that's his name and Antonio who is also someone I met just that Friday, sat under the stars and spoke about some really random things. Then Elena, the girl who dragged me to the party and Rolando and Julio, and I danced like mad monkeys. I decided not to go to my melancholy room, instead go to Arturo's. I told him he seemed like Papa Bear and I'd like to hug him and sleep. And that's exactly what we did.
Now, why do you need to know this? Because good things need to be shared and I'm glad there are men who would share a sweet moment instead of rushing into things. We woke up with no awkward moments. I had an early morning contemporary class to teach from 9 to 1 and another from 2 to 4. It wasn't much of a weekend for me.
Bu the warmth of a body and uncomplicated affection is enough to keep me going.
I'd like to hear your take on this. i don't know why. I have a feeling you will have something wise and sarcastic at the same time.
Also,
I'm going to Tierra Del Fuego again. Teresita is booking my tickets. And I'm booking half of them. it is going to empty my account of two months worth in salary but what the hell...
All is well.
All will be well.
And all manner of all things will be well.
thank you jamie,
with lotsa love,
Serafina


Heelers to Serafina.
Dearest Serafina.
Is Juanita a beautiful sensual Hispanic babe type person? I just need to know for my files.
Also since I have her number, she might be worth a Hail Mary text on the off chance: "I have crossed oceans of time to love you etc etc."
Who knows?
It could work.
You expect a comment from me on your party night and, er, tender moments with the luckiest man in the Americas.
I'll see what I can do.
It's difficult to know where to begin.
At the moment I'm struggling to control the bemused look on my face. Eyes widening. Grin going all over the place. If I don't stop it, I'm liable to be stuck with this expression.
Hellllppppppp.
Okay.
Er.
Um.
Don't be sleeping with people who aren't me.
No that's not right.
That's not advice.
Well, it's not objective advice.
Hey S.
You said I'd probably say something sarcastic.
I am never sarcastic.
At least I think I'm never sarcastic.
Okay I thought I was never sarcastic when talking to you.
Or emailing you.
"Ah that the Lord the grace would gi'e us,
To see ourselves as others see us."
Extract from famous Scottish poem about me.
I don't want to see myself as you see me if you see me as sarcastic.
I'm not sarcastic Serafina.
Am I?
Hey.
I'm not.
But enough about me.
You slept with Smiling Boy.
For crying out loud woman.
Why don't you just shoot me?
Arf, arf.
That one slipped out.
You wrote at the start of your email: "I like it when men are not hitting on me."
Now you tell me.
Now.
After three years.
Okay.
Still joking.
But a man's gotta know his limitations.
And a girl's gotta know about some men's limitations.
Serafina Gomez, some men will never be able to talk to you without hitting on you.
I mean me.
And did I say some?
I meant all.
And finally.
Can I think of a genuine comment for you?
Well I'm genuinely bemused.
It's the most genuine bemusement I've ever felt over the course of my whole life ever.
And I'm genuinely delighted because I think I understood that you are being paid for your internet work.
Is this right?
Are you going to direct me to the Astrology website any time soon so I can disapprove of it properly?
And of course I'm genuinely delighted because I sense a spiritual strength in your email.
Truth be told, I kind of liked the bit where you said I'd say something sarcastic.
It bemused me.
Along with the rest of it.
Miss Gomez, my constant friend of nearly three years, I am blessed to have found you.
Love,
James.
PS: Gentle life affirming non hitting on love, I mean.
PPS: Yeah, right.

a find

Elisabetta the Genovese gave me some innocuous advice.
"Check out Fabrizio De Andre," she said. "I think you'll like his songs."
I took her advice.
I found the song Via Del Campo.
Now this was a moment.
A chap called Luciano had put up a video of the city of Genoa on the YouTube internet site to accompany the Fabrizio song.
The video was more evocative in its simplicity than a million dollars worth of MTV tripe.
You know bold readers that my theories about the healing of mind, hinge in part on the notion that if you choose to keep living, you will start to find things in life that make the whole ball game worthwhile.
This was one of those moments.
Here was a find.
Listening to this song.
It was like the feeling I get from an Irina Kuksova painting. Or a Kim Merker poem. Or a Divya Sharma diary. Or an Alan Massie instrumental.
Real art touches the heart.
It extends experience.
It makes life worth living.
As I listened to the song I had the unmistakeable sensation of being touched by living art.
I smiled.
This is treasure.
A singer I'd never heard of.
A new genius.
Yes.
What a find.
Thankfully I didn't cease to exist yesterday or I'd never have found this.
In minutes I'd done a search on the internet.
The new genius I'd just been introduced to, had already been dead for ten years.
A little more searching revealed that he'd supposedly been anti Catholic.
This made the new genius worse than dead as far as I was concerned.
Evening wore on.
A soft November evening in Ireland.
Presently I said a prayer for the soul of Fabrizio De Andre.
If I knew nothing else about him, I knew he wrote and sang Via Del Campo.
A song that extends experience.
A song that makes life worth living.
For the first time in ten years I want to write poems again.

gates of heaven

the mountains of northern italy in november photographed by luisella avaro

special guest poet Percy Bysshe Shelley

OZYMANDIAS

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on those lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
'My name is the Johnston Press, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that collossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.


(James Healy was fired by the Johnston Press from the Leinster Leader last year three weeks before Christmas. He had worked for the Leinster Leader for ten years. - Percy Bysshe Shelley note.)

mary said

on the harristown road
i saw the leaves dance like people
the wind flung them high
in a waltzing of chance
i wished you were there
you'd have had words
for the romance
in their dancing and colour
it took my eye
all along the mile
and then
i wish i'd joined them
they seemed so happy