for aung san the rightful ruler of burmah

a bird took flight from inye lake
her course lay west through the setting sun
over tangled fields and ancient streets
the ground beneath trembled as she passed

and soft it seems this royal night
that rich are we whose tears are shed
for she is free of inye lake
and tyranny is dead

father nally defies the swastika

Kilcullen church seventeen years ago.
Father Nally paused before beginning his sermon.
The congregation was silent.
For the past week Independent Newspapers, the Irish Times and RTE had been hashing and rehashing a sex abuse scandal, hijacking real victimhood for their war against the Catholic church.
This is fifteen years ago, mind.
Not last week.
Here we were.
The dulcet Summer of 1992.
Some in the pews perhaps really did believe Independent Newspapers, the Irish Times and RTE genuinely cared about sex abuse victims.
But not everyone.
Many of us were already wondering why if they cared so much about the truth, Independent Newspapers, the Irish Times and RTE hadn't made it clear to the general public that 99.99 percent of sex abuse cases arise in the family home and do not involve clerical or religious people.
If my figures were correct, that meant that 999 victims out of every thousand were effectively being ignored.
What possible motive could such high minded paragons of journalistic integrity have for concealing the truth about sex abuse?
I had talked to social workers in the 1980's who had told me quite bluntly that there was an epidemic of sex abuse sweeping the country.
They said there was no secret about where it was focussed.
It was focussed in the family home.
Yet already Independent Newspapers, the Irish Times and RTE were leading people by the noses to the utter falsehood that sex abuse arose mainly in Catholic church run institutions.
I am not their judge.
But I do believe Indepedent Newspapers, the Irish Times and RTE will answer for this on judgement day.
If I am correct that they have deliberately falsified the situation with regard to sex abuse, their undead souls will go down forever.
See you in hell, eh Tony?
(Heelers is implying that Mr Tony O'Reilly proprietor of Independent Newspapers will expiate his sins in the eternal flames of damnation. You too Gavin. - Ed note.)
Don't get me wrong.
I'm not saying they told a single lie.
I'm saying they deliberately and maliciously ignored 99.99 percent of the truth.
And they did it for a reason.
Look at them now.
For the past few days here in Ireland, Independent Newspapers et al, have finally begun scrambling to print some stories about sex abuse that do not involve the Catholic church.
It's too little too late.
They're just trying to cover themselves.
They're fooling no one.
But you've heard me at this before.
And you all know where I stand.
You all know the opprobrium with which I view Mr Ian O'Doherty's lying cowardly and utterly malign assertion recently in the Irish Independent that the Catholic Church is a paedophile ring.
You all know my assessment of the great O'Doherty.
You all know what I think is the solution to the problem of anti Catholic manipulation of sex abuse stories in the Irish media.
You all know bloody well.
I've told you to get up off your knees, and stand up for your church.
You didn't bow to Cromwell when he tried to steal you from the Catholic faith.
You didn't bow to Hitler.
You didn't bow to Karl Marx.
You didn't bow to Stalin.
You didn't bow to Mao.
Why would you bow to this collection of amoral fervourless Dublin Four self worshipping hypocrites who have created nothing and destroyed much?
Stop buying Independent Newspapers (ie The Irish Independent, The Sunday Independent, The Evening Herald, The Sunday World, and that right riveting read The Daily Star whose editor Ger Colleran once vilely and profanely claimed on national television that children were being abused in every Catholic church presbytery in Ireland), stop advertising in them, stop buying the Irish Times, stop our government from floating these entities through health board advertising, stop permitting the government to force you to finance RTE through a licence fee, stop the whole goddam con job whereby the Christians of this country are compelled to finance newspapers and radio stations and television broadcasters who despise and vilify us while we are prevented by law from setting up newspapers, radio stations or television channels to compete with this morass of malign distorted anti Catholic propaganda.
Let the crowing atheists and the creeping communists in our midst know that if they want to persecute some of us, they must persecute all of us.
Yes.
Get up off your knees.
I remember all those years ago one social worker telling me: "We're like the villains going in among families. The children are glaring at us saying: Don't take Daddy away. The women are glaring at us. It's nearly impossible to get at the truth."
But the media didn't want to get at the truth.
Or could it be that some sex abuse victims are more important than others?
Yeah they are.
The ones who are murdered for a start.
The ones who are ritually sacrificed to satan.
The ones whose abuse is most extreme.
The 99.99 percent of victims would in all probability be more important than the 0.01 percent of victims whose stories are continually recycled by Independent Newspapers, the Irish Times, RTE and shadowy figures within our judiciary and our political establishment.
I ask you again.
Whaddaya think folks.
Do Independent Newspapers, the Irish Times and RTE genuinely care about the victims of sex abuse?
Or could it be that Independent Newspapers, the Irish Times and RTE were simply trying to destroy the Catholic church as a platform of influence for the people of Ireland?
But I digress.
Kilcullen Church 1992.
Father Nally faced the people.
He would be the only Padre I ever saw telling it like it is.
"So you think we've failed you?" he enquired. "Well you've failed us. MASSIVELY."

a rooskie in dublin

MILK & SUGAR!

by Irina Kuksova

*************

Being a diligent student of the English language, I've been trying to come up with a phrase which would contain the newly discovered word 'ubiquitous.' It's not one of those easy everyday bits of vocabulary that just stick in your mind. I needed a proper context that would scream the word's meaning. Sure enough there it was right before my eyes - 'ubiquitous cups of tea with milk and sugar.' How very true for Ireland - they are everywhere.

That's not to say that one can't get a proper cuppa in Moscow. Of course one can. Yet instead of being simply asked "How many sugars?" in Russia you are likely to have to go through a tough process of decision making. These are some of the questions to ponder:

- Black/greet/white/red/ tea or an herbal infusion?

-Mint/melissa/dry berries/whatnot from a grannies garden in your teapot?

-Some jasmine/roasted sesame seeds/wild rice tea mix in it too?

Although it sounds like something a server in a fashionable tea house would ask, it's just typical of what Russian hosts, obviously taking pride in their hospitality, would offer. Not surprisingly, rarely would milk be mentioned. That's because as far as we're concerned, milk in tea is mostly for kids.

Russian children enjoy watching the milky clouds in their cups. Too boring a show for adults who are used to 10 million dollar special effects in cinemas.

Now I've made up my mind to bring the traditions of my first home (the Russian one) to my second home (the Irish one). I've decided to be a bit more choosy even if the choices are limited. 'Lots of milk and no sugar,' is just too abrupt. Now everybody has to wonder whether I want sugar this time or not, milk or no milk, tea bag in or tea bag out. I change my mind all the time, keeping my friends on their toes. It drives them mad but the freedom of choice always comes at a price, right?

frying time

John Fry Chief Executive Officer of the Johnston Press strode confidently up to the gates of heaven.
Saint Peter was standing there holding the book of life which was open on page 7G.
John Fry said: "John Fry, Chief Executive Officer of the Johnston Press."
Saint Peter looked at him coldly.
Like many an Irish man, Saint Peter has a bit of a thing about British accents.
"Aren't you the bastards that fired James Healy from the Leinster Leader?" enquired the Saint.
John Fry looked at his shoes.
Saint Pete nodded grimly.
"I see," he said, "and what do you want here?"
"I want to get into heaven," said John Fry. "I want my share of eternal life."
"Go to hell," replied Saint Peter.

the prodigy

This happened a few years ago.
Costa Cafe in the town of Naas.
Late afternoon.
Ireland's greatest living poet standing nonchalently in the queue.
And then.
I felt her before I saw her.
A wave of anger.
Anger was the presence.
I lifted my eyes from the contemplation of counter cakes.
Surreptitious glance to my right.
Yes it was the woman just ahead of me.
Dressed like an office professional.
Maybe an accountant or a lawyer.
Or someone who wanted to look like an accountant or a lawyer.
But I could feel the resentment.
Without looking at her directly.
I could feel it plain as day.
This one is waiting to go off, I mused to myself.
Glances like daggers.
Ah, so it's not my imagination.
I'm seeing her out of the corner of my eye.
I'm still pretending to look at the counter cakes.
Hmmm, thinks the noble Heelers, we'll just be calm here and keep a wide berth.
I thought this before any words were spoken.
She stepped smartly away from the counter with her tray of drinks.
She had three kids with her in tow.
A little boy of around ten, a little girl of six and a toddler who might have been two.
She stepped away from the counter and then thought again.
She turned.
"You," she said.
I didn't look up.
"You," she cried, louder this time, "you are the rudest man I've ever met."
Well folks.
I hadn't even been trying.
My spirit sank.
I knew this was a mugging.
You know what I mean.
One of those life things where you're doing nothing wrong, looking for no trouble, minding your own business, and next thing out of the blue you come into contact with someone hopped up on tablets, or deranged by office life, or on the rebound from a relationship meltdown, or just anxious to prove for whatever reason that they're bigger than whoever's standing next to them in a coffee shop queue...
You encounter em through no fault of your own and you know they just want to spread their pain.
Not share it.
Inflict it.
Misery loves company.
And here she was.
"You are a very rude man," she persisted voice rising towards a shout. "How dare you stand there like that. How dare you. You didn't even move to let me pass. How dare you."
The three children stood beside her in a little pool of stillness.
With a dull feeling in my heart I realised they'd seen it all before.
And then for some reason I decided not to just melt away into the woodwork.
I gave the lady a very plain look right in the eyes.
My words when they came were to the point.
I said slowly and clearly and oh so loudly too.
"I don't know you. Go away."
Her shouting raised the rafters.
Various phrases were audible.
None of them particularly appealing to a sensitive plant like myself.
The kids said not a word.
I was dimly aware of my countrymen, the Paddy Whacks of Ireland and their Paddy Whackesses, sitting quietly at the surrounding tables enjoying the floorshow.
The waitresses who have a passing acquaintance with me were looking at their shoes.
When the woman ran out of wind and fell silent, I spoke again.
"I don't know you," I repeated, "go away."
This time her shouting was operatic.
That Kiwi bird Kiri Te Kanawa would have been impressed.
By the noise, I mean.
Not the manners.
Or the derangement.
The lady was snarling at a waitress: "Get me the manager."
The waitress was shrugging helplessly.
A second waitress had used her initiative to brew me a caffe latte and had pressed it into my hand wordlessly.
I went to sit down.
I had a newspaper.
Rueful feelings filled my ancient heart.
I was thinking: Now I'm going to sit here, pretending to read my newspaper, pretending to be relaxed, pretending to savour my coffee, with everyone in the place looking at me out of the corner of their eyes wondering with strange high Irish fascination what sort of a scoundrel I am, had I robbed her, had I kicked her out of an apartment for non payment of rent, was she my ex lover, or what.
So I sat, unfolded the newspaper, and feigned relaxation.
The woman sat with her three children directly across the cafe from me.
More rueful thoughts.
I don't think I need to try and out stare this one.
Eyes on the newspaper Heelers.
That's the way.
Presently I felt a hand on my knee.
My eyes flickered.
It was the little girl.
A curtain of brown hair falling around her soft upturned face.
Her bright blue eyes fixed on mine.
Her hand on my knee.
For a brief shameful moment I nearly roared at her.
I nearly roared: "What the hell is going on! Get the hell away from me! Here you. You sitting over there. Come and get your child. This is outrageous."
And so on and so forth.
I did not roar.
I stayed silent.
The child's gaze was unwavering.
I didn't move a muscle.
To all intents and purposes it appeared as though I was still reading the newspaper.
My mind was racing.
This thought came.
What an amazing child.
No really what an amazing child.
She'd seen her mother in conflict with a stranger.
She'd seen how things had gone.
Then out of concern for the stranger, she'd walked across the cafe in front of everyone, and put her hand on my knee.
She was looking at me now with the purest most soulful gentleness.
With a shock I realised.
At last I knew.
What it meant.
I was seeing something extraordinary.
This was no ordinary child.
This was a prodigy.
A genius.
A Saint.
My heart shook.
This was a Mother Teresa of Calcutta before her public life had begun.
I was figuring in the story of one of the heavenly ones.
One who has been sent.
I was figuring in the part of the story that we don't normally get to hear about.
The childhood of a saint whose time has not yet come.
And then a pang in my heart.
I will never see what God has sent her to accomplish.
I have a walk on part in the unknown portion of her life.
That is all.
It's enough too.
It's richness beyond measure.
But I felt the pang just for a moment.
Ah yes.
I have met a saint.
And I was certain.
She will be famous.
She will be known.
She will do something beautiful for God.
But not for many years.
As truly as I'd sensed her mother's infernal anger, I sensed now the divine grace in the child.
But hang on.
What to do?
The situation had some awkward possibilities.
There was a little girl with her hand on my knee.
The little girl's mother had just accosted me for no reason.
If she chose to accost me again, she could really make it interesting now.
I spoke.
Softer than tears.
My voice as kind as any of you have ever heard it.
"It's okay little one," I said. "It's okay."
She trotted back to her mother and shortly afterwards I left the cafe.

child of grace

the happiest half hours of life

Evening at the Chateau De Healy.
Heelers in an armchair with a plate of rashers.
MC Hamster on his knee watching the plate.
"You are one fat hamster Hammy," muses Ireland's greatest living poet. "You need to lose a little weight there."
"Hey," screams Hammy. "Who are you calling fat, Hippy?"
She screams it in a voice very like that of the character Cartman from the opprobrious television series Southpark.
I begin to cut off a piece of rasher for her as a peace offering.
Hammy is having none of it.
She lunges at the plate and grabs a full rasher.
For a moment I am stupefied.
Finally I manage to grate out: "You... dirty... great... golden... mouse."
Hammy is fully aware of the ancient law which states that a hamster making contact with a rasher will become sole possessor of that rasher, assuming there are no sheepdogs present.
"It's the law of the jungle Heelers," mutters Hammy through a mouthful of rasher. "Survival of the fattest."
The door opens.
The Mammy pokes in her head.
"Who are you talking to?" enquireth she.
"The hamster," sez me.
MC Hamster shakes her head.
"He wasn't talking to me Missus," she says. "If you ask me that boy ain't right."

auld acquaintance

can two as we ever be apart
who stood victory and defeat in the line
does a childhood companionship ever lose the heart
in the narrow dust strewn alleyways of time
for when the world in ardour sings your praise
and men in suits chant in the streets your name
i'll sit at home and scorn the public craze
and guess you must account it quite a game

and when you hear of my great worldly failing
will you not as few others can
think he may perhaps have willed and worked it so
i knew him once and he was such a man
in the morning of the world i called him friend

our television listings

RTE1
(The Irish national fraudcaster, catering solely to atheistic anti Catholic abortionists while enjoying a Stalinist monopoly on the airwaves whereby no one is allowed to set up television stations to compete with it. RTE has no need of viewers as it is funded through a compulsory licence fee on all those peasants who dare to own televisions. I kid you not.)

3.25 Supernanny. If she's so super what's she doing on RTE?
4.25 Murder She Wrote. The Eastern Seaboard of the United States is devastated using suitcase atomic weapons after President Barack Obama releases Al Qaeda detainees from Guantanamo Bay. Jessica sets out to solve the mystery. Sure enough, Al Qaeda dunnit. Thankfully President Obama ensures they all get trials in American courtrooms, with State appointed lawyers, and the possibility of parole.
5.20 Nuacht. What the hell is this?
5.30 The Bill. €180 please. That'll be the bill for your licence fee.
6.00 The Angelus. I'd like to ring RTE's neck.
6.01 News. Here is the news. RTE is controlled by shadowy unaccountable figures who are part of a broad conspiracy within our media, judicial and political elites, intent on destroying the Catholic church as a platform for public influence in the Republic of Ireland. We didn't surrender to Cromwell. We didn't surrender to the Muslim invaders at the battle of Lepanto. We didn't surrender to Hitler. And we didn't surrender to the Communists. Why on earth would we surrender to this abysmal shower? Ireland awake. Remember who you are.
7.00 Nationwide. Nationwide drivel.
7.30 Trish's Mediterranean Kitchen. Trish visits an award winning organic restaurant in the Camargue. Come back Karl Marx, all is forgiven.
7.57 Lotto. Throw up your sweaty nightcaps. Come on down.
8.00 Fair City. It's not fair that I have to finance this tripe and onions.
8.30 Room To Improve. Architect Dermot Bannon visits pseuds and fixes up their pseudo house to give them a better pseudo view of the mountains. If you want to figure out where Marxism came from, watch this programme.
9.00 News. More from those lovable Maoist lefties of the RTE newsroom.
9.35 Hollywood Homicide. Film made in 2003, starring Harrison Ford and Josh Hartnett. The film was only ever seen by Harrison Ford and Josh Hartnett's Mammies.
11.30 News. What, again?
11.35 Oireachtas Report. The Oireachtas is the Irish parliament. Tonight's programme focusses on the death of Fianna Fail. The once great party of De Valera and Lemass is sliding into oblivion. Some myths about the reason's for Fianna Fail's collapse will be laid to rest in this broadcast. Fianna Fail is not sliding into oblivion because of the economic collapse. Fianna Fail is not sliding into oblivion because of arrant corruption in the planning process. Fianna Fail is not sliding into oblivion because of having once again spent the country into a black hole of debt, borrowing billions to give 50 percent pay rises and 100 percent bonuses to nurses, teachers, police officers, soldiers, bus drivers, and all State Sector employees, as a bribe in order to win elections while lying to the general public about the existence of a thoroughly fictitious Celtic Tiger. Fianna Fail is ceasing to exist for none of these reasons. Here is the news. Fianna Fail is ceasing to exist because Prime Minister Brian Cowan and his cabinet have refused to publish the names of the golden circle of business people who were involved in borrowing hundreds of millions of pounds in order to artificially prop up the share price of the venally decrepitly vomitously corrupt Anglo Irish Bank. Fianna Fail is ceasing to exist because Brian Cowan and his cabinet have borrowed ten billion quid to bail out this same Anglo Irish Bank. If there's anybody out there who genuinely cares about Fianna Fail, let alone Ireland, it's time to wake up and put a stop to this. Don't let them hunker down and wait it out till the next election.
12.05 A supposed documentary programme.
1.05 A Month Of Sundays. Rod Steiger's Mammy didn't even bother going to this one.
2.50 Shortland Street. The apotheosis of intellectualism on RTE.
4.35 Euronews. Go toooo sleeeeeep. Baraackkk gooooood. President Bush badddddd. Free the Muslim terroristssssss. Who cares about Allllllll Qaeeeeeedaaaaa. No need to worrrrryyyy. Everything is okayyyyyyyy. Sleeppppppp. Watch your MTVvvvvv. Watch Desperate Housewives. Watch soap operassss. Don't believe in God or his church. We will give you things to believe in. Nice liberal atheisty things. Believe in your own pleasuresssss. Save the environment. Forget those unborn babiessssss. Sleeeeeeppppp. Sleeeeeeep. Sleeeeeeep the sleeeeeep of the damned.

father nally's greatest hits

Father Nally was wandering down Kilcullen Main Street savouring the warm light of June on the small town universe.
Paddy Mac Parthelawn exited a pub and found himself right in the Padre's path.
Both parties might have preferred not to meet.
But the timing meant an encounter was inevitable.
There was nowhere to run.
The inebriate faced the man of god.
The inebriate was the first to speak.
"How are you Father?" quoth Paddy essaying bonhomie.
"I'm not too bad Paddy," sez Father Nally.
"Ah you're better than that Father," commented Paddy encouragingly.
Father Nally drew a deep breath.
"I haven't seen you in church for a while Paddy," he remarked.
"Ah well Father," sez Paddy, "I don't go to church anymore."
"And why is that Paddy?"
"Because I'm an atheist Father."
Father Nally's eyes narrowed.
"You're not an atheist Paddy," he said in his slow deadly Northern Ireland accent, seeming to savour every syllable. "You're a big... fat... lazy... slob!"

the kingdom of god is at hand

rapping with wb about the call of destiny

Starbucks cafe, Dawson Street, Dublin.
Ah yes.
Another day, another Starbucks.
The soft light of evening is mellowing the Dublin streets.
Two teenagers are trying to weld their faces together at an outdoor table.
Boots girl sitting near me.
Other customers sipping coffees in desultory anonymity.
I've never been in this particular cafe before.
I like the ambience.
The Boots girl adds a certain je ne sais quoi.
Not one person in this cafe suspects that Ireland's greatest living poet is among them.
The ghost of WB Yeats wanders over to my table and sits down.
Some believe he is Ireland's greatest dead poet.
"Heelers," sez he. "Me and the dead immortals have been talking. You've been Boy Most Likely for too long. It's time you actually sat down and wrote a few new poems."
"What would you guys know about it?" I shot back sourly.
Yeats grinned.
"We're in heaven," he sang suddenly to the tune of an old song called Nevermind. "It's contagious. Here we are now. Entertain us. A Byron. A Keats. A TS Eliott. A Yeats. Write a poem. Write a poem. Write a poem."
"Yeatsie," I cried. "You listen to Nirvana?"
"Hey," quoth he, "we're dead. We owe it to ourselves to live a little."
A bus creaked by the window.
WB Yeats and me watched the passengers disembark.
All human life was there.
A dramatic rainbow of people.
"Another thing," said Yeats breaking the spell. "Your blog has been very angry of late. Lots of anger. You're sending out hate."
"No Yeatsie, I'm writing about hateful things."
"Ah Heelers, do you remember the poem I wrote where I wondered had my plays inspired people to take up violence?"
"I remember."
"There was a line in it: Did that play of mine send out, certain men the English shot? And you yourself Heelers wrote by way of reply that I should have asked myself: Did that play of mine send out certain men who shot English people?"
"What's your point?"
"My point is this. Did that article about terrorism on your blog you wrote, send out certain people who shot at Arab Muslims? Or, did that article on your blog you wrote, send out certain people who got shot by Arab Muslims? Or better yet, did that article on your blog you wrote, create a general feeling of resentment and tension on the streets contributing to spitefulness and anger in the hearts of people you will never know?"
"It doesn't rhyme Yeatsie."
"No Heelers, it doesn't rhyme."

through the looking glass

A secret laboratory somewhere in Dublin.
Mycroft is viewing a readout from a computer.
Apparatuses hum.
I sense the presence of the dark gods of biogenetic science.
I am an unwelcome guest.
"Whatchya workin on?" I ask innocently.
"I could tell you," Mycroft replies, "but then I'd have to kill you."
She busies herself in front of something that I have no idea what it is.
After a moment she looks up.
"You've been throwing some punches lately," she muses.
"Me?"
"On your website."
"Oh."
"You know you're getting attention."
"I know."
"Devil worshippers on the off shore isles, Al Qaeda, the Johnston Press. You can really pick em."
"I know, Mycroft, I know."
She attached a zorgotron to a vortzilator and noted a reading on a dial.
"They'll be coming for you," she said softly.
There was a moment of stillness.
"And I'll be waiting," I answered grim as death.
She didn't speak again for a long time.
I moved towards the door.
A thought struck me.
I half turned.
"Whatever it is you're looking for there, don't break the laws of God to find it," I advised.
Mycroft didn't look up.
"Umm," she said.
"The cure for human illness will be found in the spirit, not the cell structure," I pressed.
"Umm," she said again more firmly.
It was a dismissive Umm this time.
I stepped into the hall.
She pushed the door closed behind me.

2 visions

at 6am
the gun first pressed to her brow
ten years ago
by the editor of cosmopolitan magazine
all spandex and day glo
and by the creative consultants of sundry advertising companies
like grinning puppets in a row
and by the programme planners of itv rte and the bbc
no no no
went off
and the body she had starved for so long
to attain their image
to obey their decree
made tangled
made desolate
made broken
ceased to be

at 6am
jesus woke her from her sleep
that's enough suffering for one lifetime
come with me
walking down d'olier street
they chatted like old friends
and she realised at last
that the rain is diamonds