from 1702 until 1860, English penal laws prevented Irish Catholics from establishing schools or hearing Mass. They went underground, with hidden “hedge schools” and “hedge Mass.”
The biting Mayo wind cuts through wool,
scrapes our bare ankles as we hunch
in this old quarry, half-listen
to Master Joyce as he tells of Cuchulain.
He switched to that from sums, to hold
our attention, but I’m watching the hawk
that circles above, thinking how we are all rabbits –
if the soldiers catch us at lessons,
could we end up in Churchtown Gaol? Da says
I must study, leave the guns to the elders
and Sean, who turned 16 last week.
He says learning is rebellion too – if the King
doesn’t want us to read and write, to hear God’s Word,
then by God we’ll learn! Easy for him.
Da never had to sit on sharp stone,
listen to old Joycey who’s forgetting his thoughts.
He stops, looks behind himself, scared coney,
then mumbles and draws lessons in the dust.
Bridie and Maureen are good students,
Frances more scared still than Master Joyce.
Joe and I trade winks, shift our sore rumps.
I think of the bread and cheese,
Aunt Rose’s weak beer stashed for my lunch.
The morning spills light over the quarry tip.
Shadows slide along the walls like spies,
like informers who lurk in our pubs, our market,
willing to trade bloody English coin
for a neighbor’s life.
Image: Artist unknown, at The Fine Art Society, New Bond Street, London
each ripple a transient brushstroke beneath the moss-draped trees, where branches tap with grandmotherly fingers
the light filters in patches, a muted backdrop of greens and browns, where shadows pool like spilled ink,
perfumed by damp earth with the faintest hint of floral
water lilies drift lazily,
their delicate blooms in smudges of color floating like fragments of a dream
while dragonflies dart in silver trails,
the cypress knees rise from the depths, though gnarled and ancient these silent sentinels guard the primordial realm as their shapes soften in the encroaching mist
the boat slips through reeds and rushes, each swaying stalk, a whispering brush against the hull’s weathered side, a rhythmic cadence in this verdant sanctuary
birds echo an intermittent soundtrack, flitting from treetop to water’s edge, a chorus that punctuates the stillness, brief notes of bright clarity in the ancient, unhurried palette
each moment a detail in an unspoken narrative, painted in hues of patience and mystery, as I drift through this living tableau, the swamp’s quiet artistry
In the meantime, this morning the wind has finally died down, and no longer makes the large plane trees that line the main street of the town, called La Canebière, shiver. A little further up, by a large church called Les Réformés, although it is Catholic and not Protestant, some hackberry trees have been planted, with darker foliage and gnarlier trunks. Yesterday morning, like every Saturday, it was flea market day along this street, there were old dusty books, obsolete trinkets, old-fashioned paintings; and me, I wanted to find an old wooden pipe for myself, but those proposed being a little expensive, I gave up. And yes! There’s no denying that I’m truly a man of our times…I smoke the pipe, I play chess by myself for no clear reason, I badly strum my guitar, and recently, I have started to read “The Tales of the Vampire”, translated from Sanskrit by Louis Renou, more than sixty years ago now. Here, there is no computer, no television, only scores of paintings vainly hanging on the walls, in rows, and outside, through the window, the imperturbable view of the old roofs of Marseille. I live on rue Mazagran, right next to the famous Thiers high school and the Gymnase theater. If ones goes down La Canebière, it’s easy to quickly get to the harbor and the sea. Sometimes, when the weather is bad, it also rains in the old attic where I live, so then I put a plastic bucket on the floor to catch the drops, and when I’m not present, there’s inevitably a puddle that grows there but which, fortunately, dries out quite quickly, due to the arid air of this southern land. The old attic, turned into an apartment, still a little rickety, is inhabited mainly by my past, by passing through women whom I’ve slept with there, or by visitors who might have visited me, from time to time. One day, I can imagine, I too will finally leave this place, having broken my pipe, as we say for passing away in French, in my turn, for good. Then, the old attic will remain vacant, with only canvases as sole guests, those which I have been clumsily painting on relentlessly, while waiting for death for so many years, with but shadows of my poor unconscious usually casted over them. They will stay all alone in here, probably waiting for a last late visit, forever postponed.
The face is placed upside down on a corner of the table and you spill ink on a sheet of paper you would like to say something but you can no longer speak any language you are sitting mute without a name there is also near to the sheet an ashtray full of cigarette butts and a deck of cards turned upside down you turn one card right side up it’s the queen of hearts then another it’s the queen of spades this time there is also a heart still beating and torn from your chest and left in the pocket of the shirt that you are wearing now and this heart is totally covering you up with blood yesterday you went for a bit of a walk in the old downtown area that you know so well it has a lot changed over the years the faces seated on the terraces are no longer quite the same as before but the young people still laugh as they used to drinking alcohol wasting their time their faces are all different and yet they all resemble each other in all sorts of ways all these individuals all the women all the men are only one in fact unique and anonymous today there is in front of you in addition to the deck of cards a cup of coffee placed on the table right next to the ashtray and the card of the ace of spades turns over by itself and that of the two of clubs also today you have some heartburns in your belly due to smoking too much and you have painted a canvas all in black you don’t speak with anbody anymore and you no longer have a name of your own you have turned bald and you keep telling yourself that you should change all of your teeth three times a day at least and change also once a week your head and once a month your face yesterday in the street you saw on a sidewalk death walking between the tables of the cafe terraces where young people were seated and by this beautiful late afternoon you saw her staring at them smiling and counting them all with her fingertips one by one as they keep laughing and exchanging among themselves meaningless and trivial words on the boulevard the cars went speeding up noisily and the young people as they laugh keep showing their white teeth to each others and their words are nothing more than unintelligible sounds as if they had once again turned into the animals that they have never really stopped being as if they were removing this false skin made of clothes and their shoes too and all this while still mechanically bringing their lips to the brim of the glasses filled with alcohol most of the time some smoking cigarettes too with the smoke coming out of their mouths and death passes between the tables and carefully observing them, one after the other, but they do not see it
The squeaky metal fan churns white noise burying me alive in a deep REM sleep suddenly shattered by a car alarm.
I slide out of a sheet wet from perspiration and into a wrinkled wash and wear suit, out the door holding a Styrofoam cup of instant coffee tasting like battery acid.
There’s no need to join the Foreign Legion, travel the world, hang out in Paris coffee houses or drop LSD when your mind serves up a dream loaded with the ingredients of a murky, subconscious stew, rich with flavor resulting in the next story.
Consider the RSVP carefully when opening the invitation from your subconscious mind to follow it down the rabbit hole because you may be surprised what you find.
Caution.
Watch the highway!
Muggy morning summer air, a prelude to a monotonous job I crawl towards in heavy traffic.
Seeking distraction from the radio dial but find only missiles of rage fired at me from morning talk radio generals.
Damn, another soldier advancing towards his own war cuts me off, forcing me down an offramp named Boadyland dropping me into a neighborhood resembling purgatory.
I stop on a chewed-up street of people and dreams.
Dilapidated homes occupied by people without hope.
Unhappy, maybe alone, and desperate for their dope.
A delicate hand waives me into a cozy house fronting a street smelling of mace, meth, and death under the concrete overpass nobody but the disenfranchised know.
I meet a beautiful single mom planning a party for her baby girl.
“What can I contribute?”
“Whatever you choose, sweetie.”
“I’ll write her a birthday poem.”
I write and the tears flow witnessing mom’s resolve to make a gift out of nothing except people filling the street, their clothes resembling festive wrapping paper, showing up to celebrate a child’s life.
Everyone chilling and catching a breath before they hit the next curve ball thrown at them.
The ethnic potpourri creating culinary delights provides an abundance of light warming the celebration like a huge candle atop a cake made for a princess.
Cops cruising by, pointing their spotlights, scoping out the delight, but only meeting a paper plate of savory treasures. They’re appreciative and confess,
“Our badges have become too heavy to wear!”
“What about winter?”
“Ah, it’s hell, man.”
“Don’t listen to that dude, baby.
It’s the same peeps, eats, just turning the metal barrel barbecues into sidewalk space heaters, and icey cold drinks become soul warming liquor laced liquid treats.
Same vibe wearing heavy clothing.”
I was dancing, eating, and loving inside a far out, freaky fraction of urban blight.
The bass tone to the jam was the incessant din of cars racing along the superhighway above us like subatomic particles blasted through a particle accelerator designed to crash into each other revealing the God Particle.
Sweet baby mama draws me near and whispers,
“That elusive particle is ethereal and found inside every human heart.”
I shout upwards towards the overpass,
“Crawl out of the Petri dish, stand firmly on both legs, and head over to the party at Boadyland!
I heard Galileo, Hawking, and Feynman might show.”
JONAH magazine 