Sunday, December 26, 2010

Thursday, December 09, 2010

Comedy Thursday. Navan. Moran

...he’s so crooked he sleeps on a spiral staircase, so thoroughly corrupt everytime he smiles an angel gets gonorrhea. He’s had so many facelifts his face has moved to the top of his head and you have to get on a stepladder to watch him lie. And you can't trust any of them. We all think we are very rational and very secular, but we make gods, all the time.

Everyone went apeshit when Barack Obama got elected. I was delighted; everyone was thrilled, a sane rational human being in an important office. Great. But his biggest problem is everybody else is us; coz everybody’s in love with him.

He stands up there very convincing and commanding and makes sense – ‘ this difficult time everyone needs to work together and be realistic about what we’ve gotta do’ – and all that stuff, and everyone’s looking at him: ‘no, you do it – you are Super Jesus, you’re so handsome when you’re serious. Do you work out?’

Dylan Moran (in part 2)

Perfume is a good example of a product gone all wrong. When I was a child, that was a semi-exotic sort of thing and it was called something stupid like fleur de fleur, and you would give it to your mother or an aunty at Christmas and it was advertized by some dopey looking woman in a field of sunflowers, who looked like she’d been hit by a tractor, because she was going [falls back in slow motion waving arms] [laughter], because she couldn’t get over how nice she smelled.

And now, we’re so jaded, because we’ve consumed too much, our attention can only be grabbed in a violent way; so its always advertized by these constipated exoskeletal bitches who are sneering at you, and it’s called something horrible like Homocide, Dysentery, Urban Dysentery, for boys & girls. What’s wrong with that? We’re the only organism the planet is actively telling to fuck off, by burning things, freezing things and melting things on us.

It’s like going past the ocean and seeing it spit out whales, fuck off I’ve had enough of you. Passing the eucalyptus tree as the koala hanging on and the tree’s going get the fuck away from me [top half of body quickly tick tocks side to side] [laughter]. Now you’re in the forefront of all that because you’ve got real weather here – dramatic weather. You open your front door and everything might be gone; you might be two and a half miles down the road in a flood. In Britian and Ireland where people talk about the weather all the time, all day – there’s no story; there’s no weather. But Irish people especially, insist on drama, so you’ll hear things like, orrrgh it was fierce mild it was touch and go there for a while.

God doesn’t work, science doesn’t work, consumerism certainly doesn’t work; so where do you go; where do you end up? We end back up with each other; there’s nowhere else to go.

People. You have a very important decision to make early in you life. Are you going to be alone, or are you going to be with somebody else? Are you going to be sane, or not lonely?

A couple is a strange thing. It’s an organism that’s half as intelligent as the most intelligent member, and you both know who that is; because you’ve got two people walking around together all the time, trying to remember all the different shit they have to lie about to each other.

Oh, going to see those people over there are we; terrific, I hope it doesn’t stop anytime soon. There’s a lot of pressure put on you to find the right person. You’re told if you don’t find the right person, your life is fucked, forget the whole thing; you’re dead. Which is rubbish. There’s billions of you, we’re all the fucking same. If it’s not him it’ll be her; or if it’s not him it’ll be them. There’s millions of people for everyone; there’s more than enough, we’re very overstocked on ourselves.

Wednesday, December 08, 2010

Translated from the Dutch by Jerome Rothenberg


All muddled up
A glass of tea
Some cups
Some pots
And get a fresh look
at what's lying there --
This is the shadow
of the shadow of
a candlestick!
A piece of paper
& a can in blue
white &
An ash tray with
a pipe stem
& a very heavy book
in blue & yellow
with something that looks brown
inside a black can

And the candle there!
The light! The light!

And a mist around them
& their glow
Some spoons
Something that's gleaming
on the gold rim of the
And there's another piece of paper "Courant"
on which lies: a red match
a couple of blue pamphlets
a little piece of string atop
a small red box
And then the cloth!
Half a chair
there in the mist
a little further back
And how the yellow cloth becomes
& that much softer
And then here
    and here
here on the paper's
garish white
are two black nails
one that looks real & one a silhouette
my hand my hand
a hill with murky caves
in which a rafter lies
between two clumps of clay
wedged tight.

Theo van Doesburg (1883-1931)

Wednesday, December 01, 2010

Colm Keegan. All Ireland Live Poetry Slam Champion 2010

Ireland Is by Shirley Chance

Ireland is an on-the-road machine
Ireland is so far gone from Joyce's Dublin
Ireland is Cúchulainn with a hurley
Ireland is English
Ireland is Tír na nÓg
Ireland is a ghost estate
Ireland is a gloc pointed at someone's son
Ireland is a teen-brained new-age lap dancer
Ireland is veins, butterfat with broadband
& self hatred.

Ireland is an on-the-road machine

It's existentially frightened out there
It's got alloy wheels and tinted windows
It can tear ye limb from limb, or stop
& offer you a lift.

Ireland is so far gone from Joyce's Dublin
But still full of the dead, and snow, upon
Quickly snorted cocaine breaths we go.
Ireland is a badly bred famine-stricken
Flea-bitten jallopy of a piebald horse
Galloping down O'Connell Street,

Ireland is Cúchulainn with a hurley
Gurning off his head on creatine, punching
The face off the referee, before sticking
Him in the boot with sectarianism
And the Disappeared.

Ireland is a copper who looks like Brendan
Gleeson in Into the West, in a chopper,
Who'll put heroin in your hands and say:

Grand so, thanks for the fingerprints
don't let the coffin door hit ye on the way
out, after ye hang yerself, with your shoelaces.

Ireland is English, whether it likes it or not
'Cause it's laughing at Newswipe & Mock the Week

Choking on M&S food and ruining
Its new Debenhams' top,

Ireland is a gloc pointed at someone's son
or a Christian Brother, or its own mother
because she won't move into the nursing home,

Ireland is Tír na nÓg, Oisín saying doh!
When his saddle broke, vikings raving
On Wood Key Hill, monks driving Hum-vees
Through round towers they built,

St Patrick standing with his fire on the mound

honestly now that money was just resting in my account

Ireland is a teen-brained new-age lap dancer
Getting drunk, getting chlamydia of the soul
From too much unprotected facebooking
Down the boreens of a ghost estate
Searcing for Foxrock.

Ireland is veins, butterfat with broadband
& self-hatred, caught in the loop
Of a money shot lasoo, faux-hawked Pentecostal
Iconoclast, yahoo, a liar, in flames, in denial,
In the X Factor final of bullshit, Gerry Adams
is kissing Barbara Streisand, Bertie Ahern
on-screen crying, suicide, alcoholics, junkies,
Gunmen, dying & dying and dying, and it's all so
Fucking electrifying, coz we're fumbling blind,
We've no idea what we're doing, no idea where
We're going, and we're almost there.

Ireland is an on the road machine
Ireland is so far gone from Joyce's Dublin
Ireland is Cúchulainn with a hurley
Ireland is English
Ireland is Tír na nÓg
Ireland is a ghost estate
Ireland is a gloc pointed at someone's son
Ireland is none of the above,

'Cause we're fumbling blind; we've no idea
What we're doing, we've no idea where
We're going, and we're almost there.


Shirley Chance is a soundcloud account hosting a powerful version of the poem above, Ireland Is, by its author, Clondalkin poet Colm Keegan, one of two contestants representing Leinster in a live poetry competition, reciting this one that, along with two other poems, got him placed first, at this year's All Ireland Poetry Slam Championship, 30th October last, at the International bar, Wicklow Street, Dublin; in the full ninety minute video of this live poetry competition you can enjoy when watching the video below.

Keegan is a very talented live poet and writer, three times shortlisted for the Hennessy New Irish Writing Award, for both poetry and fiction. In 2008 he was shortlisted for the International Seán Ó Faoláin Short Story Competition, and is currently working on a first novel and a collection of poems.

The event was organised, hosted and MC'd, by Tallaght poet, Stephen James Smith, whose Glór poetry and song Sessions facilitated both the Leinster heat, on Monday 25 October and the final on Saturday 30 October - Samhain Eve.

Traditionally in Ireland, during the bardschool era, at this cardinal, three day transition phase from the three prior months of Beltaine, to Samhain, summer's end; assemblies from the five Irish provinces at Tara Hill - the seat of the Irish high king - gathered in a grand annual meeting, where they celebrated with horse races, fairs, markets, political discussions, ritual law making and poetic court hearings, mourning for the ending of the light half of a bardic year, and an ushering in of the colder, harsher half of the Irish filidh (poets) year. Lighting a flame from the high king's fire, it spread across this country in a time now gone, long past.

Samhain eve also marked the beginning of a student bard's six-month academic year, taught, learned and practiced from sunset's end to Beltaine (bright-half) May 1, on a fixed, singular, island-wide course of dán (poetry), in which the memorisation of 350 seperate ficticious and factual narratives, constituted the core & key a bard needed to unlock their skeletal selves, during Samhain-Imbolc winter/spring - when they studied, worked on and progressed through, a 12 year course.

From word-weaving beginner foclo of the first grade, through seven semesters spent acquiring the five, 'universally' recognized poetic grades, Macfuirmid, Dos, Cano, Cli, arriving at the penultimate, sixth grade of Anruth - 'great stream' - five years away from attaining their final, highest, most sacred, profane, sorrowful & comedic poetry professorship of Ollamh (pronounced ulav) when their log n-ech 'face-price' for spinning bardic dán, brought to them the collective cultural memory - On Coimgne - of bodies and souls formed by his or her Sidhe, stretching far back to a famine daze easy to forget, pay lip service to, losing the run of ourselves and tripping into a delusionally induced debt-madness, created in brief bursts of abundent imbas, its repercussions felt for decades to come in Ireland and elsewhere, possibly, people in it, a ship of state heading straight & staggering to one thing, some claim, is the most deleterious to them - Sovereign you, 'us' people waking to the outline of an iceberg this year's winning rhymes tip thru, lighting autumn's winter portal-point and practice for the good of natural unity, in these unprecedented times, an artist-pool making broke in Ireland Is, poetic magic.