303. Nighthawks in Nippon

Cúirt an Mheán Oíche


Short was my sleep when I heard, thought I,
A violent quaking of the ground nearby
A storm from the north violently brewing
And fire from the harbour luridly spewing;
In my mind’s eye, a quick survey
Revealed towards me by the bay
A violent, bulging, big-assed crone
Her huge bulk hinting at testosterone;
Her stature, if I reckoned right,
Was six or seven yards in height
She dragged her cloak for yards behind her
Through the mud and mire and squalor.
’Twas mighty, majestic, wild and horrid
To gaze upon her blemished forehead;
The rictus of her gummy grin
Would make you jump out of your skin.
God almighty! In her huge claw
Was the biggest staff you ever saw
A brass plaque at its spike defined
The bailiff’s powers to her assigned.

In a gruff voice these words she spoke:
Up! Shake a leg! ya sleepy yoke;
Shame on you, to be stretched out here
With court convened and crowds drawing near.
It’s not a court without rule or code.
Nor a marauding court in your usual mode
This court is built on a civilized base—
The court of the weak with a female face.

Ba ghnáth mé ar siúl le ciumhais na habhann
Ar bháinseach úr is an drúcht go trom,
In aice na gcoillte i gcoim an tsléibhe
Gan mhairg gan mhoill ar shoilseadh an lae.
Do ghealadh mo chroí nuair chínn Loch Gréine,
An talamh, an tír, is íor na spéire
Ba thaitneamhach aoibhinn suíomh na sléibhte
Ag bagairt a gcinn thar dhroim a chéile.

The ancient race without wealth or liberty
No tributes, leaders nor legal autonomy
The rape of the land with naught in its train,
In place of the crops, a weed-rank terrain;
The nobles languish in a foreign land
While the jumped-up rich get the upper hand,
In betrayal ardent, in plunder greedy
Flaying the sick, despoiling the needy.

It is blackly baneful and sticks in the craw
That, in darkest despair over the absence of law,
There’s nothing from no one for the purposeless weak
But a depredacious future that is hopelessly bleak,
The knavery of lawyers, tyranny on high
Injustice, fraud and neglect apply
The law is clouded, the scales awry,
With all the pull that bribes can buy.

Ghealfadh an croí bheadh críon le cianta—
Caite gan bhrí nó líonta le pianta—
An séithleach searbh gan sealbh gan saibhreas
D’fhéachfadh tamall thar bharra na gcoillte
Ar lachain ina scuain ar chuan gan cheo,
An eala ar a bhfuaid is í ag gluaiseacht leo,
Na héisc le meidhir ag éirí anairde
Péirse i radharc go taibhseach tarrbhreac,
Dath an locha agus gorm na dtonn
Ag teacht go tolgach torannach trom,

Your race without young ones is sad to see
With women burdening the land and the sea,
Once buxom maids and lasses fresh
With boiling blood and sultry flesh
Are now lethargic, relicts debased
Once trim girls are gone in the waist;

’Tis a pity that these are without fruit of the womb
Without swelling breasts and bellies in bloom.
They just look for the word, please don’t wait
Until they are past their sell-by date.
The solons decided after deliberation long
Not to try the case before the fairy throng:
But to appoint a plenipotent magistrate
Who could, with the people, mediate.

There was an offer from Aoibheal, with a heart so clean
Munstermen’s friend and Craglea’s queen
To the assembled council to bid farewell
And in the land of Thomond to bide a spell.
This gentle upright lady swore
To rip out bad laws by their core
To stand steadfast beside the poor and weak
So the mighty will have to cherish the meek.
The powerful desist from inflicting wrongs
And justice enthroned where it belongs:
I promise now that no power nor lure,
Nor the blandishments of pimp or whore
Will undermine the dispensation
Of this tribunal for its duration;

The village of Feakle is where the court is sitting
Go and attend it—you’ve got to get cracking
Go quietly or at your peril dire
I’ll drag you there through the muck and mire.
With her crook she grabbed the hood of my cape
And off she dragged me with no escape
Down through the valleys I was propelled
To Moinmoy Hill church where the court was held.
For sure, I saw there ablaze with light
What seemed like a stately mansion bright
Sparkling, spacious, tapestried,
Spectral, sturdy, brilliant indeed

I spied Aoibheal, the fairy wench
Seated on the judge’s bench
I saw a strong and nimble guard
Numerously gathered round their ward;
I saw a household that was jammed
With men and women inside it crammed.
Then came forward a majestic cailín
She was soft and comely, of gentle mien
With tumbling tresses framing her face
As on the stand she took her place.
Her hair was loose and flowing free
But her face was the picture of misery
Her eyes were fierce and filled with hate
And she worked herself to such a state
That she moaned and heaved and sobbed and sighed
But couldn’t speak though hard she tried.
You could see from the flood of tears she shed
That she’d much prefer if she were dead
Than being on the floor facing the stands
Kneading her fists and wringing her hands.
After her protracted jags of crying
She cleared her throat, with much sighing
The gloom lifted from her tear-stained cheek,
She dried her eyes and started to speak:—

A thousand welcomes, we guarantee
O Aoibheal, venerable queen of Craiglea,
Light of the day, Ray of the sun
Worldly wealth for the hard-put-upon
Conquering commander of the hosts of the blessed
In Thomond and Tír Lorc you were sorely missed;
The crux of my case, the cause of my woe
The ache that has plagued me and laid me low
What knocked me sideways and struck me dumb
Caused a searing pain that left me numb,—
The finest of maidens wandering around
Without hope of a husband, a shilling or pound,
Despondent young things without help of a mate
Innocently barred from the matrimonial state.

I know these maidens whereof I speak
One hundred and one for whom prospects are bleak
I list myself among these wrecks:
I got my gender but I get no sex
At my time of life, ’tis depressing and cold
Doing without luxuries, jewels and gold,
Gloomy and cheerless is my plight
Unable to sleep through the pleasureless night,
But tossed with worry lying there
On a chilly bed, alone not a pair.
O Lady of Craiglea, you must assess
The extent of Irish women’s distress,
How, if the men continue with their ways,
Alas, women will have to make the plays
By the time the men are disposed to wed
They’re no longer worth our while to bed
And it’ll be no fun to lie below
Those old men who are so weak and slow.
Even if, with a young man’s fire,
One in seven of the beardless were to desire
To mate with a lass of his own age
He wouldn’t choose the noble or sage
With an hour-glass figure and a knockout face
One who can carry herself with grace
But an icy, cheerless, catty bitch
Who used all her guile to make herself rich.
It’s the scourge of my heart and a pain in my head
And fills my thoughts with a sense of dread
It’s what has made me sad and sighing
Totally wasted with all this crying,—

When I see a lad who’s brave and cool
Who is virile, vigorous and strong as a mule
Who is steadfast, skillful, bright as a pin
Fresh-faced, funny, with a ready grin
Or a boy who is frisky, frolicky, fun
With a well-built body, second to none
Beaten, bought, bound unawares
By a hussy who’s extremely light upstairs
Or a slovenly slattern, a workless wench
Who’d make you gag with her noisome stench
A prating, prattling, babbling bag
An indolent, irritable, horrible hag.
My God, I hear that an ill-mannered mare
With unshod feet and uncombed hair
Is to be hitched tonight which I find really grating;
What’s wrong with me that I’m left here waiting?
What is the reason that no one loves me
And I so lissome, so svelt and so lovely?

My lips so red are made to be kissed
My face so bright it cannot be missed
My eyes are green, my locks are flowing
Curly and plaited and healthily glowing
My forehead and cheeks are without zits or boils
A porcelain complexion that nothing spoils.
My neck, my breast, my hand, my finger
Each would make a young lad linger.
Look at my waist, my fine bone frame
I’m not crooked or hunched or lame
A butt, a foot, a figure to impress
I’ll not go into what’s beneath my dress.
I’m not a hussy, nor yet a drip
But a delicate beauty with lots of zip,
Not a slovenly, slatternly pig
Nor a joyless boorish prig.
Not a lazy laggard with no clout

But a choice young woman well turned out
If I were as worthless as some of my neighbours
A tiresome tramp who never labours
In the ways of the world without foresight or flair
What would it matter if I fell into despair?
But it has never been on people’s tongue
That, at wake or funeral for old or young,
In the hall for the dances or at the race track
On the hurling pitch among the pack
I wasn’t dressed from head to toe
In a tasty costume fit for a show.
My hair is powdered to a T
My starched cap riding jauntily
My bright-hued hood with ribbons galore
A polka dress with a ruffled pinafore
And I’m seldom without it, except in bed,
My cardinal cloak of deepest red.
My striped cambric apron is fit for a queen
Embroidered with a plant and animal scene
Stiletto heels attached with screws
Give a lift to my fashionable shoes
Gloves of silk and buckles and rings
These are a few of my favourite things.
But beware, don’t think I’m loose a screw
A witless fool or quaking ingenue
Who’s timorous, lonesome, whimpering, weak
A simpering, cowering, beaten-down freak.

302. From Famine to Free State: 35 Lives

The idea behind this post is quite simple. The intent is to show new and returning readers how Ireland recovered its cultural self-confidence and then forged its political independence during the crucial four decades between the 1880s and the 1920s. The method is to create links to the biographies of 35 individuals who were born between the years 1846 and 1891, the actual lifespan of the “Uncrowned King of Ireland”, Charles Stewart Parnell.

Most of the work is done by Wikipedia – and yourselves. I supply the birthdates and the names. Some of these names may already be known to you; others probably will not. The interesting thing is that most of these people either knew each other personally or had at least heard of one another. Ireland is a small country and Dublin, even today, is little more than an extended village.

I’m not about to offer any useful hints (politician, playwright, revolutionary, trade union leader) since half of the fun is discovering who these people were and how they related to one another and the “re-creation” of Ireland. In the separate stories of their lives you can piece together the story of the nation-to-be.

In closing, I would like to emphasize the rather significant fact that nearly half of the people on this list were Protestants, which, in the Irish context, makes them descendants of families who had been part of the post-Reformation invasions and settlements of the 16th and 17th centuries This did not make them any less Irish than their “native” counterparts, whether descendants of the Gaels or the Normans of the Middle Ages. In fact, their identification with Ireland was in many ways more acute than the others because it involved a conscious rejection of England and English ways. Without these people the Irish could never have created the modern nation in the way they actually did – and this should never be forgotten or swept under the rug by Irish Irelanders in the style of D.P Moran who proclaimed that only a Catholic nationalist could be a true Irishman or Irishwoman. This is simply not true, and the evidence lies in these various biographies.



1846 - Charles Stewart Parnell (d. 1891, age 45)
1846 - Michael Davitt (d. 1906, age 60)
1846 - Standish O’Grady (d. 1928, age 82)
1847 - Michael Cusack (d. 1906, age 59)
1852 - Lady Augusta Gregory (d. 1932, age 80)
1852 - George Moore (d. 1933, age 81)
1854 - Oscar Wilde (d. 1900, age 46)
1854 - Edward Carson (d. 1935, age 81)
1855 - Tim Healy (d. 1931, age 76)
1856 - G.B. Shaw (d. 1950, age 94)
1856 - John Redmond (d. 1918, age 62)
1857 - Tom Clarke (ex. 1916, age 59)
1860 - Douglas Hyde (d. 1949, age 89)
1864 - Roger Casement (ex. 1916, age 52)
1865 - W.B. Yeats (d. 1939, age 74)
1866 - Maud Gonne (d. 1953, age 87)
1867 - George Russell (d. 1935, age 68)
1867 - Eoin MacNeill (d. 1945, age 78)
1868 - Constance Markiewicz (d. 1927, age 59)
1868 - James Connolly (ex. 1916, age 48)
1869 - D.P. Moran (d. 1936, age 67)
1870 - Erskine Childers (ex. 1922, age 52)
1871 - J.M. Synge (d. 1909, age 38)
1871 - Arthur Griffith (d. 1922, age 51)
1874 - Cathal Brugha (d. 1922, age 48)
1876 - Jim Larkin (d.1947, age 71)
1878 - Francis Sheehy-Skeffington (ex. 1916, age 38)
1879 - Patrick Pearse (ex. 1916, age 37)
1880 - Sean O’Casey (d. 1964, age 84)
1882 - James Joyce (d. 1941, age 59)
1882 - Eamon deValera (d. 1975, age 93)
1882 - Bulmer Hobson (d. 1969, age 87)
1883 - Sean Mac Diarmada (ex. 1916, age 33)
1883 - Denis McCullough (d. 1968, age 85)
1890 - Michael Collins (d. 1922, age 32)

Here are some links to articles or poems on Irish themes to be found on this blog:
Thinking in Irish
The Runup to Easter 1916
Voodoo Drums
From the Normans to Michael Collins
The Celts – Intro
The Celts I
The Celts II
The Celts III
The Celts IV
Dublin Walkabout (1)
Dublin Walkabout (2)
Belfast and Derry (1991)
Joyce, Iraq, Michael Collins etc.

Poems:
Bearla
Terrorists on a Coffee Break
Maureen Rua
Joe McInerney
October in Ireland
An Clar
Irish poetry and comments on Heaney

301. Airey Takes the Plunge

(a restoration drama in several acts)

Airey was a friend in truth,
a fairy, yes, but not a poof;
a tough guy called Reg
threw him off a high ledge.
It's a long way to tip poor Airey.



When I have fears that I may cease to be
far away from friends and family,
I think, by God, although I'm odd,
I welcome change, however strange:
in a cheerful melancholy way,
Death could be a holiday.

In fires forever burning,
on a spit forever turning,
just like a Turkish kebab;
I'm glad I never paid the tab
in so many clubs and bars.
God, won’t they be raging!
the thought is quite engaging:
they’ll be tearing their hair
as if I care
for all them drinks I bought!

I never thought,
I never thought I’d wake up
after I hit the ground
at ten zillion miles an hour.
Splat! That’s that.
Wishy-washy lack of belief
affords but scant and thin relief
for the falling, failing agnostic.
Here is a falsely true acrostic:
Sweet dreams by icy lethal waters.*

The myriad sons and daughters
of O’Leary of the Yellow Hand
have formed a band,
here in the place I’m at.
I told that them I couldn’t sing,
but they want to know what I can bring
to add to the balance of joy.
Where’s God? So sorry, m'boy,
He’s away, he’s always away.
And the Divil’s off in Osaka Japan
to follow up on his business plan,
(An Dhool is no fool)
trawling for souls in a language school.

Listen, will I be dead for a long time?
Just as long as ye like.
On yer bike, resurrect some hobby
and make it last ten thousand years.
Any wee jobby to keep yer mind off things,
but stay away from collecting stamps:
stamp tramps are pure ferocious:
Super Calley Went Ballistic: Celtic Were Atrocious.
Hierophants and sycophants
make me want to wet me pants,
revert to my psychosis.

But can I do that, like?
Wet meself, scratch, play with girls?
No, you can’t. You’re, like, disembodied.
What about this pain in me arse?
Imaginary, old son.
You can keep the pain
but yer arse is dead and gone.
Where’s it gone to, so?
The Soap Factory.

In cold brittle little exchanges
I accommodate myself to certain changes.
Aren’t ye glad ye’re Catlick?
Y’wha?? Fuck you on about?
Even so. You should see the shabby sheds
where they stick the poor sad feckin Neds.
The Jews have chic flats in the Mews
(they were right all along)
Oooh, baby, won’t you shake your thong?
Instruct us, don't you dare amuse!
And them towel heads? Don’t arsk.
I don’t ask. And the Jehovahs?
They’re stuck with the oul’ whores
knocking on doors, forever and ever
and ever and ever. Amen.

Well, I never! This cheers me up
considerably. Jayz, I could
kill for a pint. Are there any pubs in Hell?
Naturallement! As Monsieur knows well
the Squareheads, the Jocks and the Micks
couldn’t die without them. There are Czechs
and balances, mind you, like the Skandies
who have acquired a taste for shaving lotion,
an effective if quite "deadly" potion.
Har, har, a pun. What fun! Listen,
we send people back from time to time,
would you like to go? I don’t know.
Being dead's, like, doin’ in me head,
but it’s not so bad, y’know?
Even so. Pack up and go:
back to the World of the Living.
Cease receiving, son. Start giving.

Right, then, here’s me,
rejected back to Life:
-- Suit, white shirt, necktie: check!
-- Red underpants, socks with clocks: check!
-- Sunglasses, watch, gold chains: check!
-- Cellphone, iPod, 3 rubber johnnies.
Hello there, Life, Allo, Allo!
Jeez, it’s fuckin raining.
I’m out of training.
I’ve forgotten how to talk
I can hardly bleedin walk
sedately; innately, I feel
that none of this is real.

O Jayzus, damn, by heck!
I just got a bang on the back of the neck.
I turn to my oppressor,
a large and hairy male cross-dresser
in a pink tutu and fawn little boots.
Beige, ye barstid, fawn is outré!
but what I really want to say
is 'oo the feck are yoo?
I delivered a thump and a bit of a bump
'coz ye look just like a ghost
mon semblable, mon frere,
are ye back from under there?"

I yam. Right, so, whattya think,
will we call it quits and go for a drink?
Seventeen pints after,
ciggies, girls, and gurgling laughter,
it's home with young Ivy Malone
on the Bakerloo, she don’t live alone.
The thing to do, she tells me,
is climb up the garden ladder
Because I reelly don’t want me fadder
or mudder to see yez. Haul away.
Show a light in the windy, sweet darlint,
show a light where I can see yez,
yer luverly pearl-white arms,
yer full abundant charms!
And here’s a tiny little kiss,
a promise of a night of bliss.

I feel so drained
yet self-contained
as I gaze into the glass:
a faint recognition
of the apparition
I know to be myself.
Dead, mislaid, or on the shelf,
this, too, I think, shall pass.
Her flashing eyes!
Her thunderous thighs!
All in two words explained:
convent trained.
Her legs grab tight-ily,
mightily wrap around my ass:
heave-ho, puff and blow!
Sky is high and ocean deep:
will she never go to sleep?

Ah, it’s not bad to be alive
once more. I can’t remember when
before it felt this cool. A general rule
is to keep the head down low,
and let the winds crack and blow
above you, like young sweet Ivy Malone
breathing hard in her shoebox of a room
up there on Dollis Hill.
I close my eyes, I remember still
her posters of Duran Duran,
the night I was her only man.

Being dead ain’t that bad, either,
once you get the hang of it, like.
The thing is being killed,
being shot or stabbed or smashed to bits
or tossed off a high building;
that’s the bit I don’t much care for.
Reg had hairs sprouting from his nose
and he had a bit of a ripe smell about him,
so when he pushed me off the roof that day
I had a bit of a snob thing about him,
not at all in my league, I’d have to say.

Time to drop in on hairy Reg.
I can imagine his moonlike pasty face
as he takes my presence in.
I’ll slip in the icy uncanny wedge
of fear. Here is a ghost, my dear!
But things seldom work out
quite as one expects: in many respects
Death and Life are both unfair.
I stand before this old armchair
and gaze on Reg, unprepossessing sight,
He’s been out all night,
God, he looks the worse for wear;
wheezing, snorting through his nose,
crumpled-up clothes, drunk as a coot,
one filthy, ugly, smelly brute.

When he wakes up, I’ll top him,
but not until he knows,
not until he really knows.
Then I’ll walk into the hall,
and descend. I need a friend,
have none at all. I was in love
and then I wasn't in love.
I was also once in life,
and then no longer in that.
Snow falls on distant mountains.
Sweet dreams by icy lethal waters.
Drip … drip … drip.

-----------------------------------------------------
* a falsely true acrostic, in that only 22 of the 28 letters are used with an extra 'e' thrown in; seven words.

300. Shitoro Concert (June 23rd)

Click HERE for a slideshow of photos from the concert

299. The Gathering Storm

Bahadur Shah Zafar II (1775-1862), last Mughal Emperor of India.


Ghalib

My dear Ghalib, you are exceedingly arrogant,
and seem to think you know it all:
I cannot follow your obscure ghazals.
Zauq is more the man for me, he is also
the chosen poet of our discerning king.
People say openly you should learn from him.
His language is limpid, pure, and clear.
Ahh, the son of Channa Lal, the moneylender,
I do believe. Forgive me, I am not mistaken?
Run back to your counting house, young man,
and do not presume to pass ignorant comments
on things you cannot comprehend. I am
the Light of Delhi, a star in the firmament,
and you, no more than a smoking guttering lamp.
I think we shall not speak again. Good day.

Captain Collingwood




Interfering oldJennings wants to convert the locals
and of course they bloody well resent it, even our
own people think he is pushing too hard.
We have more and more of these Blue Light
religious chaps, even in the Army, and I can
tell you, mark my words, it bodes ill for the future.
Incidentally, I met Elizabeth Skinner the other day,
very gentle-mannered and perfectly charming.
She's quite light-skinned even if her father's half-black.
The grandfather came out in the last century,
and like so many of those early Company men,
married into one of the best local families.
These days, of course, it's not the done thing.
Natives of the better class can be perfectly polite,
but while aping our manners, can never be English.

Ghalib



Bahadur, I am most grateful for the basket of mangoes,
intones the new royal poet, walking beside his patron
on the Raj Ghat, along the banks of the Jumna River.
Now that Zauq has passed on, I am conscious of your favour,
and yet I feel you have not quite shown me the same honour.
The Emperor, known to the Angreezi as the King of Delhi
walks slowly on, a smile comes fleetingly to his lips.
My dear Ghalib, perhaps you did not enjoy the kite flying?
It can be rather tiring to watch an old man behave like a child.
No, My Lord, it was enthralling; it was a pleasure and an honour.
I perceive it is an even greater honour that you seek, Ghalib?
In truth, My Lord, as your court poet it is no more than my due!
I see, Ghalib. You could never understand why I favoured Zauq?
I could not, Bahadur. His poems were too childish for my taste.
Childlike, Ghalib, not childish. Therein lies the essential difference.

Captain Collingwood

Take the King of Delhi, for example, a poor old codger,
surrounded by fifteen wives and at least forty children:
a museum piece, really, ensconced in the old Red Fort,
the last of the Grand Mughals, descendant of Timurlane,
living in the lost nostalgic corridors of a ruined past
with hardly ten rupees to call his own. I've been told
that his last great public procession through the city
with rented elephants and fireworks and marching bands
has put him firmly in the hands of the Jain moneylenders.
Our own people, not surprisingly, will do nothing for him.
The Punjab is ours, we took over Oudh last December,
and general official feeling about the poor old boy
is that he is the last of the line. On the other hand, he is
still widely admired, not only as the figure on the throne,
but as a quite subtle and accomplished native poet.

Hakim Asanullah Khan




Asanullah Khan stands with worried eyes in the doorway.
My Lord, this is not wise at your age, you must know that!
Yes, I know, but I am in my eighty-second year, old friend,
and must not pretend I can live forever. And I like the kites.
A great deal more than you care for the proud Ghalib?
Now, now, Hakim. I take an old man's pleasure in teasing him.
Why do you look at me so? O God, is it the concubines again?
I fear so, My Lord. Young Lalkoti with the Captain of the Guard.
Whip the damn scoundrel and send him off somewhere.
Should we execute the girl? What? No, of course not. Put her
in the kitchens for six months, no, better make that three.
My Lord, really, the punishment seems hardly sufficient, if I may ...
Yes, yes, but I may not live another six months! I could manage three.
Send for Chaman Lal. A skilled doctor, even if he has lost his wits.
I need my feet attended. Converting to Christianity at his age!

Emily Metcalfe




I know my father was poisoned by the emperor's concubine,
that evil schemer, Zinat Mehal Begum. All Delhi knows.
These filthy people are so beastly and corrupt, I hate them!
My dear good father spent his whole life among these heathens,
and he brought them Justice and the blessings of British Rule.
My Uncle Charles, and my brother Theo, along with dear father,
forged a tradition of Christian service within this benighted land,
but there is no such thing as gratitude among these conniving people.
I was there, I saw with my own eyes how my father wasted away
on the eve of his very first holiday in seven years; within weeks
my dear sister-in-law followed him, having given birth to a child
to the boundless joy of my brother. It was unbearable to see
his grief at her death, the wracking sobs that tore his frame apart!
They killed her as well. I know they did, I feel it in my heart.

Hakim Asanullah Khan

Bahadur ... jaldi, jaldi ... come here to the window, My Lord!
What is happening on the Bridge of Boats, what is that smoke?
What is the meaning of this, Asanullah, at this ungodly hour?
It is nothing good, My Lord. I fear the Army is in revolt.
But ... but, that is the army of the Angreezi. We have no army.
Nevertheless, they come to Delhi, My Lord. They come to you.
To me? Whatever for? What can they expect from me?
You are the King, My Lord, the descendant of great kings.
They want you to lead them against the Angreezi.
O God, first the concubines, now this! Can I have no peace?
Look, they have crossed the bridge, they approach the Fort.
They are calling out for you. My Lord, you must show yourself!
I have no intention of showing myself, Hakim Asanullah Khan.
Send these people away. Send a messenger under cavalry escort
and tell this rabble to go back where they came from!

Lieutenant Smythe-Pickering



They weren't bad soldiers, by and large, but times had changed.
They all came from the same villages as their fathers before them
and they thought they'd be treated as our sons and nephews.
Maybe that was the style in the old days, but those days had gone;
they were in uniform and paid to obey orders, and that was it, really.
We knew the words of command, but didn't really take to the lingo
since we were hardly going to chat with the black bastards!
They were always ready to make trouble of some kind or another,
usually starting with one of their nonsensical religious taboos
about beef or pork or some bloody thing. They were trying it on,
to my mind, in the midst of the overpowering heat and the general
short-tempered atmosphere. We had just issued the new cartridges
and set out to train this surly lot of peasants how to use them,
but do you think they would listen? In my opinion they were just
looking for any bloody excuse, and that's how the whole thing started.

Hakim Asanullah Khan

Forgive me, My Lord, for disturbing your repose.
Sawars have arrived, rough soldiers, and will not go away.
Also, I fear, they have entered the city gates
and have engaged in a slaughter of Angreezi civilians.
Riots have started and local Christians are under attack
and many, perhaps all, have been killed. The poor
have joined with the soldiers and wholesale looting has begun.
The banks and the moneylenders were the first victims
but now they are plundering the havelis of all the wealthy.
There is no force to prevent this, the kotwalis are deserted
and the Angreezi do nothing, they seem to be in disarray!
Ah, the moneylenders, said the King, with sly satisfaction,
but such badmash lawlessness cannot be condoned.
The English Resident must be informed and order restored!
Alas, that gentleman, My Lord, now flees for his life.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Glossary of Indian terms

ghazal - an intricate form of Urdu poetry, much admired.
Bahadur - Emperor, King of Kings
Angreezi - the English
jaldi jaldi - quickly, quickly
Sawar - native Indian cavalry trooper
haveli - a walled home with enclosed gardens and courtyard
kotwali - police post
badmash - hooligan

Notes & Sources

With the exception of the two military gentlemen, Captain Collingwood and Lieutenant Smythe-Pickering, all other people mentioned in the poem represent actual historical characters.

1) http://en.wikipedia.org/The Indian Mutiny
2) http://www.britishempire.co.uk/forces/armycampaigns/indiancampaigns/mutiny/mutiny.htm
3) http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/british/victorians/indian rebellion 01.shtml

298. The Other Side of Paradise

"Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me. They possess and enjoy early, and it does something to them, makes them soft, where we are hard, cynical where we are trustful, in a way that, unless you were born rich, it is very difficult to understand." F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940)


The rich are different from you and me,
Said sad-eyed Fitzgerald, sozzled in Paris,
To which burly Hemingway, the boxer, replied,
Yes, they have more money.
That was the famous put-down,
Quoted over and over again, found
In all the literary gossip sheets,
But self-doubting Fitz had it right.

Daisy Buchanan had a voice full of money,
Tinkling, silvery, cold and careless;
With her shining hair and pouting lips,
She had been born to accept convenience.
Coolly, she witnessed the wreckage of lives,
Other people’s lives, little people’s lives,
And then blithely, gently, drifted away,
Leaving others to clean up behind.

Fitzgerald understood this.
Hemingway never did. He thought
It was all bluster and breaking through,
Being better than you, a two-fisted man
From Big Two-Hearted River.

Fight your first war from an ambulance,
Marry a woman, write short sentences,
Go to bullfights, drink, marry another woman;
Shoot innocent animals in Africa,
Write some more short sentences,
Get drunk, go fishing, get in a couple of
Airplane crashes, go to Cuba, get drunk,
Become a warzone tourist, show your teeth,
Burnish your he-man reputation,
Get married some more.
It wasn’t a bad old life. Macho man,
Successful writer, bit of an asshole.
But then it all came down
To that cold bleak day in Idaho
And the final metallic taste
Of that shotgun on your lips.
Tell me, how did that feel?

Fitzgerald understood.
In the Great Gatsby you can
See his secret life on display:
Just as Robert Louis Stevenson,
His brother writer before him,
He shows, by design not by accident,
His mild Dr Jekyll, Nick Carroway,
And then he carefully uncovers
His half-horrified fascination
With all the things that money can do:
I live in this mansion, Old Sport,
Haven’t quite counted the rooms,
All my suits come from Savile Row,
My shirts come from Jermyn Street,
My shoes, of course, are handmade;
I have servants, wine, food in abundance,
The whole place is lit up like Coney Island,
Mr. Nowhere Man from Nowhere.

Everything began to fall in place,
In Gatsby’s dreams, in Fitzgerald’s,
And all for the sake of brittle romance,
Shattered, splintered, they both broke apart.
A brilliant novel, “This Side of Paradise”
Had sealed his fate. His early success
Condemned him: assured, at last, of money,
His Southern belle had married him,
Ooops, let’s go to Paris! cried Zelda,
Where all the advanced people go.
One can imagine how well that went down
Among the embittered postwar French.
Champagne, champagne, toujours champagne!
The dollar then went a long long way
And all the locals (read the books)
Were landladies, waiters and taxi drivers.
Life was grand for Yankee layabouts,
Life was a fuckin jamboree.

It was 1928, says Fitzgerald,
Intermittently, inescapably observant,
That I noticed how soft we'd become.
Some of us were veterans of the War
But all the local boys on this Italian beach
Could have beaten the crap out of us.
Hemingway, of course, would have none of it.
He was still boxing in short sentences.
Hem, I want you to look at my prick.
Scott, tight, but not quite drunk, dragged
his uneasy friend into gurgling toilets.
Zelda says I'm too small, says I'm no good.
You're only small, says Hemingway,
because you are not aroused. Hey tiger!
I'm telling you, Scotty, pay no attention,
She's an emasculating bitch.
You can't say that. She's my wife, godammit!
Ah fuck it, Scott, pull up your trousers.

Seventeen drafts for a novel,
Written again and again and again
Just to get the tone exactly right.
I would say that was serious.
The Saturday Evening Post paid excellent money
For the popular Fitzgerald stories.
He worked hard at his craft, when sober,
Rewriting again and again and again.

Then suddenly he was no longer popular.
He went to Hollywood on a contract
To write screenplays from nine to five
In a breezeblock California building
With other sad less famous scribblers.
He wrote heartfelt letters to his daughter,
Until, finally, the drink did him in,
Or else those bruises in his heart.

He could see them so clearly through the window.
You are warm inside, I am cold outside.
Knock, knock, knock.
The rich are different from you and me.

297. Festival!

Every year from May 3-5 our town holds its annual Kite Festival which attracts more than a million visitors from all over Japan and abroad. The modern festival is in its 172nd year but the actual origins of the event go back to the 1440s when one of the ancient lords of the region celebrated the birth of a son and heir by rushing out to the beach and flying a kite. Now thousands do the same, and many of the kites are paid for by families who have celebrated the birth of a first child in the preceding year. In recent years the festival has taken on a more cosmopolitan atmosphere by the introduction of an International Food Fair in the centre of the city.



Care for an Egyptian kebab ...


... a Thai curry ...


... or some Turkish ice cream?


In the evening the local kite teams return to their home districts for a bit of a rally at the local shrine ... followed by a rousing parade through the neighbourhood with trumpets and drums and banners flying!



Here we go, here we go, here we go ...!



For a complete set of photos, go to this web album!

296. A Weekend in the Country

As April warms into May, what could be finer than to spend a quiet relaxing weekend away from town -- especially in a Japanese "besso", or country house, on the shores of placid Lake Hamana?



It's a bit dark by the time you get around to taking pictures, but that's OK.



Too bad about the reflections from the flash, all the same ...

Inside, a gathering of friends and neighbours:


brought together by our genial host, the redoubtable Kenji (Mac)Fujii!!



And there was food ...



And there was loads of drink ...


... and lots of good music!



Until quite quickly, came the dawn. Well, a grand time was had by all ... Kenji, many thanks! Time to head home ...



For a complete set of photos, go to this web album.

But then a rather strange thing happened ....

295. The Green Hills of Japan

(double click to expand photos)

294. Oisin at 'Chez Kao' - April 22

Down to Kao-san's for the monthly seisiún ... good craic as usual! We tried out a couple of new numbers on the crowd once we were pretty sure they were drunk enough not to notice the mistakes -- and we'd had enough in not to worry about mistakes, either! There were hardly any slip-ups, to be honest. We're getting better all the time, probably because we are playing more often together.



I think what it really comes down to in the end is knowing exactly what key to start in with for each song and getting the timing down for when the different instruments come in. It's a ferocious lot of things to remember when you're doing 20-25 songs one after the other but it gets to the point where we all know what's coming next and don't need to be thinking about it. Still, we need a clatter of new tunes and songs. There's plenty of them out there. Thank you, Ireland!! In other news, NORI-BO, the SANSHIN (samisen) player from Okinawa with the black specs and the fedora will be joining us as a guest player down in Shizuoka next week. The sound fits in well. I'm thinking of asking him to join the band as a regular. I know damn well he wants to. OK, kid, we'll give you a trial ... but it ain't that easy!!

293. Oisín at 'Mein Schloss' - March 31st

Satoshi had set up a gig for us at the local German Beer hall, a huge place that brews its own beer -- the best beer in town. We played two good sets on Saturday, March 31st, in front of the usual weekend crowd and a whole bunch of friends who came in to cheer us on - all in all, about 200 people. It was great. Good stuff!


First Set:

1. Foggy Dew
2. Rights of Man
3. O'Neill's March
4. I'll Tell Me Ma
5. Lord Mayo's Reel
6. Si Bheag Si Mhor
7. Chicago
8. Molly Malone
9. Dunmore Lassies


Second Set:

1. Kerry Polka
2. Irish Washerwoman
3. Australia
4. Star of the County Down
5. Tabhair dom do lámh (Carolan)
6. Cooley's Reel
7. Whiskey in the Jar
8. Wild Rover
9. Dirty Old Town
10. Oro Sé

PLUS!! -- Oisín Live on YouTube

292. Lance Corporal

There’s nothing further to be said.
Lookit, lads, I’m nearly dead.
Will I have a drop of whiskey? I will.

Ahh, God, that’s good. Simple and plain.
Down the red lane.
Tell me, lads, yer names again?

Is it Tom and Dick and Harry?
Hee-hee. Listen, never marry.
Never marry the first lass what asks yer!

Wheeze.
Wheeze.
That were a joke.

I do be old, decrepit and bollock
Naked under this here sheet,
Just like the Scots under their kilts.

Hee hee hee,
Cough, cough. Spit.
Where’s that bloody whiskey?

The parson went out after the battle,
Large and pious and smarmy,
And used his little officer’s cane
To flick over the kilts
On the bare dead buttocks,
To make it decent, like.

I had no time for him
When I were in the Army,
Nor his Tory religion.

We was sent to France
To fight for King and Country.
King never did bugger all for me,
And Country did fook all as well.
I went over because I were sent
And because of the lads, of course.

I’m a hundred fookin eleven, m’dear,
Here in this bleedin hospital,
Not thinking of heaven,
Not thinking of nothing much.
Been trying hard to forget
For ninety fookin year.

“Last Survivor Succumbs!”
The television crews
Want to put me on the News.
Them lousers ...
Let them suck their bleedin thumbs,
As me heart falls down me trousers.

Not that I’m wearing none
Under this sheet, like. Hee hee.
Are ye hiding that whiskey?

I have nothing to say.
I have nothing to say to that shower
Of cunning runts, what we call
The Highborn Ladies Running Team.
Hee hee. Pass over the bottle.
That were a joke in the Army.

I have nothing to say, lads.
I have nothing to say to them.
I have nothing to say to youse.

I have a lot I’d like to say
To Bert and Tich and Tommy G,
To Jimbo, to Fishface, to Bumblebee,
And to that pink-faced young Leftenant.
All killed. Killed dead ninety year ago
In front of me eyes. No surprise

Since it were war. Happened long ago.
So why can I remember their faces
And forget what happened yesterday?

Is that bottle dead? One last
Drop won’t kill me, but if it do,
I won’t be sad. I’d rather be dead
When reporters hover round me bed
Like carrion crows. God knows
I’ve been hanging on too long.

Whenever I close me eyes
I still see them grey Flanders skies,
And I can still see their faces.
They were so young. I was so young.
I want to sleep, ye young lads,
I want to sleep and wake up beside them.

It’s me, I’ll say,
No need to be afraid.
So sorry, boys,
I were slightly delayed.

291. Saint Paddy's Week, March 17-25!!

And great craic was had by all!! Click here for the slideshow.

Shinya has started up a website for the band in Japanese. Click here.

290. Beannachtaí na Feile Padraig!!

Happy St. Paddy's Day!! The band will be playing on the night so watch this space for photos and a report on the craic -- the bits I remember.

289. A message to the "Real IRA"

In despair, leaning down,
he kissed
for the last time
her cold unresponsive lips;
even in death,
there in the rubble and clouds of dust,
huddled in raw spillage
of innards, blood, and bones,
his daughter’s hair
was never less than lovely.

Omagh
August 15, 1998
3.10 pm.

If this is what it takes
to unite our country,
you cannot count on me.
Our natural borders
should run from the centre to the sea,
but no sane living person
condones barbarity.
Never for a moment think
‘The Cause’ authorises you.
Ireland despises you.

Links to a local site and the BBC.

------------------------------------

I was in Omagh visiting an old school friend about a week before the bomb went off. We were in Paris when we heard the news and couldn't get through on the phone for hours and hours. Apart from the horror of it all the main feeling one had at the time was one of humiliation and fierce and total shame.

288. Graduation Day

The Japanese school year runs from April to March. We start and end with the short-lived cherry blossoms. Check here for more photos.