This poem I wrote on a flight back from Paris to Shannon in November 2015. It is for a girl I knew who died when she was 20 years old. She was a unique spirit with a love for video games. I think about her often, what happened her. I wanted to write something to reflect how she has impacted my life and others. Please let me know how it reads. And if you think of it, do something for cystic fibrosis.
An Bron
Sorrow tore deep, a bottomless pit
Tragedy struck, a lifetime early
A hero, too soon sent through the rip
Memories left, of someone other-worldly.
Saving souls, inspiring new creation
This super has our eternal appreciation
A brave legend, faced insurmountable odds.
Fire blazed in those eyes, steely determination
Qualities revered and applauded by the Gods.
Her absense nothing but abhorrent abhoration
A heroine began early, helping those in need
Kind, warm-hearted, healing emotional bleeds
Duty honoured, no complaint serving time
Before life could begin. Spirited, impatient, seized life early
Her removal early, a most terrible crime
Showing the world how to be worthy
Of this, a fragile moment, where we stand, stacked in our billions
Even our greatest heroes balanced, precariously above oblivion.
The beast hated her essence, her good
It struck, a cruel and brutal blow
A budding rose, cut down where she stood
The demon buried her, deep in the snow
Seething, determined that nothing will grow, salted the earth
Fuming, oozing displeasure, it can't remove her actions, can't reverse her birth
Taking her, removed presence, premature and cruel
A people, a family, left empty, clutching one another
Devastating horror, we remember her as a child in school
But, brushing aside tears, heaving shoulders reduce to a silent shudder
Understanding, accepting her transition where she patiently awaits
A place of tranquility, magic, the shore, the other side of the lake.
Now she lives
With those we remember
Those non-living recall
Those who left at once
Happy. She sees what she has done,
Her spirit has flown
Changing the lives of those she loved
Balor O'Brien
Tuesday 26 July 2016
Wednesday 20 July 2016
Hold Your Own Trump
In South-West Ireland there was an old farmer. His name was Mickey. One day he discovered that someone was stealing his potatoes. Initially he paid no heed but it became a recurring theme. Every morning he found more had been stolen. Waking early or staying late did nothing to deter the criminal. Standing guard was not an option. Not every night. His land was spread in patches all across the parish. He didn't want to deter further theft by standing out every night. He was concerned with laying his hands on the culprit.
One night, donning a large black cloak he crept up to his field and lay down between the drills of potatoes he had laid down. He lay in dead silence for over two hours, feeling the cold creep inside his skin and settle in his bones. Just when he was beginning to consider aborting his plan, he heard a sound of rustling in the distance. Listening intently he could make out the distinct sound of someone making their way through his fields up towards the crops. A figure came into view, a middle-aged man dressed all in black, wearing a flat cap to hide his face.
Readying himself to unearth the crops, the thief removed his coat and cap. The moonlight shone brightly off the magnificent orb which had laid hidden beneath the headwear. An enormous head, reflected in the moon, illuminated the features which sat on the face below the luminous bowl.
As the man bent to commence his "work", the old farmer sprang up from the earth. Brandishing a spade, he announced himself to the intruder:
"You didn't lose your hair through honesty, did ya?"
Without waiting for a reply the farmer promptly struck the trespasser with the head of the spade, driving it firmly into his face. The bald man was knocked back, landing neatly between two drills.
The old man stood proudly over his handiwork. A job well done.
"Nobody lays their hands on my spuds," he declared to himself.
Exalted from the thrill of taking down the would-be thief, the old man considered what he would do with the criminal. Stepping closer, he realised that the collapsed man was known to him. It had been years since they had seen each other, but the bald man was Donal Glin.
It had been 20 years ago when Donal disappeared one night. It broke his mother's heart. Despite her earnest search there were never any leads as to what befell him. Many had assumed he killed himself. He was always quiet as a young man. But now he lay before Mickey, a middle-aged man with a bald dome where once sat thick dark curls of hair.
Upon closer examination of Donal, he noticed a large scar running from behind Donal's left ear down inside his shirt. His hands were enormous, weathered and puckered. Clear evidence of heavy use. a lifetime of manual labour. What could he have spent the last 20 years doing?
Before Mickey had time to decide a logical answer to his own question, those great arms sprung from the ground and clasped Mickey's front.
"They can't know I'm back!" Donal pressed his face close to Mickey's, pulling him closer. Every muscle in his body was knotted and Mickey was helpless against the younger man's strength.
"I can't let you tell them," whispered Donal. He pressed his fingers to Mickey's throat and began to squeeze. The hands completely covered Mickey's neck, whose vision began to fade.
The hill was deserted, without a soul to hear his soundless scream. In the calm night, had anyone looked up on the hill they would have spotted a large, bald man rising to his feet and hoisting a smaller older man into the air by his throat. The dangling man's legs kicked helplessly against the attack. He engaged his left hand in a feeble effort to push himself free while in his right hand he squeezed the spade.
With the last of his strength, Mickey clasped the spade in both hands and drove it up into Donal's chin. Immediately, he felt the tree-trunk arms release him. Mickey fell, gasping for breath and barely able to stay on his feet.
The blow had knocked Donal to his knees, sending the breath from his body. Mickey reacted quickly, bringing his tool around, readying for another strike.
Donal stared up at him, the fight gone from his eyes. "I... I'm sorry. You have to help me!"
His body had slumped, surrendering to the older man.
Mickey stood for a long minute considering his would-be killer and contemplating how far the situation had escalated. He had never imagined himself in this kind of situation. His father had fought in the civil war, not that it was ever spoken about. It was his father who had seen a lifetime of violence. His son had been destined for an uneventful life of farming. Now at the end of it he found himself in a harrowing dilemna over what to do.
Finally he made a decision. "Ï'll help you," he promised.
In one great swing he drove the spade down upon Donal's head. Checking around, he saw he was completely alone. Walking down the hill he retrieved his wheelbarrow. With some difficulty, due to the size of the body, he loaded it into the barrow. He covered the body with the blanket he had laid on in the drill only minutes before.
Casting his gaze a final time to detect any witnesses, he then took the barrow and its contents down the hill.
Balor O'Brien
One night, donning a large black cloak he crept up to his field and lay down between the drills of potatoes he had laid down. He lay in dead silence for over two hours, feeling the cold creep inside his skin and settle in his bones. Just when he was beginning to consider aborting his plan, he heard a sound of rustling in the distance. Listening intently he could make out the distinct sound of someone making their way through his fields up towards the crops. A figure came into view, a middle-aged man dressed all in black, wearing a flat cap to hide his face.
Readying himself to unearth the crops, the thief removed his coat and cap. The moonlight shone brightly off the magnificent orb which had laid hidden beneath the headwear. An enormous head, reflected in the moon, illuminated the features which sat on the face below the luminous bowl.
As the man bent to commence his "work", the old farmer sprang up from the earth. Brandishing a spade, he announced himself to the intruder:
"You didn't lose your hair through honesty, did ya?"
Without waiting for a reply the farmer promptly struck the trespasser with the head of the spade, driving it firmly into his face. The bald man was knocked back, landing neatly between two drills.
The old man stood proudly over his handiwork. A job well done.
"Nobody lays their hands on my spuds," he declared to himself.
Exalted from the thrill of taking down the would-be thief, the old man considered what he would do with the criminal. Stepping closer, he realised that the collapsed man was known to him. It had been years since they had seen each other, but the bald man was Donal Glin.
It had been 20 years ago when Donal disappeared one night. It broke his mother's heart. Despite her earnest search there were never any leads as to what befell him. Many had assumed he killed himself. He was always quiet as a young man. But now he lay before Mickey, a middle-aged man with a bald dome where once sat thick dark curls of hair.
Upon closer examination of Donal, he noticed a large scar running from behind Donal's left ear down inside his shirt. His hands were enormous, weathered and puckered. Clear evidence of heavy use. a lifetime of manual labour. What could he have spent the last 20 years doing?
Before Mickey had time to decide a logical answer to his own question, those great arms sprung from the ground and clasped Mickey's front.
"They can't know I'm back!" Donal pressed his face close to Mickey's, pulling him closer. Every muscle in his body was knotted and Mickey was helpless against the younger man's strength.
"I can't let you tell them," whispered Donal. He pressed his fingers to Mickey's throat and began to squeeze. The hands completely covered Mickey's neck, whose vision began to fade.
The hill was deserted, without a soul to hear his soundless scream. In the calm night, had anyone looked up on the hill they would have spotted a large, bald man rising to his feet and hoisting a smaller older man into the air by his throat. The dangling man's legs kicked helplessly against the attack. He engaged his left hand in a feeble effort to push himself free while in his right hand he squeezed the spade.
With the last of his strength, Mickey clasped the spade in both hands and drove it up into Donal's chin. Immediately, he felt the tree-trunk arms release him. Mickey fell, gasping for breath and barely able to stay on his feet.
The blow had knocked Donal to his knees, sending the breath from his body. Mickey reacted quickly, bringing his tool around, readying for another strike.
Donal stared up at him, the fight gone from his eyes. "I... I'm sorry. You have to help me!"
His body had slumped, surrendering to the older man.
Mickey stood for a long minute considering his would-be killer and contemplating how far the situation had escalated. He had never imagined himself in this kind of situation. His father had fought in the civil war, not that it was ever spoken about. It was his father who had seen a lifetime of violence. His son had been destined for an uneventful life of farming. Now at the end of it he found himself in a harrowing dilemna over what to do.
Finally he made a decision. "Ï'll help you," he promised.
In one great swing he drove the spade down upon Donal's head. Checking around, he saw he was completely alone. Walking down the hill he retrieved his wheelbarrow. With some difficulty, due to the size of the body, he loaded it into the barrow. He covered the body with the blanket he had laid on in the drill only minutes before.
Casting his gaze a final time to detect any witnesses, he then took the barrow and its contents down the hill.
Balor O'Brien
Tuesday 19 July 2016
Miltown Mornings
This is a true story. It was shared with me last night over a couple of drinks. For me it is crucial to preserve stories shared person to person. In the past I have had a laissez-faire (fairly lazy) attitude to this but now I'm hoping to spread a few tales. Hopefully you enjoy this one...
It took place sometime in the early 1990s. There were two couples from Dublin doing some travelling in the west of Ireland. They decided to explore the west coast of Clare during their journey and stopped at a hotel in Miltown Malbay. Now, hotel is probably a generous term for it. But it was somewhere for them to crash for the night and enjoy a few scoops.
The hotel was run by two spinsters and their mother could frequently be heard firing instructions at them from the back room. They introduced themselves to the proprietors as Mike, Sophie, Frank and Kathy. On the first night the two couples were drinking down in the village after a day exploring Lahinch, Quilty and Sanish Point. Once they were back in the hotel they met another couple staying in the hotel who were accompanied by their 15 year old daughter.
Nicholas Robinson, who was then First Gentleman of Ireland (husband of the President of Ireland), was visiting and staying in the hotel. He had four detectives as an escort who rotated shifts in pairs. The couples spent the first night sharing jars with the detectives in the hotel.
The following day the four set out and explored further south along the Clare coast. There was copious amounts of drinking before landing back in the hotel for a second night. Looking to continue drinking they first obliged the proprietors who insisted on cooking them all late night meals. Following this, they resumed their drinking with the group from the previous night. Kathy and Sophie went to bed early that night, leaving the boys to continue the session into the early hours.
Eventually the two retired for the night. Mike was having difficulty on the stairs but with assistance from Frank he made it upstairs and down the corridor towards his room. Frank fell into bed next to his wife and passed out.
The following morning, roused by his wife, Frank was asked by Kathy had he heard the commotion in the night shortly after he went to the room. He had been oblivious to what had apparently been a considerable rucous. The couple went downstairs to grab some breakfast, saluting the couple and their daughter as they sat. Sophie joined them but refused to reveal why Mike was absent. She advised in hushed tones for them to ask himself in person. Curiosity peaked, Frank went up to his friend.
Upon entering the room, Frank was given the keys to the car and money to pay the bill by Mike. Despite pressing him, Mike refused to budge or reveal what transpired. He wanted the car pulled up to the door to run to without delay.
Before paying the bill Frank went for a walk. Upon returning he ran into one of the sisters (Breda), Taking the opportunity he quizzed her on the night before. She obliged him.
During the night Mike had woken to go to the bathroom. There were no ensuites so he ventured down the hall bollock-naked to the toilet. Having relieved himself he made the return journey to his bedroom. What he didn't realise was he had inadvertently entered the room of the 15 year old girl. Oblivious he threw the blankets back to lie down. He presence was greeted by a shrill scream. Within seconds the detectives on duty burst into the room followed by the owners of the hotel to be greeted with the site of the Mike in all his glory.
Mike apologised profusely for the error and the next morning was determined to leave unnoticed. Breda told Frank to inform Mike that they completely understood and they would welcome him back any time. Upon hearing this, Mike seemed even more humiliated. Following the plan, the car was brought to the door and Mike made a run for it, but as he reached the door he ran headlong into the girl and her parents. Stuttering apologies, he retreated to the car anxious for a speedy departure.
Mike entreated everyone to silence on the night's events, but of course, every story needs to be told...
Balor O'Brien
It took place sometime in the early 1990s. There were two couples from Dublin doing some travelling in the west of Ireland. They decided to explore the west coast of Clare during their journey and stopped at a hotel in Miltown Malbay. Now, hotel is probably a generous term for it. But it was somewhere for them to crash for the night and enjoy a few scoops.
The hotel was run by two spinsters and their mother could frequently be heard firing instructions at them from the back room. They introduced themselves to the proprietors as Mike, Sophie, Frank and Kathy. On the first night the two couples were drinking down in the village after a day exploring Lahinch, Quilty and Sanish Point. Once they were back in the hotel they met another couple staying in the hotel who were accompanied by their 15 year old daughter.
Nicholas Robinson, who was then First Gentleman of Ireland (husband of the President of Ireland), was visiting and staying in the hotel. He had four detectives as an escort who rotated shifts in pairs. The couples spent the first night sharing jars with the detectives in the hotel.
The following day the four set out and explored further south along the Clare coast. There was copious amounts of drinking before landing back in the hotel for a second night. Looking to continue drinking they first obliged the proprietors who insisted on cooking them all late night meals. Following this, they resumed their drinking with the group from the previous night. Kathy and Sophie went to bed early that night, leaving the boys to continue the session into the early hours.
Eventually the two retired for the night. Mike was having difficulty on the stairs but with assistance from Frank he made it upstairs and down the corridor towards his room. Frank fell into bed next to his wife and passed out.
The following morning, roused by his wife, Frank was asked by Kathy had he heard the commotion in the night shortly after he went to the room. He had been oblivious to what had apparently been a considerable rucous. The couple went downstairs to grab some breakfast, saluting the couple and their daughter as they sat. Sophie joined them but refused to reveal why Mike was absent. She advised in hushed tones for them to ask himself in person. Curiosity peaked, Frank went up to his friend.
Upon entering the room, Frank was given the keys to the car and money to pay the bill by Mike. Despite pressing him, Mike refused to budge or reveal what transpired. He wanted the car pulled up to the door to run to without delay.
Before paying the bill Frank went for a walk. Upon returning he ran into one of the sisters (Breda), Taking the opportunity he quizzed her on the night before. She obliged him.
During the night Mike had woken to go to the bathroom. There were no ensuites so he ventured down the hall bollock-naked to the toilet. Having relieved himself he made the return journey to his bedroom. What he didn't realise was he had inadvertently entered the room of the 15 year old girl. Oblivious he threw the blankets back to lie down. He presence was greeted by a shrill scream. Within seconds the detectives on duty burst into the room followed by the owners of the hotel to be greeted with the site of the Mike in all his glory.
Mike apologised profusely for the error and the next morning was determined to leave unnoticed. Breda told Frank to inform Mike that they completely understood and they would welcome him back any time. Upon hearing this, Mike seemed even more humiliated. Following the plan, the car was brought to the door and Mike made a run for it, but as he reached the door he ran headlong into the girl and her parents. Stuttering apologies, he retreated to the car anxious for a speedy departure.
Mike entreated everyone to silence on the night's events, but of course, every story needs to be told...
Balor O'Brien
Monday 18 July 2016
Buried Deep
A loved one, a child, missing and missed
Memories of her father's half-forgotten kiss
Faded with a past buried in dirt
Muffled cries replacing his laughter, his mirth
Guided forward, unknowing, she walks away
3 years old, asking why daddy didn't stay
Told lies, that ahead she'll see him again at last
Lies to send her away, leaving daddy, her buried past.
Balor O'Brien
Memories of her father's half-forgotten kiss
Faded with a past buried in dirt
Muffled cries replacing his laughter, his mirth
Guided forward, unknowing, she walks away
3 years old, asking why daddy didn't stay
Told lies, that ahead she'll see him again at last
Lies to send her away, leaving daddy, her buried past.
Balor O'Brien
Insomniac
Can't sleep, eyes feeling heavy
No light, no sound, lying here motionless
Mind racing, on one notion he is steady
Without his baby, his child He feels less.
Screaming, a storm of emotion crashes in his mind
Meanwhile, he sits there complacent, hardly feeling alive.
See its not about your feeling, those you bury deep inside
People here they don't care to see you cry.
Every night people will fall asleep
'Cept me, listening to I'm a creep
In the dark, I see I'm all alone
My ears tuned to hear Like A Stone
Whatever people say I am, that's what I'm not
They muted the volume, ignoring the rot.
Big blue sky hides A pitless black
Hanging over me, disguised by the sun
How many sleepless nights? I've lost track
Spinning the same cycle, I'm beetlebum
Broken down, I've got no on, nobody.
Who could be up, this hour of the night?
To think, to learn, to dream, has been my folly
The fear is building, my chest grows tight.
Every night people will fall asleep
'Cept me, sitting by a bathroom sink
In the dark I see I'm all alone
No message or call ever reaches my phone
Whatever people say I am, that's what I'm not
Decided already, my burial plot.
His head, fixated on his flesh and blood
Her eyes, her smile, used to think it was him
his features torn by a tsunami, a flood
Kept from her, can it be, can she see?
This forlorn, sad excuse for a dad
Blinded, he imagines what her life is, will be
"What Not To Be," he is the ad.
Ankles broken, he "stands on his knees"
Every night people will fall asleep
Into dreams and fantasy others leap
But here is his chronic, a living nightmare
Must have a sign on which reads BEWARE
Existing, invading other people's worlds'
This shadow has earned occasional pearls.
A rental body, in rented space
Its been two months since he had a date
With his child, the one he is calling for
Knocking loudly, no one answers the door
Lying on his back, in his dark hole
They fill it, but moving real slow
Only 24, they won't kill him quick
That's not they're game, that's not they're trick
Every day without her he feels buried, alive...?
No one knows. Listen close, you can hear his last sigh.
Balor O'Brien
No light, no sound, lying here motionless
Mind racing, on one notion he is steady
Without his baby, his child He feels less.
Screaming, a storm of emotion crashes in his mind
Meanwhile, he sits there complacent, hardly feeling alive.
See its not about your feeling, those you bury deep inside
People here they don't care to see you cry.
Every night people will fall asleep
'Cept me, listening to I'm a creep
In the dark, I see I'm all alone
My ears tuned to hear Like A Stone
Whatever people say I am, that's what I'm not
They muted the volume, ignoring the rot.
Big blue sky hides A pitless black
Hanging over me, disguised by the sun
How many sleepless nights? I've lost track
Spinning the same cycle, I'm beetlebum
Broken down, I've got no on, nobody.
Who could be up, this hour of the night?
To think, to learn, to dream, has been my folly
The fear is building, my chest grows tight.
Every night people will fall asleep
'Cept me, sitting by a bathroom sink
In the dark I see I'm all alone
No message or call ever reaches my phone
Whatever people say I am, that's what I'm not
Decided already, my burial plot.
His head, fixated on his flesh and blood
Her eyes, her smile, used to think it was him
his features torn by a tsunami, a flood
Kept from her, can it be, can she see?
This forlorn, sad excuse for a dad
Blinded, he imagines what her life is, will be
"What Not To Be," he is the ad.
Ankles broken, he "stands on his knees"
Every night people will fall asleep
Into dreams and fantasy others leap
But here is his chronic, a living nightmare
Must have a sign on which reads BEWARE
Existing, invading other people's worlds'
This shadow has earned occasional pearls.
A rental body, in rented space
Its been two months since he had a date
With his child, the one he is calling for
Knocking loudly, no one answers the door
Lying on his back, in his dark hole
They fill it, but moving real slow
Only 24, they won't kill him quick
That's not they're game, that's not they're trick
Every day without her he feels buried, alive...?
No one knows. Listen close, you can hear his last sigh.
Balor O'Brien
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