A Maze Zing

I’ve had an amazing time! 

I even learned to rhyme a sonnet here and there;

to sup soup in the sun, sat  in a garden chair;

bring kids to the zoo with an elephant in tow;

light a fire with words (in my gifted way, don’t you know);

I was watered, fed and minded in the most delightful way

by some people who, each one of whom, had loads and loads to say

about history and and memory and stag-nighters and the like,

One even, in the morning, round a lake did have a hike.

Others lay and gobbled ‘Irish’ from the comfort of the bed.

(The sour ‘ould wan’ was given a plate of prunes instead!)

Then we listened to the radio to some outrageous chap

who claimed that he liked rivers (full of water, like a tap).

We appreciated grandeur and sat in a gracious room

until refreshments were delivered. Then to the cars Voom Voom!

Electric Shocks

Niamh should have the tent up by now, wellies not needed, but by the look of the sky here at 12.30, I wouldn’t put them far out of reach.  Even thinking about the delights in store down there leaves me exhausted (from envy).  I’m never in the right place at the right time.  I even missed Glastonbury, for God’s sake.

Colm is ready to strut his stuff on the big stage, should be fairly petrified this minute, but once he sees the audience out front, he’ll be fine.  He’ll produce his shy, charming smile - then blast them out of it.

David is basking in the glory of being short-listed for Sean O Faolain – such an international list, isn’t it?  Why am I not surprised?  Bravo Dave. We’ll all be rooting for  you for the major award (the cream buns will be on you if  you win actual cash.)

Louise will be reading her wonderful story to the group.  I bet there’s a prize lurking there too.

And Matt is probably terrified about his radio performance in the morning on Liffey Sound fm 96.4 at 11 o’clock.  We’ll all be listening to your Home Show.

Is this the end of the summer season, or is there more to come?  Well, in radio land there is a whole feast prepared to keep us going for the cold(er) months of autumn and winter.

Group Work

There are groups, and there are groups.  I’ve visited quite a few in my time and I happen to think that ours is pretty good any way you look at it.

We have a constant number of about a dozen.  We worry that we will be overwhelmed by new people – we are a Library Group so have a commitment to being open to the community; but somehow we stay at that number without any culling, as people come and go, new members join, some take a break to do a course, or write a novel.  We have been lucky that no Prima Dona's emerged – nobody monopolising the session, no cliques, no power grabbers – and no shrinking violets either.  Even more unusual I'd say is the quality of the writing, the generous and relevant robust comment on work read, the balance between prose and poetry.  Strangely, no jealousy either when a member collars a prize that we all feel we could nearly have won – with a bit of luck!

The cream buns and coffee available on-site afterwards are a nice bonus!).

The Teen Group run by Niamh is another plus, because now and then others of us get involved and the young voices and attitudes increase our store of knowledge and keep us on our toes.  Sometimes I learn much more there than at our own two hours – their humour is so instant, so un-moulded and free from inhibition.

The Speed Writing exercise we use at the beginning of each session not only wakens us up, but challenges the brain to snap into life.  The amazing variety of contributions that emerge never fails to delight – from objects as diverse as Wire Brushes and Feathery Fans -  and more often than not these ten-minute-to-create masterpieces re-emerge weeks later, as short stories winging their way to competitions.

Some of our group have spread their wings into Poetry Slams and Electric Picnics and that enervating sort of thing.  Our new Radio  Star has recharged the batteries of those who may have been slouching or a bit jaded as they are prodded into putting together pieces suitable for broadcasting, and gives a vehicle for showing work, selecting themes and music to match and generally letting the listener discover something about the kind of people who have an urgency to put words on paper.

But, of course, Blogging has practically taken over the lives of most of us………

Teddy

My claim to fame today is in remembering a meal I shared with the late Senator Teddy Kennedy in March of 62 or 63.

Working with Aer Lingus at the time, a gang of us were sent to the USA for the St Patrick’s Day celebrations. I opted for Boston rather than New York, because I am a lazy slouch. The walk down 5th Ave is rather long; in civilised Boston they used a motorcade.

First night there we were at a function which was attended by the Senator and his wife Joan. He was handsome, she was pretty, I had no interest in politics and had other fish to fry. I hardly noticed them. Especially when recovering from the humiliation of dancing my way through the first several bars of the US National Anthem, not recognising it.

Boston Parade was super. Next day (Sunday) there was another one in a place called Holyoke. There was a major dinner-party afterwards. My friend and myself were late and all the places at the top table with all the dignitaries were full and we had to sit together in splendid isolation at a table set for 4 in the middle of the room. We bitched for a while before devoting ourselves to stuffing our faces. We hardly noticed the cheers and applause when another guest arrived, a handsome brute, obviously popular, who shook a few hands here and there then joined us at our humble setting. My friend paled and began to chatter while kicking me under the table and introducing both of us to the man who since became so famous. Needless to say the local lasses were green with envy, which in retrospect was most appropriate.

The Senator was a charming man who entertained us royally (if a Democrat can do that) and it is indeed an honour to have met him. May he rest in peace.

Two Crows

 

Silent sentinels sitting on the apex of a pitched roof

In the half-light before the sun is up

Black-uniformed facing to the east,

Then shifting imperceptibly to the north,

Like the backward hands of a compass clock.

 

I wonder do they chat about the tortoishell cat skulking in the shrubbery

Seeking a stray mouse, an earthbound fledgling?

Or spot the sunflowers ease yellow fingers to full length,

Stretching supple necks, rousing sap for strength to raise their heads

to worship once again their fiery god?

 

Do they see the silent jet steaming high above,

white ribbons trailing, on its way to London, Paris or perhaps Peru,

Somnolent souls cocooned within

heading for holidays, making mercy missions,

or facing home for another year of post-recession recriminations?

 

Do they hear the pink dangling bells of sweet, fairy-filled fuchsia;

Gossip about Gretchen, our plaster goose, broad bill upraised to the trumpets of white mallow moving gently on the whisper of a morning breeze?

Do they revel in the reddening creeper?

Do their noses get the whiff of fading roses hanging limply?

 

Do they see me behind my window pane,

Watching them watching me,

Wondering at their ability to stand immobile,

While I sit restless, passing wakeful hours

poisoning an already over-loaded system with caffeine and tobacco?

 

No signal, but one hops atop a chimney cowl,

Ruffles feathers, pecks at some discomfort then resumes her place, facing her mate.

He stretches on his talon tips and sidles towards the west,

Eyes darting left and right, blinkered shutters

Clicking pictures of essential information.

 

Stretched wings and well-plumed tails,

As one they check their feathered under-carriages,

Then bounce down dull grey tiles inspecting moss,

Breakfasting on unsuspecting spiders and things

That nestle there, unaware they are the prey of predators.

 

Then with a nod and a wink, or the blink of an eye

They take to the air and glide to their next vantage point.

It’s time for me to put away my thoughts

And seek an hour of sleep before the day.

Hospitals

Hospitals are funny places, or at least they can be if you keep your sense of humour.  I’ve seen more than my fair share in the past few years, but they still never fail to entertain me.

Every three months or so I have an appointment at 11.15 to see a consultant.  Sometimes there’s a huge queue, today there wasn’t.  Still I never get seen before 1pm – and then only for about five minutes.  They don’t do anything, just ask how I am and check bloods (which I will have had taken a week before).  I’m sure they could as easily just send me an ‘OK – See you in 3 months’ message by phone or mail.  

To keep this appointment I have to get somebody to drive me, – not nice when you know this is going to be a fairly regular thing and people have their own lives to live and jobs to do - because I couldn’t walk the distance from the car park to the lobby which is where one gets a wheel-chair.  I leave home at around 10.15 to be in time – not early, just in time. They won’t give you a wheel-chair without a porter, but will let your ‘minder’ take charge for the return trip, so it can’t be for safety reasons.   They park the wheel-chair slap bang in the middle of the narrow corridor where everyone else has to step over it or negotiate their way around you. 

Today I felt quite ill while I was waiting.  I overheard a passing nurse saying ‘that person looks tired’.  Stupidly, thinking she cared, I said I wasn’t tired but felt quite ill.  In my innocence I had said to daughter-in-law who was my transporter, what better place to get sick.  I was wrong.  There was no response of any kind from any of the four uniformed women standing roughly two feet from me who carried on their conversation.

Himself, the King, getting jealous of my relationship with this hospital had taken his turn there and booked in for the past week and a half.  Today I met him for the first time since he went in – but he was going in the opposite direction, being ferried home by another friend.  He had to be out before 11, whereas I had to be in by 11.15.  (All these arrangements had to be made by guess who?  Right, first time!)  Luckily grandson had volunteered to be at home when he got there in case he needed help – hubby had had surgery.  Needless to day both hubby and grandson were starving and waiting for lunch by the time I returned.

In case you think I’m feeling sorry for myself, I’m not.  I met a woman outside, older than me by about 10 years, who had been there since 5am.  Her husband has some as yet undiagnosed illness and they had sent for her to sit with him because he was restless and needed someone to be with him.  She had also spent Saturday  from 7am until 10.30pm on the same errand.  She lives much further away than I do, afraid to drive on the motorway, and has to get her son to get up and bring her there and collect her each time.

Ah well.  I suppose if there were no hospitals it would be even worse.  But it’s a much better idea to stay healthy and not get sick at all!

Sunshine

There are two golden balls of light sitting where I step into the garden.  Their black faces grin impishly at me as I join them in their worship of the sun, feathery orange hair reminding me of the gollywog, (so non p.c. these days) that used grace the label of the marmalade jar on my mother’s breakfast table. 

But these are blossoms of light, not darkness.  Grown from seed by a neighbour who last year found a similar, but of a long-stemmed variety, dropped no doubt by a truly feathered friend as he feasted on her bird table in her carefully tended flower bed.  I could see it from my window during a period of convalescence, and praised it in poetry in our local journal.  She never commented on this – if indeed she saw it – but out of the blue left these two new babes-in-the-sun on my doorstep with a little card three weeks ago.

Nice things like this have happened a lot in the past few months.  Unexpected words of appreciation, tokens of friendship;  a phone call just to say Hello!;  a flower-pot carefully painted with a much loved line, “When I am old I will wear purple, with a red hat”; a totally out-of-the-“blue pressie from town” which kept me company last night as I viewed a light romantic film on tv.

Like the balls of light in my garden, these gestures lift my spirits, fill me with respect for people who take the trouble to show their friendship and love, and make me want to go on living forever.  They smile into the bleaker hours and dissipate the short spells of gloom.  Their feathery touch is  complementary, not invasive; and they reflect the warmth that showers down.