Poguemahone, p.33
Poguemahone, page 33
me publicly &
with tedious predictability
– I mean it really is a whine by now! –
insisting that I was, & always had been,
the sole
cause of her enduring imní,
or anxiety and depression,
as they call it now.
Well, holy God
some of the things you have to put up with
when you do your best
to make someone happy
only to find it turning out
that all you are to them is an
óinseach
not only far from the best
but in actual fact
the worst in the world.
A fret,
a cur-dog,
no use either to man or beast.
Yes, that’s all the thanks you’ll
get for your efforts.
But then, where’s the surprise in that – when, as is often the
case in old Erin, God bless her, your closest, aye your blood,
them turning out to be the most ungracious of all.
Although my sister
– at least
most of the time –
doesn’t actually mean it
& as well as that
it’s understandable after
everything she’s been through.
But still, all the same,
I don’t like her doing it,
turning against her very own brother –
calling him all the foul names
under the sun
& sometimes, in her vehemence,
coming close to harming
herself
once punching herself
in the eye
&
spitting
Dan
Dan
I hate
you
Dan
why did you have to
ever get born
& which of course
is the greatest laugh
because everyone knows
or should do
that I wasn’t,
of course,
at least not like
any ordinary mortal.
Another time she threw
scalding water on herself
which of course was meant
for me
but fortunately she missed
although you should have heard the
shouts of Butley Henderson
whose head she just missed
that great big bonce
that looks like a duck egg
sculpted out of lard,
with goggles on –
bloody hell!!
he says
did you see that
bloody hell!!
looking a bit
like a terrified Billy Cotton
who in his time
had presented
Variety Bandbox.
A subject on which
the very same Butley Henderson
considers himself
something of an authority
indeed in more recent days
has my poor sister
tormented
with suggestions from
that very same programme
yes, driven up the walls
entirely
with every time he sees her coming
runs over to annoy her
Capers
Capers
Capers
that’s no good of
a name for any show.
No!
Variety Bandbox
is what it has to be
Variety Bandbox
Variety Bandbox
yes
yes
yes
to such an extent
that the other day
he succeeded
in reducing
the poor girl to tears
because what does she care
about Billy Cotton
& does she not have a mind
of her own
but still he keeps at it
Variety Bandbox
Variety Bandbox
Variety. . .
& then when she doesn’t accept his
suggestion
starts spreading all these rumours
and veiled imputations
regarding her musical competence
& suitability as director
going back on everything he’s said
about harbouring a certain degree
of tolerance towards the Irish
now running down the family name
the same old claptrap
all over again
yes, there they go,
the cloth-eared fools
the Fogartys
aye,
the Fogartys
what would you expect
ah, the poor thing, she’s hopeless
hopeless
she is
& that’s all there’s to it
but then, after all
what would you expect
whenever it’s the name of the
Fogartys
you’re dealing with.
Yes – that, I’m afraid
is what the silly fellow said.
So there’s nothing for it
but I shall have to have a word.
Because, as I’ve mentioned before
& I’ll say it again
it simply isn’t in me
to stand by
&
watch
our good name
slighted
& scorned
no, not again
I’m sorry to
have to say
once again
so
FUCK HIM!
He’s nearly as bad as
Troy McClory.
Ah, but all the same
there are times when
I really & truly do
absolutely regret
the way it all
worked out
between myself &
the Scotsman
because, as I’ve acknowledged,
there really were times
when he could be funny
yes, very amusing indeed
so he could
a terrific raconteur
& that, I suppose,
at least in part
was what our Una
was probably
attracted to.
With that poetic turn of phrase
he had
& the capacity to relate a story
from beginning to end
hold the attention of
an audience around
a table
with, at his best,
something of
the shaman about him
a distinctive word-weaver
& spinner of yarns
with a lot of it inherited
from his old mentor
Douglas McVittie
&
which I think we would
have to
acknowledge that by
& large
it’s a skill that’s
fast disappearing
or at least under threat
in these contemporary times
of digital explosions
& fibre-optic
overload
where
throughout this past decade
there’s been
an unprecedented blitz of information
& without maybe realising it
we are living underneath
the punishing weight of endless data
&
noise
&
social media
soundbites
&
selfies
the almost
unbearable burden
of immediate &
proximate stimuli
but not Troy McClory
o no not
the Scotsman
from the nineteen-seventies
when all of this would have
been the stuff of fiction
which even The Professor
Mr McVittie
could not have even
begun to dream of
crinkling up his eyes
as off went
that good old Scottie
again
yes, Troy McClory
waving the joint
as he swore blue-blind
that this latest yarn
he was spinning to them
was true
& which he could
assure them of
because none other
than Ray
Davies of the group
The Kinks
had told it to him
yeah, man
I swear this happened
when their band had been coming
from a gig
up in Leeds
driving along the M1
with Ray still dressed
in his Bozo hat
& bells
yeah, man,
I swear
still with his face-paint
got up as a clown –
baggy trousers, turned-up
shoes
same as he’d been
wearing onstage,
when – I kid you not! – what
goes and happens
doesn’t he go and get a heart
attack
you’ve go’ tae get me tae a
hospital says
Troy and what a joke
that was, with the singer
on the table being
examined, in his circus
slap
I’m afraid we may be going
tae lose him!
says the surgeon
& that’s where the famous
song originated, you see
Troy McClory
continued to explain
but no’ only tha’
picked up his guitar
and started to charm the
birds & our
Una
& indeed everyone
who happened to be
present at the table
that morning
swaying from side to side
with his song
about clowns
& runaway circus fleas
it was a terrific rendition,
it has to be said.
It’s just a pity
that a certain person in
particular hadn’t been there
to hear it
this would be Sandie
I’m talking about
a young girl called Sandie Greene
originally from Hull
who hadn’t lasted very long
unfortunately
only two or three weeks
in all
because she had
absolutely loved The Kinks
and boasted proudly of
owning all their records.
Why, she had even more than
Tanith Kaplinski,
she said,
who had loved them too –
and, as a matter of fact,
whenever they got stoned
the pair of them
would always link arms and
sing that very same tune
at the top of their voices
coming along Brondesbury Road
in their cheesecloth shirts
& ankle-length wrap-around check
Madras skirts
before dissolving into hopeless laughter
whenever it came to the
part about the runaway
fleas
& the circus ringmaster not cracking
his whip anymore
let’s all drink to the death of
a clown. . .
You know something else about Tanith
that I forgot to tell you?
She absolutely adored The Everyman
Theatre in Hampstead
& to which she used to go
frequently with Jo.
But on this particular occasion
she had decided to go on her own
this time she was on her own.
There is no such thing now
– well, there wouldn’t be, would there,
in this busy age of
information technology
Netflix, Amazon and all the rest of it
no, no such thing as cinema double features,
whether of the horror film or anything else.
But back in those days
you could see one every afternoon,
if you wanted, far
from this big Babel bubble
of crackling digital mayhem.
Actually, Tanith was singing about ‘bubbles’
along with some of the infants
in the school where she’d been
giving a performance.
But all of that was forgotten now
as she reclined, like Sexy Lexy
in the middle row sipping her juicy
sweet Kia-Ora.
Blinking away furiously
because for the life of her
she just couldn’t stop it
remaining rigid in the fish-grey light.
She spent four hours in The Everyman that day
& then went home.
Making up her own words to a song by Sandie
Shaw about the rain pouring down as she flew
out of London all the way to gay Paree
and as Tanith Kaplinski murmured it softly
that very same night in the deep drifting
heart of her dream
she couldn’t have been happier
as she came strolling along the leafy
avenues and canal banks with her stripey
umbrella held high,
feeling absolutely
free as a bird.
Until, suddenly, still in the dream
night came down really quite unexpectedly
& she found herself becoming a bit confused
having wandered down a dim-lit side street.
Where she could hear the bells of the city
clanging out
before becoming aware
there was someone behind her.
But not only that
it immediately dawning on her
that this wasn’t Paris, in fact, at all
no, not the capital of France
but the water-lapping city of Venice!
And it was then that she heard it
the most subdued & awful chuckle
as she looked behind her
to find in front of her
a truly dreadful figure
tiny in stature
stunted
not much bigger than a three-year-old child.
Attired in a shapeless red duffle coat
with a hood
its sloped shoulders hunched as, very slowly
it began making its approach,
gradually pushing back the pointed hood
to reveal its
knobbled, disfigured countenance.
Only then did she see
the implement that was upraised
a blade abruptly flashing
in the silver-pale light
of a moon suspended
between two spires
‘Top of the mornin’, ma’am!’ it said
brutally and swiftly
with a single swift, well-aimed blow
opening her neck
as she awoke
to find herself utterly
drenched in sweat,
calling out Jo’s name
but then remembered
that Joanne Kaplan
her closest friend
& artistic fellow traveller
had gone home yesterday
for the weekend.
& such was the degree of embarrassment
she experienced on her way to college
the following morning
I can’t tell you
when she remembered the silly little
innocent song which had acted
as the soundtrack of her dream
why, it was ‘Monsieur Dupont’
by Sandie Shaw, of course!
& o how she laughed
as she found her mood becoming
increasingly more lighthearted
as the day progressed
reassuring herself
with the thought
Ha! Don’t Look Now!
how harmless that actually sounds
about as threatening
as a children’s playground game
eventually enjoying the
most wonderful day at work.
&, afterwards, over time,
becoming more and more convinced
yes, almost completely certain now
that everything was going to be fine
absolutely fine
yes, she thought.
Indeed, beginning to wonder
how she could ever have possibly
thought any different?
Pouring scorn on the fantasy of
the double-feature she’d been
brooding over for the
duration of the entire previous day
with her more frivolous
self now, thankfully, restored.
As she wheeled her bicycle
along the ‘boulevard’
of the Killiburn High Road
in the process almost knocking over a
stocky-looking man
who she took initially to be yet
another Guinness-quaffing itinerant
labourer
but then she noticed how well he was dressed
in a neat two-piece black suit and crisply
starched white shirt
Na éiníní!
the little birdies,
she heard him whisper
forcing himself intimately
up against her ear
you see what they’re trying to do
is communicate?
The anxieties of our ancestors –
warn us, he went on,
& I suppose I ought to know
for don’t I record them in cemeteries
all over London
I’m Joe Meek, he said, extending a hand
which she instinctively declined
I am the one and only
guardian of lonely satellites
friend to the sprites & spacemen
all those drifting souls that come to me
mad to leave their mark so they are
Miss
small wonder they’d say
that I’m out of this world
ha ha, he scoffed,
& ha ha again
as he tossed back his quiff
& bade her goodbye
I’m off home now
to the Holloway Road,
he whispered invasively
into her other ear,
yes, back to Holloway
where bereft,
fragile voices are eagerly awaiting
my arrival
wailing through the graveyard trees.
As Tanith Kaplinski shivered,
groaning just a little
as she sighed and shook her head
with tedious predictability
– I mean it really is a whine by now! –
insisting that I was, & always had been,
the sole
cause of her enduring imní,
or anxiety and depression,
as they call it now.
Well, holy God
some of the things you have to put up with
when you do your best
to make someone happy
only to find it turning out
that all you are to them is an
óinseach
not only far from the best
but in actual fact
the worst in the world.
A fret,
a cur-dog,
no use either to man or beast.
Yes, that’s all the thanks you’ll
get for your efforts.
But then, where’s the surprise in that – when, as is often the
case in old Erin, God bless her, your closest, aye your blood,
them turning out to be the most ungracious of all.
Although my sister
– at least
most of the time –
doesn’t actually mean it
& as well as that
it’s understandable after
everything she’s been through.
But still, all the same,
I don’t like her doing it,
turning against her very own brother –
calling him all the foul names
under the sun
& sometimes, in her vehemence,
coming close to harming
herself
once punching herself
in the eye
&
spitting
Dan
Dan
I hate
you
Dan
why did you have to
ever get born
& which of course
is the greatest laugh
because everyone knows
or should do
that I wasn’t,
of course,
at least not like
any ordinary mortal.
Another time she threw
scalding water on herself
which of course was meant
for me
but fortunately she missed
although you should have heard the
shouts of Butley Henderson
whose head she just missed
that great big bonce
that looks like a duck egg
sculpted out of lard,
with goggles on –
bloody hell!!
he says
did you see that
bloody hell!!
looking a bit
like a terrified Billy Cotton
who in his time
had presented
Variety Bandbox.
A subject on which
the very same Butley Henderson
considers himself
something of an authority
indeed in more recent days
has my poor sister
tormented
with suggestions from
that very same programme
yes, driven up the walls
entirely
with every time he sees her coming
runs over to annoy her
Capers
Capers
Capers
that’s no good of
a name for any show.
No!
Variety Bandbox
is what it has to be
Variety Bandbox
Variety Bandbox
yes
yes
yes
to such an extent
that the other day
he succeeded
in reducing
the poor girl to tears
because what does she care
about Billy Cotton
& does she not have a mind
of her own
but still he keeps at it
Variety Bandbox
Variety Bandbox
Variety. . .
& then when she doesn’t accept his
suggestion
starts spreading all these rumours
and veiled imputations
regarding her musical competence
& suitability as director
going back on everything he’s said
about harbouring a certain degree
of tolerance towards the Irish
now running down the family name
the same old claptrap
all over again
yes, there they go,
the cloth-eared fools
the Fogartys
aye,
the Fogartys
what would you expect
ah, the poor thing, she’s hopeless
hopeless
she is
& that’s all there’s to it
but then, after all
what would you expect
whenever it’s the name of the
Fogartys
you’re dealing with.
Yes – that, I’m afraid
is what the silly fellow said.
So there’s nothing for it
but I shall have to have a word.
Because, as I’ve mentioned before
& I’ll say it again
it simply isn’t in me
to stand by
&
watch
our good name
slighted
& scorned
no, not again
I’m sorry to
have to say
once again
so
FUCK HIM!
He’s nearly as bad as
Troy McClory.
Ah, but all the same
there are times when
I really & truly do
absolutely regret
the way it all
worked out
between myself &
the Scotsman
because, as I’ve acknowledged,
there really were times
when he could be funny
yes, very amusing indeed
so he could
a terrific raconteur
& that, I suppose,
at least in part
was what our Una
was probably
attracted to.
With that poetic turn of phrase
he had
& the capacity to relate a story
from beginning to end
hold the attention of
an audience around
a table
with, at his best,
something of
the shaman about him
a distinctive word-weaver
& spinner of yarns
with a lot of it inherited
from his old mentor
Douglas McVittie
&
which I think we would
have to
acknowledge that by
& large
it’s a skill that’s
fast disappearing
or at least under threat
in these contemporary times
of digital explosions
& fibre-optic
overload
where
throughout this past decade
there’s been
an unprecedented blitz of information
& without maybe realising it
we are living underneath
the punishing weight of endless data
&
noise
&
social media
soundbites
&
selfies
the almost
unbearable burden
of immediate &
proximate stimuli
but not Troy McClory
o no not
the Scotsman
from the nineteen-seventies
when all of this would have
been the stuff of fiction
which even The Professor
Mr McVittie
could not have even
begun to dream of
crinkling up his eyes
as off went
that good old Scottie
again
yes, Troy McClory
waving the joint
as he swore blue-blind
that this latest yarn
he was spinning to them
was true
& which he could
assure them of
because none other
than Ray
Davies of the group
The Kinks
had told it to him
yeah, man
I swear this happened
when their band had been coming
from a gig
up in Leeds
driving along the M1
with Ray still dressed
in his Bozo hat
& bells
yeah, man,
I swear
still with his face-paint
got up as a clown –
baggy trousers, turned-up
shoes
same as he’d been
wearing onstage,
when – I kid you not! – what
goes and happens
doesn’t he go and get a heart
attack
you’ve go’ tae get me tae a
hospital says
Troy and what a joke
that was, with the singer
on the table being
examined, in his circus
slap
I’m afraid we may be going
tae lose him!
says the surgeon
& that’s where the famous
song originated, you see
Troy McClory
continued to explain
but no’ only tha’
picked up his guitar
and started to charm the
birds & our
Una
& indeed everyone
who happened to be
present at the table
that morning
swaying from side to side
with his song
about clowns
& runaway circus fleas
it was a terrific rendition,
it has to be said.
It’s just a pity
that a certain person in
particular hadn’t been there
to hear it
this would be Sandie
I’m talking about
a young girl called Sandie Greene
originally from Hull
who hadn’t lasted very long
unfortunately
only two or three weeks
in all
because she had
absolutely loved The Kinks
and boasted proudly of
owning all their records.
Why, she had even more than
Tanith Kaplinski,
she said,
who had loved them too –
and, as a matter of fact,
whenever they got stoned
the pair of them
would always link arms and
sing that very same tune
at the top of their voices
coming along Brondesbury Road
in their cheesecloth shirts
& ankle-length wrap-around check
Madras skirts
before dissolving into hopeless laughter
whenever it came to the
part about the runaway
fleas
& the circus ringmaster not cracking
his whip anymore
let’s all drink to the death of
a clown. . .
You know something else about Tanith
that I forgot to tell you?
She absolutely adored The Everyman
Theatre in Hampstead
& to which she used to go
frequently with Jo.
But on this particular occasion
she had decided to go on her own
this time she was on her own.
There is no such thing now
– well, there wouldn’t be, would there,
in this busy age of
information technology
Netflix, Amazon and all the rest of it
no, no such thing as cinema double features,
whether of the horror film or anything else.
But back in those days
you could see one every afternoon,
if you wanted, far
from this big Babel bubble
of crackling digital mayhem.
Actually, Tanith was singing about ‘bubbles’
along with some of the infants
in the school where she’d been
giving a performance.
But all of that was forgotten now
as she reclined, like Sexy Lexy
in the middle row sipping her juicy
sweet Kia-Ora.
Blinking away furiously
because for the life of her
she just couldn’t stop it
remaining rigid in the fish-grey light.
She spent four hours in The Everyman that day
& then went home.
Making up her own words to a song by Sandie
Shaw about the rain pouring down as she flew
out of London all the way to gay Paree
and as Tanith Kaplinski murmured it softly
that very same night in the deep drifting
heart of her dream
she couldn’t have been happier
as she came strolling along the leafy
avenues and canal banks with her stripey
umbrella held high,
feeling absolutely
free as a bird.
Until, suddenly, still in the dream
night came down really quite unexpectedly
& she found herself becoming a bit confused
having wandered down a dim-lit side street.
Where she could hear the bells of the city
clanging out
before becoming aware
there was someone behind her.
But not only that
it immediately dawning on her
that this wasn’t Paris, in fact, at all
no, not the capital of France
but the water-lapping city of Venice!
And it was then that she heard it
the most subdued & awful chuckle
as she looked behind her
to find in front of her
a truly dreadful figure
tiny in stature
stunted
not much bigger than a three-year-old child.
Attired in a shapeless red duffle coat
with a hood
its sloped shoulders hunched as, very slowly
it began making its approach,
gradually pushing back the pointed hood
to reveal its
knobbled, disfigured countenance.
Only then did she see
the implement that was upraised
a blade abruptly flashing
in the silver-pale light
of a moon suspended
between two spires
‘Top of the mornin’, ma’am!’ it said
brutally and swiftly
with a single swift, well-aimed blow
opening her neck
as she awoke
to find herself utterly
drenched in sweat,
calling out Jo’s name
but then remembered
that Joanne Kaplan
her closest friend
& artistic fellow traveller
had gone home yesterday
for the weekend.
& such was the degree of embarrassment
she experienced on her way to college
the following morning
I can’t tell you
when she remembered the silly little
innocent song which had acted
as the soundtrack of her dream
why, it was ‘Monsieur Dupont’
by Sandie Shaw, of course!
& o how she laughed
as she found her mood becoming
increasingly more lighthearted
as the day progressed
reassuring herself
with the thought
Ha! Don’t Look Now!
how harmless that actually sounds
about as threatening
as a children’s playground game
eventually enjoying the
most wonderful day at work.
&, afterwards, over time,
becoming more and more convinced
yes, almost completely certain now
that everything was going to be fine
absolutely fine
yes, she thought.
Indeed, beginning to wonder
how she could ever have possibly
thought any different?
Pouring scorn on the fantasy of
the double-feature she’d been
brooding over for the
duration of the entire previous day
with her more frivolous
self now, thankfully, restored.
As she wheeled her bicycle
along the ‘boulevard’
of the Killiburn High Road
in the process almost knocking over a
stocky-looking man
who she took initially to be yet
another Guinness-quaffing itinerant
labourer
but then she noticed how well he was dressed
in a neat two-piece black suit and crisply
starched white shirt
Na éiníní!
the little birdies,
she heard him whisper
forcing himself intimately
up against her ear
you see what they’re trying to do
is communicate?
The anxieties of our ancestors –
warn us, he went on,
& I suppose I ought to know
for don’t I record them in cemeteries
all over London
I’m Joe Meek, he said, extending a hand
which she instinctively declined
I am the one and only
guardian of lonely satellites
friend to the sprites & spacemen
all those drifting souls that come to me
mad to leave their mark so they are
Miss
small wonder they’d say
that I’m out of this world
ha ha, he scoffed,
& ha ha again
as he tossed back his quiff
& bade her goodbye
I’m off home now
to the Holloway Road,
he whispered invasively
into her other ear,
yes, back to Holloway
where bereft,
fragile voices are eagerly awaiting
my arrival
wailing through the graveyard trees.
As Tanith Kaplinski shivered,
groaning just a little
as she sighed and shook her head
