David O'Sullivan's Blog, page 19
August 9, 2016
The Broken Dreams
There is magic in her eyes
They dance like glittering fires
And burn with happiness
Or in sadness, they still shine,
Like lamplight in the rain.
I add her things to my collection.
The broken things lay on my bedroom floor
And I watch over them jealously.
They are memories
Letters and gifts from old girlfriends,
My grandfather’s driver’s license,
My cat’s collar.
All the items from loved ones now gone,
Left me, dead, gone.
I look over my horde, but they are no help,
they weigh on me
like stones in my heart.
August 4, 2016
I recall too late
How hollow every victory
How shattering every loss.
There stood my friend, head thrown back as he speaks to the crowd
Of his conquests and victories.
His smile and strong handsome features, glowing in the lights that shine on him alone.
No one knew then that in a year he would be dead
Run down, not looking up until it was too late.
I stay late to teach a class
Of young people who are ready to change the world
And I tell them to have passion.
Most people never have passion; most people live their lives counting years
Until they run out of them and they die, lonely in dark rooms.
How wrong I am
Many people have passion and it ruins them
It chokes them until anger, greed or lust drives them to the edge.
Perhaps the happiest people are those who find love and gather their children to them
On cold dark nights and tell them stories about people with passion
August 3, 2016
Life is hard
Harder than you could ever think.
That prett...
Life is hard
Harder than you could ever think.
That pretty girl at the bar you saw as you walked past to buy some milk at the supermarket
So you go in and buy her a drink
And then as soon as she opens her mouth you know she ain’t the right one
She’s not even close
She’s nice
But she is hard and bitten by life. I guess that is why she’s drinking hard.
Some guy opens the door, and the cold air rushes in
And you’ve bought her a drink
And all she talks about is her husband and her father.
She holds up her hand to show the big ring on her finger, and you know you’ve made a mistake.
Her husband’s ok
But her father’s a bastard.
He was in the Army; Iraq, Afghanistan
And now he’s in the police.
She says he is head of SWAT
But I’ve got no idea what she is talking about.
She is pretty, squeezed into tight leather pants
And her ass is magical
But she’s hardbitten by life
And nothing like what you hoped for.
There are perfectly nice girls out there
Why don’t you go for them? I tell myself, but then I go home to bed without the milk.
Anvil Soul: What inspired you to write this novel?
Anvil Soul was born over a number of years. I lived in Temora (a small rural town) for eight years and in summer I would swim in the local pool morning and night. I would arrive for a swim at 5.30 in the morning, then go to work and then return at about 7 pm for another swim. From where I walked to the local pool I would walk past the local churches and the local presbytery. I remember looking at the buildings and occasionally see the priests moving about. I grew up a Catholic, and it is deeply touching and moving to be involved with the Church. There is something that remains in everyone brought up in the Catholic faith, something more powerful than just a belief. There are fears, hopes and a history of rich storytelling.
On these walks, I remembered a story I was told about my Great Grandfather. When he died in Temora, the priest who was to lead the funeral mass had not arrived. My Grandfather rushed across to the presbytery next door and found the old priest drunk and asleep inside. It started me thinking about faith and the importance of ethics and trust in religion. I investigated the reports in the media of sexual assault in the Catholic Church, and I wondered what one man might do if he was a priest and confronted with people of such evil. So, from these beginning and hours of thought while swimming, during that summer in Temora, Anvil Soul was born.
August 2, 2016
Those lovers
They sat on the roof late one night
Those lovers:
Singing songs known only to them and the birds.
The night was clear, above the trees
The crystal light of space touched The Earth gently
As a mother might touch her child while it sleeps.
They saw it together,
That fleeting light, swifter than life;
A star shot across the sky.
Silently their glances met and each saw the star again
Reflected in the other’s eyes.
They set off together across the field
It was a quiet gentle night
And the grass, green and soft supported their feet with tenderness.
They held hands, her beautiful soft hands, small but strong, honest and intelligent
His hands hard with work, but infinitely caring.
They never found the fallen star,
Though they looked most of the night
But what they found they held for the rest of their lives.
August 1, 2016
DiMaggio
He had it all
He could walk out and change the world,
Crowds would scream and follow him after the game
Begging him for a moment, an autograph, a smile
And he gave them all.
He gave so much for them.
What he loved however,
What he wanted so much was out of his reach.
There were many other men; she moved on
But he was there for her.
When she died, he died too,
But he did what he could.
His last words were for her.
What she does.
The clouds have been heavy,
They cling to the green hills,
The water flows quickly, filling the valley so the lakes and dams overflow;
Destroying the banks that were thought to be high enough.
I love the tumbling, drenching rain,
It comes like sadness, helping me to remember how beautiful sunny days are
Or how sweet happiness is when it comes.
She wrote a story today while we were caught inside,
A story of such joy I read it again and again,
It is so happy and touched with the beauty that she possesses.
How can it be that she can bring so much sunshine
Into this world of rain?
July 30, 2016
Real estate
I rented the second cheapest room I could find
160 a week
no air, windows have to be opened from the outside
the lights and fan only work if you jiggle the switch.
The cheapest place had guys sleeping in cars on the property; it was upstairs
the stove was rusted out
and prostitutes worked in the apartment two down.
It looked like fun
but I thought I can afford a little better.
While I was looking at the place
a tree fell over in the yard onto the fence.
The real estate agent and I just looked at each other.
“Happens” is all he said.
On the carpet, there was a brown stain about the size of a large dog
and the toilet bowl had been broken and glued back together.
Water leaked onto the bathroom floor.
At least here, in the place I took,
it’s quiet. No one plays their music too loud.
Sure the hot water is only warm
and the gutters overflow
but life is short.
I looked into the mirror today
I look about ten years older than I should
and I think I’m losing my hair.
But what’s that got to do with this old apartment?
Somewhere not too far away, as I write this at 10.06 pm
a gunshot rings out.
The fortune
Outside a light rain is falling
turning the concrete path grey-black.
With friends, I sit and drink. We stay warm and laugh
one cries out
“We have a treat coming tonight” and he looks at his phone.
A few drinks later, a knock at the door.
A man near to it swings it open.
A tall woman, thin and bent, her face a centre to a nest of black hair,
someone to frighten children strides inside.
She holds a red case that reads
Madame LaCarrie -Fortunes told.
The laughter and talking stops
but all around the light reflects off white teeth
the room full of smiles.
The woman stands before us, full of confidence
Surveying the room with a cruel eye and thin-lipped hunger.
She holds out her free hand, the other clutching her red box
And says
“I can see the future.”
It is all she says before striding forward and humping her box down
So that it claps with a bang.
We all follow her movements.
She holds her hands out again and waits.
Those who know lead the action
And they start to put coins in the gypsy’s palm, and she gulps them into her pockets
With greed and flashing eyes.
Someone shouts; “Turn down the lights” and they are turned down until
Only around the fortune teller lights glow, enflaming her black hair.
The box is opened, and the table is littered with her cards. She points to me.
“Choose,” she says. One eye open more than the other.
I had not laid a coin in her hand.
“Choose” again comes the hissed command
And I choose.
The card is turned over, and we look to it.
“The woman you love, loves you not,
No one will ever be true to you,
You are not true to yourself.”
It is all she says and then looks around the room and selects another.
Sitting back her words echo in my mind
And drive me into a fury.
“What do you mean?” Suddenly I shout.
The crowd stops, the old woman’s eyes smile, sending me deeper into a fury.
“I have spoken,” she says. “There are no more sights for you, remember my words.”
The woman I love has found the flaws in me, and it twists inside me
The gypsy woman has only touched the nerve; the wound appeared by my own thoughts.
Suddenly, in that crowded room, I was alone
My thoughts ran to you.
I have been cut down.
