Dermott Hayes's Blog: Postcard from a Pigeon

Life in another Dimension

Hayes

“ ‘Story?, Anto.”

Anto shuddered, hearing his name called. He didn’t suffer from the nerves. He just liked to know what was coming, the better he’d be able to handle it.

“Ah, Jem,” he said, spotting his greeter, “what’s the crack with yerself?”

They were standing on the corner of Bolton St and Capel St, well out of Jem’s comfort zone, this far south of the river. The streets were crowded with students, office workers and beleaguered parents. There was an urgency about them.

Lunchtime.

What would bring Jem down here?, he thought, if he’s follyin’ me he’s in for a surprise.

It didn’t really bother him if anyone followed him. They’d have two chances, he thought, and Slim’s out of town. 

Walking away, disappearing, did occur but it might attract more attention, raise more questions than simply engaging. And giving nothing away.

Jem was a hustler, in modern parlance. Since he could never be a hard man, information was his currency. Jem knew everyone’s deal because he never had one of his own but could hook up another to his and their mutual benefit. 

He was tall but impossibly thin and gangly. His head was so big, people said he got the wrong one when they were sharing them out. His hair was ginger, not quite orange but a near relative. It was whispy, too so it looked like he was standing in a breeze no-one else could feel.

His sunken black eyes completed the image always shifting restlessly in the dark depths of their sockets.

He wore a new shellsuit, an impossibly lime green colour with five thin red lines running, diagonally, from shoulder to hip. He reminded Anto of a praying mantis.

“Down here the markets,” Jem drawled like a brass monkey, “t’see if I could scrounge box o’ grapes.” Jem had no truck with prepositions.

Anto could see no grapes but Jem wasn’t finished. Conversation with Jem was like putting five jigsaws together from one bucket and no pictures.

“Saw dem filling skip, clearing out, gonna rob trolley, take’t home,” he heard him say.

A glance up the street revealed the skip in question and men with wheelbarrows busy dumping the contents of an old apartment, he assumed or refitting a shop. 

Anto surmised he meant to steal a supermarket trolley from the Polish or Chinese supermarkets on the same street. This he’d fill with chosen skip booty to sell in the market closer to home.

“ ‘Bout yerself? ‘Haven’t seen ye around.”

Here it was, the question Anto knew was coming and an answer he knew, Jem would turn to his advantage, somehow.

They were not social buddies, by any stretch. In Jem’s neighbourhood they weren’t likely to share a greeting never mind the time of day.

His life was as much of a mystery as he could manage. People saw him coming and going. They never saw where he came from or where he was going. He greeted everyone he recognised and even some he didn’t because he knew, if they saw other people greeting him, they’d wonder who he was and why they didn’t recognise him.

In his neighbourhood, even the marginal people had their pecking order that, in turn, determined how others treated them. So, while Jem was a bit of a waster and a hustler, he wasn’t a scumbag and not all the scumbags were brass monkeys or junkies and not all the scumbags were homeless, either.

No, Anto was in a category from which there was no return or rescue. He was, by anyone’s definition, a nutter, away with the fairies and more than a ham sandwich short of a picnic.

People either ignored him, left him alone or hailed him with an amused greeting that expected no coherent reply.

“I was at a funeral,” he said somberly, crossing himself, his eyes shut as though sharing a sad reverie.

“Sorry for yer troubles,” Jem muttered, sheepishly, “was it a relative of yours? where was it?”

Anto regretted his decision to talk to Jem. He was a dog with a bone. He wasn’t giving up.

“Don’t know,” he said, adding, “I got a train.” He smiled and clapped his hands.

It worked. He hoped. He felt Jem make a decision.

Clearly dissatisfied but feeling himself lose his tentative grip on a new snippet, Jem rubbed the back of his neck, swivelling, stared intently at the by now brimming skip and walked away.

Anto sighed, watching Jem’s stick like figure retreat. He knew, in Jem’s mind, he’d been robbed but he hadn’t a clue of what. 

Jem once tried to sell him a steak outside a supermarket from where he’d robbed it. When the security from the shop nabbed him, his shirt brimming with vacuum packed rib-eye, filet and sirloin, he was outraged.

Anyone else, Anto thought, might have wondered why he was dressed like an Edwardian dandy. Not Jem.

Hamish takes a Train

[image error]Hayes

Hamish dashed to catch the eight am express train to the city. He caught it just in time, the loud swishhh of the electric doors behind him and the cold draft of winter air reminded him just how close.

The
train was packed, with many people standing, briefcases tucked between
their ankles, handbags clutched under upper arms and elbows. Some were
reading newspapers, others clutching supermarket novels. Most were in
private reverie with the outside world as a cacophony of radio jock
voices, jingles and country music seeped from the sockets in their ears.

The lucky ones were sitting, hunched over smart phones, tablets and laptops.

Hamish
wanted a seat so he searched, moving easily through the carriage crush.
Sometimes, he knew, it was useful to be small of stature. It certainly
never bothered him.

Size isn’t everything, his father told him often, you are from a long and proud line and though we’re short by their standards, what we lack in physical dimension, we more than make up for in spirit and courage.

Remembering,
Hamish felt a lightness and an urge to strut and smile. Impossible,
unfortunately, in this sardine can environment. So he carried on,
sweeping the aisles for a vacant nook. There were only four stops
between here and the city, this being the express. Few would disembark
and what now might seem a crush, would be a stroll in a poppy strewn
meadow. If he wanted a seat, he’d have to get it now.

Then
he saw him, a man who might kindly be called ‘large’, sweating
profusely in a thread challenged suit, cheeks aglow, beads of sweat in a
bubbled ridge across his forehead, one ferocious balloon of slobber
poised to plop from his right jowl that was so fleshly ponderous it
reminded him of Boris, his neighbour’s portly bulldog.

This
man, let’s call him Boris for convenience, sat astride the entire seat,
wedged in at the aisle side by the narrow carriage table. Hamish moved
like mercury, slipping under the table and emerging in the corner and
only vacant space on the bench seat.

Boris
jumped. Well, as much as he could, given his enormity, the crowded
carriage and his own uncomfortable position wedged, as he was, between
seat and table. His
head swivelled and with it, half his bulk and, Hamish noted with
amusement, the ball bag of saliva and sweat from his jowl that now
reverberated in plump, rolling waves.

Hamish
watched its progress with amusement as it sloshed in slow motion across
the table before erupting in a spray across the face of his immediate
neighbour’s tablet. A comedy of manners ensued as the offended passenger
recoiled in horror. Tissues were produced, as were glares and tuts from
surrounding passengers, hungry for the tiniest diversion.

The
lady directly in front of Hamish turned away to gaze out the window,
stifling a giggle as she did while exchanging a conspiratorial glance
and smile. Hamish was chuffed.

Boris,
the poor man, was nonplussed and embarrassed. His cheeks, high coloured
as they were from the physical discomfort of being wedged into the
carriage bench, were now unhealthily rubicund. Hamish sensed his
shortened, fetid breath.

Happily,
the tannoy voice announced the train’s arrival at the first station on
the journey in a voice and tone that suggested the town and station had
appeared by surprise and he was a permanent resident of the train since
it sounded like a language with only a faint acquaintance with English.

At
least it was a diversion and Hamish could feel Boris relax beside him,
shifting his weight slightly as though to reassert his preeminence in
the seat they shared, even venturing to break the ice with the man he’d
engulfed with saliva and mucus just a moment before.

“Do you have a feckin’ clue what that fella’s saying? Talking feckin’ gibberish,” someone said, only to be ignored.

Hamish
was studying the angry passenger just before he adopted the mantle of
the train’s most unlucky passenger. The train lurched abruptly as the
few new passengers in the carriage pressed themselves firmly into the
impossible space, a paper cup of tepid train station coffee splashed
across his shoulders and the back of his head before trickling,
stickily, down the back of his shirt.

The kerfuffle that followed his baptism of slobber paled by comparison to the floor show that followed.
Heck, Hamish was so enamoured of this latest drama, he gave Angry
Passenger the name of, well, Angry Andy since, at that precise moment,
it was his chosen role.

Hoisting
himself from his by now sodden seat, Angry Andy muttered.
Unfortunately, no one understood him as he had now adopted the same
indecipherable tongue of train tannoy announcers.

Swinging
his arms about and wrenching at his neck and shirt as though to
separate one from the other might relieve him of this sticky caffeine
downpour, he jumped to his feet, knocking his tablet from the protection
of his lap and straight, face down, into the puddle of remaining coffee
on the table in front of him.

Boris
scrambled to retrieve the stricken tablet while Andy Angry spilled a
howl of anguish but alas, this catalogue of catastrophes had only begun.
 
Sweaty
and encumbered by his weight and confined perch, poor Boris failed to
get a firm grasp on his quarry and, just as the train lurched again,
this time to leave the station, the tablet leaped from the big man’s
hands and disappeared into the forest of legs now crowding the carriage
aisle.

Hamish was delighted.
Not for Angry Andy’s misfortune or Boris’s discomfort but with the
unfolding playbill of comic sketches and melodramas that would entertain
and shorten the journey. Indeed, he wasn’t alone either as the murmur
of suppressed whispers and smothered snickers could testify.

Even
Giggling Gertrude, Hamish had a habit of according people appropriate
names to suit the circumstance as he’d been called a few random names
himself in the past, couldn’t resist as her entire face below her
eyebrows disappeared into a cloud of flower embroidered, scented hanky.

Lavender, thought Hamish, smiling at his own perspicaciousness and her taste, failing to realise his mistake too late.

“Do you find this funny?”Angry Andy demanded. Hamish did his best to look sheepish. He didn’t answer but looked out the window at the passing countryside.

Luckily, the curtain dropped as the ticket master announced his arrival, shouting, “Tick-ets, plee — uz.”

Hamish
took advantage of the confusion and distraction to dive under the table
again as arriving late at the station, he failed to secure a ticket. Once more he thanked his father and his father’s ancestors for their compact stature and flexibility.

Boris had spilled about a poker night with the boys worth of bacon fries and tortilla chips on the floor. Hamish helped himself to a mouthful. He was hungry.

It
took barely a moment and he was back in his seat, studying the scenery
and uncomfortably aware Giggling Gertrude was on the verge of panty
wetting paroxysm from the latest events and his own disappearing act.

The
next station arrived and went without any further disturbance. The
ticket master reappeared, carrying a wad of tissues for Angry Andy who
took them with a faintly gracious air as the two lapsed into
conversation about the prospects of the County team in their forthcoming
match in Croke Park against the so far unassailable All Ireland
champions.

Angry Andy smiled as the obliging porter disappeared, hoolalooing,

Up the Royals, a reference to the County’s history as the seat of ancient royal authority.

Hamish
took a sidelong glance at Giggling Gertrude who had regained her
composure and produced a paperback from her handbag. She was reading
Marley & Me, a trivial novel about the homelife experience of a
golden retriever. Although he hadn’t read the book, he’d seen the film
and wasn’t impressed.

Gertrude sneaked a peak at him across the book’s spine and they shared a furtive smile. Her eyes twinkled as she smiled. Hamish was pleased.

“Distrainterminatesatdenextstation,” the tannoy voice announced. “Conn-oll-leeeStation, pleasegatheryourbelongingsbeforedisembarking, MIIIND DE GAP.”

The
train lurched to a stop. Newspapers were folded, paperbacks, tablets
and iPods were stashed away. Coats were gathered and donned as slowly,
people disembarked.

Hamish
was too busy minding the gap as the tannoy man had warned so he didn’t
notice the porter, the same ticket man who’d chatted gamely with Angry
Andy, when he nabbed him by the collar while alighting.

“Gotcha,”he said and Hamish couldn’t deny it. And squirm and wriggle as he tried, he couldn’t get away. The jig was up and he was caught.

It could’ve been worse, he thought later while nibbling on the biscuits in the ticket man’s meaty paw, his other scratching him affectionately, behind the ear.

[image error]Extra.ie

This is a fictitious representation of the curious adventure of Hamish the Terrier, on an urban rail train between Sallins in County Kildare and DUBLIN where he was taken into care. All’s well now for Tyson – Hamish’s real name – has been reunited with his family.

Circle

[image error]Hayes

Sunset or dawn,

being

hangs between

life and death,

begin and end.

Waking, a task

to complete,

primal power

surges from source

through feet,

body, limbs

and mind,

alight, ablaze,

resting nights

follow living days.

Slaughter of Innocence

[image error]From Albeycin to Alhambra (Hayes)

In the twilight of a summer evening

the Alhambra’s shadow cast a gloom,

sweet voices from the shade arose,

the sunshine voice of youth.

I couldn’t sit, I sank to listen

to songs of promise and belief,

crumpled in a forlorn heap,

I longed for songs of love and lore

in the shade of cold and bitter war

while they sang songs of pain and grief.

Death has No Friends

[image error]Hayes

Songs were sung,

glorious praise heaped,

sorrow gripped,

wrung tears

of fear and blame,

a body stretched

can feel no shame.

And in the darkness,

forever present,

patiently abiding,

death stands alone

in shadow’s home,

quiet, silent,

familiar but friendless.

Love Poem

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Where have you been
since when, first seen?
 in a pub, drunk and befuddled.
 on a pitch, wet, be — puddled,
 who knows ’til now,
love’s confusing signals,
the sweaty lip,
the furrowed brow
the dread of each encounter?

There is no map,
 or uncharted path,
 In love’s rough seas
 to point the way.
 All who are in spring of life
 know the chill of innocence ,
 while those of Autumn
 live in dread, scorched by
 fate and experience.

In the comfort of a love’s embrace
we soothe, praise, salivate.
In another time and circumstance,
 We cry, deny and denigrate,
 but the solace is shallow,
 the hour late,
 Is it better to live and love,
 Hate to love or
 Love to hate?

I spoke her name,
 remembering,
 the wincing horror
 of love’s sharp pain,
 to measure in perspiring palms,
 irrational thought
 and shallow breathing,
 the challenge of acceptance,
 the nightmare of rejection.

Intricately Intimate

[image error]Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

Intimately nefarious,

notoriously indecent,

contestants on ice

slipping, sliding

avoiding, deluding,

eluding the truth

they refuse

to tell

themselves.

Defiance

Where is happiness

Where is home

Where is life

What’s beginning?

Where you loved

Where you lived

Where you fucked

Where you lied

You were youth

You were starting

You began

You were learning

Then discovering

Where, what and when

You decided

No answers forthcoming

Your questions derided

By obsequious geeks

The nameless, the gormless

Whose actions determined

By strings pulled anonymous.

Unseen hands, manipulate

Until spontaneous

Becomes determinate.

Stand free and fly

Unfettered and glorious,

A thought with wings

Is freedom inviolate

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Two Love Poems

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Love on the Line

Love on the line,

converging connections,

distance, unknown,

uncertain, too

Gathering speed,

smooth terrain,

imperceptible incline,

doubt and decline

Speed bumps

check the rush

living, life,

scenery passing

Attractive siding,

enticing divergence,

less than a landslide

to wonder why

When tracks divide

in new directions

blood on the tracks

cruel uncoupling

Running on time,

blissful convergence,

never off the rails,

end of the line.

 

 

Passion’s Purgatory

 

Let me be

the longing,

lingering

in your mind’s eye,

let me take

the ache

from your heart.

In your

blissful blindness,

to not be

the mote in your eye,

but only night,

in tarnished armour,

is passion’s purgatory.

Holy Orders

In the interest of readers’ sensitivities, this poem is harsh because it’s about the sexual abuse of children by priests. If you don’t like that THEN DON’T READ THIS.

 

Is the Host ready?

Did you clean the Chalice?

Are all the napkins lined up?

Fair play, boy, you’re a sound man.

Come and see me later,

The Lord rewards the good

and punishes the wicked.

Kneel down there,

I’ll bless you

while you suck my cock,

sure, you’re a grand lad

isn’t your mother blessed,

swallow that

and wipe your mouth,

Heaven has a place

for boys that do

God’s duty

and swallow

cum and pride