Dermott Hayes's Blog: Postcard from a Pigeon, page 83

The Waiter

 

The waiter turns the cup around,

a habit, bred from suspicion

that somewhere, someone else

was watching, waiting

He waits, he smiles,

anticipates, but never sees it coming,

someone has it in for him

but he prefers to leave them wanting

Desire, he feels, from memory,

and previous experience,

leaves nothing but an empty space,

a sensation, bitter tasting

He savours all encounters,

with hope and trepidation,

that service and delivery

are met with appreciative generosity

Grateful for the chance to work,

to pay his rent and life’s expenses,

so he can serve his other needs

recording all his observations

Of people and their foibles

jealousies, hates, vindictive squabbles,

joking through the pain of daily troubles;

some take pleasure from the agony of others

So one man’s pain

becomes another’s pleasure,

only see him to fulfil his function,

blind to him standing at the junction

Where he’s between two lives

and neither meet, nor look him in the eyes

his existence means as much to them

as a beggar in the street

Real Capital

In journalism, being in the right place at the right time can be all a reporter needs to get the story. Asking the right question can be a big help, too. In May, 1987 I went to New York to attend a U2 press conference on behalf of the (then) Cork Examiner and its sister paper, The Evening Echo. I was a freelance journalist and was asked to attend the press event on behalf of the Cork newspaper because their regular music correspondent wasn’t available due to pressing family matters. The press conference was held in Tommy Makem’s bar in Midtown, Manhattan on Sunday, May 10, 1987. The purpose of the press conference was for the band to announce the details of their forthcoming European tour, on the back of their triumphant US tour, following the release of their multi-million selling album, The Joshua Tree.

Now, deadlines are an important thing for newspapers and in those days when facsimile was just an innovation, a telephone was all important. There was no internet or email or mobile phones. An Irish journalist at a press conference in New York at 6pm on a Sunday evening had to factor in a five hour time difference, too and for a hot metal newspaper production/print line, getting the story through on time for the morning papers was a fine line.

Press Itinerary, May 1987

So there I was in Makem’s bar, surrounded by international media; reporters, photographers, tv crews, radio jocks and I had to get my story. When we got in to the press conference, we were given the details of the tour and I was intrigued to find the European leg of the tour began with a show in a stadium in Cork. Now I was familiar with the band’s history since their early days and knew they were headlining shows in Cork’s Astoria venue, at a time when they could barely get arrested in Dublin. Then I saw my angle.

Thinking back on that occasion – I asked my question, got my story and the following morning, made a banner headline in the Evening Echo – I marveled at how the smallest thing could make the difference between success and failure.

So here’s the poem. I call it,

The Real Capital

There is, it is said,

a time and a place,

how a burst of speed

can win a race

Confirmed press list for USA trip

 

So there we were

in Makem’s Bar

midtown, Manhattan,

surrounded by snappers,

tv crews and writers.

To ask a question,

we were told,

state your name

where you’re from

and for whom you pose

your query.

I thought of time

I thought of place

and stood up

feeling leery

I said my name

I said my place

to a chorus of chuckles

and sniggers.

My name is Hayes

I’m here today

for the readers

of the Rebel County,

representing the ‘Examiner

and The ‘Echo,

my question is,

if you can tell me now

why you chose

to start your tour

in the jewel of the river Lee?

He looked me up,

he looked me down,

considering his answer,

then Bono spoke,

his words rang out,

Dermott, he said,

I swear to you now,

heart covered by his hand,

since our earliest days,

in the Astoria,

the fans embraced the band,

so, for us, without hesitation,

Cork is the real capital of Ireland

NO RULES

NO RULES

There are no rules,

I told them,

just love yourselves

and respect all others

to be, to do, to say,

whoever they are

So we pointed the Mini, west,

and hit the road where

we can only go forward,

because we couldn’t go back

to a shattered beginning,

to carry away the fragile output

of that relationship

On loan for a fortnight,

set loose in the west

with a sackful of sweets.

No plans, no rules,

a rudderless ship

in choppy waters,

ever onward.

Into a future

with bright days

and a mist

hovering on the horizon.

We laughed, we played

we saw the sights,

explored the Ailwee caves,

climbed the threatened

Mullaghmore

and perched, precariously

on the edge

of the Cliffs of Moher.

The edge of the world,

thinking life had ended,

when it had only just begun.

So I stopped myself

from crying,

learning,

if you cry,

you���ll get what you want

from Daddy.

Out of the mouths

of babes

who grow up to be mums

Did I pay for Christmas?��

Did I pay for Christmas?

A child’s question

asked with innocence

yes, I answered

with every second,

every minute,

every day

of my solitary existence

A debt that has

no interest

but is paid

forever

In thoughts

and memories

that crowd my mind

with haunting persistence

With poetry and prose

that furnish my living

with words like jagged rocks

made of letters

like discarded spikes

incisors to tear the flesh

without warning

or resistance

But these same words

these ideas

made in verse

and sentence

bring joy and laughter

and companions

who play and dance,

my friends, my life’s remittance��

Proper Charlie

When we say

Je suis Charlie,

there’s a tragic truth

in its bite,

we must all fight

for the right

of arseholes

to talk shite.

That’s the price

of freedom.

Because without

intervention,

with tyranny

we’ll have

constipation;

ideas

stultify,

words choke,

and thoughts retract

into oblivion

But where

in this world

of cyber post

reaction,

are we free

to engage

in debate

and discussion?

Unobstructed

by spins,

unmolested

by djinns,

or manipulated

by twists, threats

and grenade pins

Until I wonder

who I am

when they speak

for me, and

do I sit

or stand

for a tune

played by

what band?

I have no time

for martyrs,

religious

or political.

Faith will not

feed me,

ideas

can’t save me

From an end

that’s unchanging,

no matter

class

or creed,

let it come

when the bell rings,

I won’t die,

to believe

So for the future

generations,

beware of all prophets,

spewing fast and false,

answers they’ll sell you

And you’ll pay the cost,

of believing

in the high wire

promise,

no levies,

to make us all

proper Charlies

Now we’re down to the wire,

the clock’s ticking fast,

it is time

to look inside

and decide

for yourselves,

if I breathe in revolution

will I exhale

freedom,

or evolution?

Organic��

In 1875 in Dublin’s Liberties neighbourhood, a fire that started in a bonded warehouse and spread to a near distillery, wreaked havoc as flaming whiskey flowed through the streets. Livestock burned and died and there were human casualties too, as some people consumed the blazing hot whiskey. Further damage was averted by the quick thinking of the city’s fire chief, Robert James Ingram, who instructed fire fighters to shovel manure on the whiskey to halt its flow.

Source: London Illustrated News, Dublin Fire Brigade Collection

ORGANIC

I buy my fruit and veg,

Fertilised and organic

On a square in The Liberties

Where whiskey once flowed,

Aflame,

Through streets

Where people

took to their bare feet

To fill their boots

And drink

The scalding spirit,

Pigs, squealed and fried

And chickens roasted,

People died, toasted

Not by fire

But by flaming spirit

And those who fought

To douse the fire with water

Only fanned the flames

Until James Robert Ingram

Chief Officer

Of the Dublin Fire Brigade

Said the only way

To win this fight

Was to smother it

With Shite

Hocus pocus��

By Dermott Hayes

January first

Time for wakening

Realise we’re not just

Charming ourselves

To believe in bullshit

Devised to create

A fantasy

Where mistakes

Are ours

to correct

by ‘cognitive reaction ‘

And realise

Incidents

Can happen

And lives’

Can be saved

By a simple

Coil reaction

That begins with

Happy

New

Year

To You

New Year, Old Year

NEW POEM, NEW YEAR

(December 31, 2014)

New Year, Old year

fond farewell,

hopeful greeting,

in believing,

life is a balance sheet,

of noughts and plusses,

gain by grains

lose by pulses,

profit in the loss of others,

their hard luck

is yours to prosper.

Pathetic then

that those you plunder

are the only ones��� there,

when you founder,

because only the poor

know the meaning

of discover

Blast the Past��

By Dermott Hayes

She looked in through the saloon window

A blast from the past

Her shame or his blame

No honesty

No trust

Return to remind

Twist the knife

Salt the wound

Where drunks get drink

And lives are lived

And lost

Two souls on crutches

A zimmer of their future

Alone with their thoughts

Of that glimpse in the dark

Through a bar room window

The True Cost

My first poem, written four months ago in response to the growing public anger and frustration at the Irish government’s austerity measures, particularly the introduction of water charges, a double tax