BLACK EYED PEACE

David Atkinson

for Andrea, Jack and Lucie

Photography and cover designby

Joan Shannonwww.joan-shannon.co.uk

Printing byPeninsula Print & Design

I'm not lostfor I know where I am.

But however,where I ammay be lost

Winnie the Pooh – A.A. Milne

CONTENTS

Connswater 1

Supernova Star Dust 3

You Can Take the Man Out of Belfast 4

Growing Pains 5

The Glastonbury Waltz 6

Naming of Parts 7

Hours of Darkness 8

Blue 9

Kindness 10

Fallujah Birthdays 11

Twenty Seven 12

Cremation 13

POW Camp 161 15

If Anyone Should Know 17

Waves 18

Saturday Night at the Movies 20

Abercorn 21

Wishing Chair 22

Ladies Football 23

Nature Poem 24

Stare 25

Smiles 26

Brothers In Arms 27

Visiting Time 30

On Following a Seven Year Old Boy 31Around the Tate Modern

Mirror Mirror 32

Museum of the Welsh Soldier 33

Orchestra 34

Money Better Not Spent 35

The Coldest Yet 37

Symphony for the Devil 38

Making Soda 39

The Lord's Day 40

What I Need 41

Grandfather 42

Hunting 43

Fucking Disturbed 45

Composed upon the Queen's Bridge 46

Gifts 48

Hanging the Piñata 50

Marital Art 52

Falling Down Party 54

Whoring Myself for Jesus 55

Status Updated 56

Shadow Boxing 58

Ode to my Children On Their Wedding Day 59

Ghosts 60

Black Eyed Peace 62

Hunting for the Aurora 64

CONNSWATER

Our river wasn’ta clean river,a mountain stream,a babbling brook,or a silver girl.It was a filthy river,a city river,forsaken, neglected.

Long gone, the glory days,when it was thick with troutand where, according to my father,King Billy watered his horseson his way to the Boyne;and later barges sailedup and down, laden withflax and jute, rope and linen.

As boys we played there,we built bridges fromrusting bikes and shopping trolleys,and wooden palettes,and plastic bread traysstolen from the Sunblest bakery.We sailed boatsmade from waxed paper,always keeping an eye openfor rats, as big as cats,whose jaws would lockwhen they bit your leg,and you'd have to kill themto get them off.

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Once we tried to traceits source, where it bubbledclean and purefrom the Castlereagh hills,but we lost itunder a housing estateand couldn’t find iton the other side.

Brimming with youthful optimismwe went there to fishin its black waters,thick and slick with oil,with nylon fishing netson bamboo poles,brought back froma Sunday school tripto Ballywalter;and once, I caught a fish.

A sprick, my father said,that’s what it was called.I brought it homein a jam jar, with a string handle,and put it clean water.

Two days later it was dead.

Spricks don’t like clean water.

2

SUPERNOVA STAR DUST

You are supernova star dust,remnants of a sunturned inside out;born anew.

Elemental matterfrom swirling nebulae,drawn together by gravityto form a rocky mass,at exactly the right distancefrom another star, itselfformed in precise proportionto shine for long enough,with just enough warmth,for elements to randomlycollide, forming moleculesthat spark to life, and self replicate,and thicken, and grow, and evolveinto living beings.

Beings, that, by an improbablesequence of happy coincidences,survived disease, and accident,and war, and famine, and all formsof pestilence and predators,and mankind's best effortsto destroy itself.To survive all that, to livelong enough, to meetand bear children that would, one day,be drawn together in a Belfast bar,and fall in love.

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Your love is constructedfrom the stuff of stars.

You are supernova star dust.

YOU CAN TAKE THE MAN OUT OF BELFAST...

Whilst the French classabsorbed the culture of Paris,the Geography studentswent on a field tripto Craigavon,New Town.

There were someinteresting murals in Parkmore,the Central Business Districtwas definitely central,and some of Brownlow’s buildingswere of such architectural interestthe town fathers had boarded them up,preserving them for future generations.

But, perhaps the day’smost salient lessonwas that shite,shovelled from one place'til the next,is still shite.

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GROWINGS PAINS

Bones knit, and stretched,and grew, and tendons tightenedto the point of breaking, but,for all the pain, I neverseemed to grow,much.

My father whethis hands with olive oil,from an old bottle,corked with cotton wool,and rubbed my legsuntil his hands became hot.

It was a tricklearnt from Geordie Devlin,who trained boxersin his spare time,and cured minor ailmentsin his meal hourin the Shipyard,on a joiner's bench,between the bible classand the card school.

Perhaps if it hadn't beenfor Geordie DevlinI could have beentaller.

5

THE GLASTONBURY WALTZ

She shut her eyesand danced on her ownin a crowded field, alone,in the Vale of Avalon,before ten in the morningon the Sunday after solstice.

Amber on her finger,daisies in her hair,shells on her wrist,hands sculpting air,boots that didn’tmind the mud,blue dress, a wavesearching for a shore,and a rapt smilethat found something morein the spacebetween the notes.

She danced alonein a crowded field,no musicor partner to hold,that I could see,but she heard the beatand held him tight,and danced,and danced,and danced.

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NAMING OF PARTS

Ten toes,this little piggywent to market;two skinny legs,run, run, as fast as you can,you can’t catch meI’m the gingerbread man;ten fingers,here’s the churchand here's the steepleopen the doorsand here's the people;two hands,round and round the gardenlike a teddy bear;two arms,one step, two step,tickely under there.

Eyes,two big blue eyes,twinkle twinklelittle stars.

Then I counted them all againjust to be sure.

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HOURS OF DARKNESS

Shortly we shall be dimmingthe cabin lights.You should not be alarmed,this is a normal procedurewhen taking off and landingduring the hours of darkness.Those of you who wishto continue readingcan use the overheadlight provided.

I continued readinguntil distracted by a voice behind.They do that, he explainedto his companion, becausemost crashes occur at take off or landing.It could take your eyes a minuteor two to adjust to the darkness.Those minutesmight be the differencebetween life and death.

I decidedmy book could wait.

As a boy, when travellingby bus at night, in Belfast,drivers turned off the interior lightswhen passing throughcertain parts of the city.

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I suspect their reasonswere different.But in their own way, I’m surethey saved a life or two.

BLUE

Blue is the colour of the sea,except it’s not,blue is the colour of the movie,except it’s not,blue is the colour of grass,except it’s not,blue is the colour of the boys,except it’s not,blue is the colour of the collar,except it’s not,blue is the colour of royal blood,except it’s not.

But, still,it might be interestingto spill a little,just to prove a point.

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KINDNESS

'Kind' is German for 'child',so 'kindness' is 'childness',giving without motive.Like the smile you gave me when I came through the doormaking me forget the frown I had been carrying aroundsince lunchtime.It’s the half sucked lollipopyou wanted me to finish.It’s your gentle breath on my facein the morning when I waketo find you beside mehaving, in the night,slipped between the sheets,softly, so as not to waken me.

Kindnessis not writing a letter to Santabecause you want him to take yourtoys to the boys and girls in Africa,because they don’t have any moneyto buy paper or pencilsto write letters with.

Kindness.

Childness.

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FALLUJAH BIRTHDAYS

When you were given to usI gave you my name,I rubbed the inside of your mouthwith a soft date,I sacrificed two sheep for you,and we feasted.

For you first birthdayI gave you a stuffed camel,for your second birthdayI gave you building blocks,for your third birthdayI gave you a drum,for your fourth birthdayI gave you a jigsaw puzzle,for your fifth birthdayI gave you your favourite book,for your sixth birthdayI gave you prayer beads,for your seventh birthdayI gave you a puppet,for your eighth birthdayI gave you a football.

For your ninth birthdayI gave you new clothes,I gave you an empty box,I washed you cleanand kissed you,and we wept.

For your tenth birthdayI gave you flowers,

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for your eleventh birthdayI gave you flowers,for your twelfth birthdayI gave you flowers.

TWENTY SEVEN

JohnsonJonesHendrixMorrisonMcKernanCobain

Nine years a childnine years a boynine years a manswept awayleaves before a stormleaving us livingamong the remainsof the dead.

Lord, that I’m standin’at that crossroads, babe,I believe I’m sinkin’ down.

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CREMATIONfor Derek

Eyes smarting with smoke,and lips black with newsprint,we cooked potatoes in BacoFoil,in the embers of our fire,snatching them outbefore they were done:skin burnt black and crisp,the centre as cold and hardas a famine winter.We juggled themin scalded hands,doused them in salt,and wolfed them down,regardless.

The sharp sulphuroussnap of Swan Vestas,the crack of ignitionon the sandpaper strip,the first lick of flame.We burnt anythingthat would burn,paper, wood, leaves,empty crisp packets,and plastic bags,and once, the carcassof a black bird, watchingas maggots writhed,and sizzled,and popped,until all that was leftwas a small white skull

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and empty beak.

Bellies full,but not yet cramping,we stared at ghostsin the flames, and smokedrolled up pages of the Tele',two feet long,until we couldn'tget a breath.

Derek liked the sports,I preferred the deaths.

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POW CAMP 161

It was where I learned to read,and write, and count;I counted the days.It was where I realised carryinga cello was harder that playing it.It was where I engraved my nameon the playground wall,beneath Rudolf Schwarz 1945,and was caught and frogmarchedto the headmaster's office,and punished between puffs of pipe smoke.It was where I gave my first poetry reading,aged eleven;watched the space shuttle launch:and where I passed, in order of priority,my cycling proficiency testand eleven plus.It was where I learnt the wordsof sectarian songs,and how to hate fenians,and the importance of addingsugar to petrol bombs.It was where we played football,and pretended we were soldierskilling Germans,always Montgomery and Rommel,it was where I first kissed a girl.

It was also where the prisoners learntEnglish, accountancy and shorthand,where they formed a choiraccompanied by violin and cello,and where Father Muller

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celebrated mass each evening,and Chaplin Richterled Sunday worship,(the Catholics being moredevout than the Protestants).It was where Josef Haefelepractised dentistry without“Radiotherapy and X-ray Technology”by Zanker, despite having requestedthe text on several occasions.It was where the prisonerspassed money through the fenceto children, to bring themfish and chips from Ritchie's,and where, on 7th March 1945,Wilhelm Thone hung himselfin his room.

By December '45The prisoners had gone home.I left in the summer of '83.I returned for the final timefifteen years later,to put a ballot in a box;the beginningof forgettingthe past.

Orangefield Primary School was a POW hospitalfrom January 1945 to November 1945

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IF ANYONE SHOULD KNOW...for Frank Casey

When her cardiologistenquired about her health,she told him she had a bug.I explained that the bugwas a secondary infection,occurring subsequent to recoveryfrom the primary illness.Its symptoms includedan inability to consume foodother than crisps, ice cream,sweets, and fizzy drinks;retinal discomfort,apparently only easedby the Disney Channel;a profound sense of melancholyinduced at the mentionof the word “school”,and without sympathyher condition appearedto deteriorate rapidly.

I asked,if, in his expert medical opinion,anything could be done,but there was no known cure.

Like love.

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WAVES

A train that once shipped sugar,from field to port, rattled,slow as a slave ship,through Antiguan hills,with elderly Americans,old money, all pearl chokersand Pringle sweaters,filling the front seatsof the open top carriage,and I, relegated to the rear.

They didn't notice fields of cane,old plantation houses,windmills and barracoons.They were more interestedin the complementary rum punchthan the tour guide's lilting patoishistory of the island,and missed entirely the ironyof the calypso choir singingthe songs of their grandfathers.

They didn't see a flock of herons,startled by the bone rattle of the train,take flight from a tree,white slashes in the sky;and beyond that, by a broken windmill,a boy playing barefoot,who stopped kicking his footballmade from rags, to wave,a black hand against the blue.

I waved back,

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and he skinned his teethsmiling diamonds,stars in the night.I watched him waveto every carriageuntil the train had gone,and wonderif he noticedonly one personwaved back.

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SATURDAY NIGHT AT THE MOVIESfor John McBride Neill

There was the Savoy and Lyceum,the Majestic and Colosseum,the Regal and the Roxy,the Tonic and the Troxy,the Princess and the Pallidrome,the Alhambra and Hippodrome.Great picture palaces,art deco and glass,velvet and brass,where the poor of Belfastcould feel like starsfor a night.

And the Strand,sailing up the Holywood Roadlike a great ocean liner,where my grandmothertook a flask of tea and sandwichesto Gone With The Wind,and my father watchedFlash Gordon and Roy Rodgers,and rode an imaginaryTrigger the two miles home.

Now the Lido is a chapel,the Metro sells fried chickenthe Apollo, a Chinese supermarket,and the Alpha, a loyalist drinking den.

But the Strand,where my fathersaw Flash kiss Dale,

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and my grandmothersaw Rhett kiss Scarlet,where I kissed a girl badlyin the back row, five minutesbefore the film ended,

the Strandstill stands.

ABERCORN

Between quadratic equationsand trigonometrywe found time to sniggerat each squeak of her legas she limped back to the board,and we thought nothing abouther regrets.

Lingering for a second cupthat afternoon, because the craic was good.Or how she sat down first,on a seat near the window,while her friend sat by the door,and didn't walk away.

With each squeak,with each snigger,regrets.

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Wishing Chair(photograph by RJ Welch)

She was,what would havebeen described in Belfast as,a hard ticket,sitting there on the stoneslike she owned them.Scarf wound tight;and beneath her shawlenough layers to keep outthe North Atlantic chill.In the corner of her moutha black pipe unashamedlyclamped firmly in teeth,which,although one cannot tellfrom the photograph,one assumes, are sepia.Beside her, but not too close,is another woman, uglyenough to be her sister.And there they sat,like a couple of McCool’s pixiesscowling for the camera,and, no doubt,scaring young childrenand Victorian ladieswith delicate sensibilities.

I wonder,a century later,whatshe was wishing for?

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LADIES FOOTBALL

During the war,while the men were awaykilling Germansmy grandmother played in goalfor a ladies football team.They won the cup,she got a medal,had her picture in the paper,and, according to my father,she once broke a player’s jaw.

Years later I sat with herwatching the Two Ronnies,and laughed at her,laughing at the audience,laughing at dirty jokesshe didn’t understand.

She would ask me to checkthat the Germans weren’t hidingin a trench at the end of the garden,or that the Morrows weren’t lookingover the wall, that it was safeto go to the outside toilet.

I blushed to hear her recall,word perfect, sixty years later,whole conversations she'd hadwith the girls from the mill;and sometimes, just sometimes,as if as a reward,she would dig deepin her pinny pocket,

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take out a tissue,unwrap itand show me her medal.

NATURE POEMfor Shimah

A nature poemshould be aboutsnow hushed woods late at night,a rainbow's refracted light,counting rings on fallen trees,glades full of honey bees,autumn's harvest, summer flowers,the sun, the earth, the moon, the stars,a nature poem should be aboutclouds and daffodils.

It should never be aboutbeaches without children,oceans without boats,dawn without birdsong,sunrise without hope,bedtime stories by moonlight,digging holes in the sand,lives measured in days,never holding her hand.

Shimah, nature.

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STARE

It was the stareof the Big Issue seller,a give me a home stare,a give me a break stare,a give me a poundfor a cup of tea stare.A thousand yard starethat met youas you rounded the corner,a stare that spannedthe width of the pavement,a stare that could engagea dozen people at a time,a stare accompaniedby an innate abilityto match each lateral,evasive movement,a stare complementedby the words“help the homeless”,pitched in a perfectDerry accent.

That starewith the Reeboks,the French Connection jeans,that stare that I returnedwhen I saw him later,packing his unsold magazinesinto the boot of his BMW,as he made his way home.

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SMILESfor Joan

There was the smell,the smell of film,as I popped the lid,removed it fromits plastic canister,and loaded it,all fingers and thumbs,threading the leader,winding it on,praying it had caught,but scared to open the camerafor fear of spoiling it.

I guessed at focus and exposure, each click captured a slice of light,but I never knew for certainif, by skill or luck,I had caught that Kodak moment,until weeks later when I openedthe envelope, like a Christmas present,hoping that it wasn'tblank, or blurred, or beheaded,and was rewardedwith a smilethat I valued enoughto write the nameof its owner on the backand stick itin an albumfull of smiles.

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BROTHERS IN ARMS

They were boys of Carson’s army,sons of Ulster, loyal and true,marching off to France for glory,fighting for the red, white and blue.

Description of T Atkinson on enlistmentheight 5'7”, weight 122 lbs,chest when fully expanded 34”,complexion fresh, hair fair,distinctive marks – broad scaron bridge of nose, pulse 72.

In shattered stumps of Thiepval WoodTommy helped the dead and dying,above the thunder of battlehe could hear his brother crying.

You are hereby warned that if,after enlistment, it is found thatyou have given a wilfully wrong answerto any of the following questionsyou will be liable to a punishmentof 2 years imprisonment with hard labour.

He picked up the broken bodyof Ulster’s brave defender,holding on with all his strength, said“remember, Bob, no surrender.”

Private T Atkinson has undergonea course of training at this depotand is now qualified in first aidand ambulance work. He has been

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well behaved and has shewnan intelligent interest in his workAldershot 20/11/07

Bob held his brother’s hand and said,“Sure, there’s no winners in a war.In the end all you've got are thosethat lost, and those that lost some more.”

Men joining Section A Army Reservewill be liable to be called outon army service under the provisionof the Territorial and Reserve Forces Act 1907.Mobilized at Cosham 5/8/14Posted to 9th Field Ambulance 5/8/14.

The next morning Bob still hung on,though he was very close to death,he whispered this to his brother,the smell of rum thick on his breath.

I certify that I am unmarriedand that my next of kinis my mother, Mrs L Atkinson,Hyndford Street, Belfast.

“Tommy, take me home to Ulster,to the old church in Killyman,mother can visit me with flowers,please take me home Tom, if you can.”

Transferred to Section B Army Reserveon demobilization 16/3/19

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Tommy wept at Bobby’s graveside,in the hushed trees of Aveluy Wood,two years later he was sailing home,but Bobby never could.

I do not claim to be sufferinga disability due tomy military service.Place of examination Cologne 6/12/19

He carried Bobby’s last words hometo a broken hearted mother,he carried his memoryto his grave, soldier, friend, and brother.

Tom Atkinson, Field Ambulance, R.M.A.C. 1890 – 1971Robert Atkinson, RIR 1892 – 1916

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VISITING TIME

When you are oldwill you rememberthe day I took youto the zooand you ignoredthe lions and monkeysand elephants?

You fell in love witha golden poison dart frog(phylobates terribilis)from Colombia;whose skin containedenough toxinto kill a small town.

For ten minutes or moreyou blew out your cheekstogether, and croaked,and hopped,and hopped,and hopped.

Just before we leftyou raised a small chubby fingerand touched histhrough the glass.

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ON FOLLOWING A SEVEN YEAR OLD BOY AROUND THE TATE MODERN

He examined, thoroughly,the expanding crevassein the Turbine Room floorbefore deciding thatit’s nothing more than a big crackyou could get your foot stuck in.Giacometti’s bronze bustof Diego was greeted thushey look at flat face.The Rothko wasboring because it’s all green;and he felt strongly having seenFontana’s ‘Waiting’: itshould be removed from displaybecause it has a hole in it.He liked the Mirobecause of all the pretty colours;and I heard him saythat Bacon’s Triptychis gross in a cool sort of way.

If he had been privilegedenough to seeHirst’s ‘The PhysicalImpossibility of Death,in the Mind of Someone Living’(the shark in formaldehydeto you and me),I imagine it would have beengreeted with similar glee.I doubt though, if Emin’s bed would have been seen as

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‘A deconstruction of sexual politics,homelessness and displacementat the end of the twentieth century’;but rather as a bedroomalmost as untidy as his own.

What does a seven year old boy know?would he enjoy a foie gras terrineon a samphire bed, or preferto tuck into a Big Mac instead?

MIRROR MIRROR

My mirroris forty two years old.It does not seea bald spot growing,crows feet crowing,grey hair breeding,or a fool that’s leadinga life that belongsto a manhalf his age.

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MUSEUM OF THE WELSH SOLDIER

He gave Jack a musketto hold, to feel its weight,and demonstrated how to load it,charge, ball, and wadding,and the damagea musket ball could doto a steel breast plate.He let him try on an officer’s helmet,complete with flowing plume,hair cut by soldiersfrom horse’s tails,to keep them clean,and, to prove a point,showed him an oil painting:horses charging into battlewith neatly trimmed tails.He told us, with a sense of irony,how the first VCpresented to a Welsh regimentwas given to an Irish man.

He told me that Irelandis a beautiful country.He had been twice,Tyrone and South Armagh,and he hoped to go back,for a holiday this time,now that things were better.I said that he should,and hoped if he didboys as young as my sonwouldn’t throw stones at him,and that women my wife’s age

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wouldn’t spit in his faceand call him“a murdering Brit bastard”,and that a man the same age as mewouldn’t shoot his best friend in the backand leave him to die in his arms.

We’re off to Lanzarote this year.But maybe next year,if I can convince the missus.

ORCHESTRA

Gut and hair,ivory and skin,wood and reed,and breath:such harmonyout of death.

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MONEY BETTER NOT SPENT

I was under whelmedby the Titanic exhibition.I don’t know what I expected,but I didn’t get it.We’ve had one hundred yearsto get this right, for god's sake.It only took three yearsto build the bloody boat,(and an Englishmanfour days to sink it).

I didn’t think I would geta guided tour by Captain Smyth,or original colour filmfootage of the sinking.But they could have done betterthan story boards,and artists' impressions,and scenes from that bloody filmplaying on a loop.

The only thing worth seeingwas in the entrance hall,a porthole from a third class cabin,recovered from the bottomof the Atlantic,mounted so you could lookthrough the glass, so you couldsee what they saw.

So you should go,but don’t buy a ticket,all you need to see is free,

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and you’ll be five pounds richer;an amount equivalent toa trans-Atlantic crossingon White Star liner,RMS Titanic,one way,third class.

Footnotes

1 – A 3rd class ticket cost £5, about £250 in today’s money. A 1st class ticket cost £870, about £44000 in today’s money.2 – 74% of 3rd class passengers perished compared to 38% of 1st class passengers.3 – It is alleged that the significant difference between 1st class and 3rd class fatality rates was due to the gates on the most direct route from the 3rd class cabins to the life boats remaining locked. Many of the 3rd class passengers drowned in their cabins

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THE COLDEST YET

That’s the coldest yet,the words on my father's lips,each night from October to spring,as he stood at the back doorshaking the East Belfast rainoff his coat, and stampingthe mud off his Shipyard boots,before coming in, settinghis piece box on the counterand kissing my mother.

That’s the coldest yet,he set his wet gloveson the hearth to dryand stood by the fireto shift the cold that hadbeen bound in his bonesfrom a day on the gantries,where the east wind whippedup the Lough, sleet slashingthe Island until blue knuckledfingers could barely feelbilly-can tea through a tin cup.He stood, back to the fire,steam rising from his trousers,until I thought he might catch light.

My sixteenth summerwas the coldest yet,no piece box on the counter,no gloves by the fire,his new bicycle lyingin the garage since Christmas,

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and funeral tea, in china cups,would never warm my hands.

It was the coldest yet,but too cold for snow.

SYMPHONY FOR THE DEVIL

When Mick's in the groundone hundred years,will crowds queue outsidethe Albert Hall,and pay a week's wagesto see a cover band recreate the greatestshow of all?

Will they throw their bras,flash their tits,and jostle for positiontwenty rows deep,will they feel whatI felt, when KeithRichard's guitarmade me weep?

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MAKING SODA

She made her sodaby the handful,three handfuls of flour,a pinch of salt,a pinch of soda,a half pint of buttermilk,from an urn,not a carton.

She made her sodaby the handful,one hand that threwdirt on the lidof her sister's coffin,the other holdingan orphaned son.Hands that raised himas her own, and nevera ring on their fingers.

She made her sodaby the handful,baked in a rangeuntil it was done,and we ate it, oven hot,and thick with butter.

She made her sodaby the handful,a recipe I have beenunable to follow;I have differentsized hands.

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THE LORD'S DAY

On a Saturday evening,before retiring,my grandfather laid outhis Sunday suit,pressed his shirt,and polished his best shoes.

On a Sundaythe shops were all closed,except for one,owned by an Italian,who was, presumably,less devout than the Irish.The pubs were closed too,although drinkingon any day of the weekwas generally frowned upon.

At some indeterminate time,on Saturday,between sunset and midnight,the council employed a manto visit all the parksand chain upthe swings,the roundabout,the witch’s hat.I believe if they could have founda way to chain up the slidesthey would have done so.

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Honour the Lord's day,Darkley;

and keep it holy,The Bogside;

that thy days may be long,Enniskillen;

upon the earth.

WHAT I NEED

I needmy walking shoes,a flask of water,a loaf of bread,my coat.

I needsome sticks,a length of rope,a flint,a sharp knife.

I need,a God to guide me,a faith to drive me,a son to trust me,a son to love me.

What you really neededwas to be a father.

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GRANDFATHER

iShe just told me, one night,casually, over dinner,slipping it in, like a palate cleanser,between main course and dessert,“You know your grandfatherisn’t my father”; which, by implication,meant he wasn’t my grandfather,either.

It was as if a tree surgeonhad hacked off a limbfrom my family tree,and nailed on another branchfrom a different tree,entirely.

iiHe is a bird who flew south for winter in June,He is a song whose words I’d never been taught,He is house on wheels pulled by a horse,He is a valediction, without a thought,

He’s the King’s shilling in the bottom of a glass,He is snow in October and hail in July,He is the name that’s absent from our family bible,He was, from before he met you, saying goodbye.

He is the broken link in my chain, the reason I amHe was

Abraham.

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HUNTING

Last night the harbourertracked the stag to his resting place,and at sunrise made a close inspectionof the perimeter of the wood,to ensure he had not escaped.When the Master heard this,and was satisfied,he ordered the release of the houndsthat had been barking at our heelsall morning.

Then, a moment later,from where I lay,in dew damp grass,I saw itbreak through the tree line,a flash of royal red,and I followed it, panning;hooves thundered above barks,until it reached the river;where it stopped and turnedand faced down the dogs.In the cross hairs I sawevery hair on his neck,counted each of his fourteen points,I looked him in the eye,and could not,in all conscience,pull the trigger.

Valentine's Day 1945,lying in the nose of a Lancaster,8000 feet above Dresden,

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my heartbeat drowned outthe roar of fourRolls Royce Merlin engines.I lined up the burning city in my Blackett bomb sight.

I never heardthe children running,or saw the hairs on their heads,or the whites of their eyes.

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FUCKING DISTURBED

No matter how late it is,no matter how drunk your are,no matter how horny you are,no matter how willingyour ex-girlfriend is,no matter how big a coincidence it isthat you bumped into each otherone night in Belfast, even thoughneither of you havelived there for years,no matter how deepa sleeper your mother is,no matter how stiffthe suspensionin your mark I Golf GTI,parked in the garage adjoiningyour mother’s house,

it is not,most definitely not,a good idea.

Even if you sleeplate enough to avoid breakfast,conversation at Sunday lunchwill be strained,to say the least;and she willalwaysbean ex-girlfriend.

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COMPOSED UPON THE QUEEN'S BRIDGE

Behind me,beside crumbling Victorian walls,rise river view apartments,hotels and concert halls,built on the bones of Belfast.Behind them, guns hidden under floorboards, bodiesburied too deep to find,and the past buried deeperstill.

Before methe rail my brother walkedalong, gripping my father’s hand,while I hugged the kerb,away from the waterslipping beneath, to the sea;and the stinking mud;hidden now by the weir,only hidden, still stinking,just below the surface.

Scrap yards have gone,and the Shipyard too.But the docks whereyoung men left for waror fortune,or fled for their lives,the docks from whichfamine ships sailedand the Titanicsteamed away,are still there,still busy selling

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one way tickets.

Above mesmoke cloudsof starlings blowin to roost,and above themonly sky.

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GIFTS

After she spent almost all she hadon candy flossand chips eaten from the paperand a net to catch crabsand a stick of rockand the helter-skelterand the bumpers carsand two rides on the ghost train,because the ghost train was best,her friend’s mother hoisted her upto stick the rest in the slot,helped her heave on the handle,and with her final pullthree bells fell on the win-lineand ten shillings clattered out,in brand new pennies.

She scooped up her winningswith trembling fingers,filling her pocketsuntil her coat was heavywith good fortune.She chose to share it betweenthe two people she loved most:half on a gift for her grandfather,and the rest for her mother,because she needed the money.

She bought him a New Testament,King James Version,much smaller than the big,well thumbed biblehe read each night

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in his chair by the fire;small enough to fitin his coat pocket,small enough to carry Godwith him wherever he went.

Her mother kissed herand thanked herand put the money in a jam jarshe kept on the top shelf of the dresser.Her grandfather, a devout man,knowing no good could comefrom the devils money,left his gift, wrapped, on the table.

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HANGING THE PINATA

The kids wanted a piñata,so we got them one;but I must stressthat it had no religious significance.It did not have seven pointsrepresenting the seven deadly sins,and it was not an allegoryof man's temptation in the strugglebetween good and evil.But I must confess,we did blindfold them,with a balaclava back-to-front,(most Irish families have a balaclavatucked away in a drawer),not as a test of their faith,but just to make the task harder.We did spin them round,not thirty three times,once for each year of Christ's life,that would have made them sick,but just a couple of times,for our own entertainment.Our piñata was not, as tradition dictates, an ass, which I’m sure also hassome biblical relevance,the bible being full of asses.No, it was a big, round, orangepumpkin, complete with smiling face,filled with sweets and hung,not on the first Sunday of Lent,but on the last day of October.If there was any metaphysical significance,

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it was not as they blindly flaileda brush shaft above their heads,but earlier, as I stood in the garageon a wobbly stool, alone,and looped a length of ropeover a beam, and swung on it a little,to make sure it wouldn't break.

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MARITAL ART

It is an art,whose sole purposeis to defend oneselffrom physical threat.She is a skilled practitioner,black belt, 10th Dan.

Her Sifu taught her well:self-control, determination,concentration, respectand justice.

She trains daily,practising each disciplineuntil she attains perfection;she breaks bricks with stubbornness;she reads my mind.

We circumnavigate each other,wrestlers about to make the first grab,we lunge and clinch and grapple;she is an expert in the take down,always finishing on top,beating me into submission.

Her approach is sumo,her words a nunchuck,her look a shuriken,her smile a switch-blade,her tongue a sai,her memory is a suruin.

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Sometimes she prefersless traditional weapons,such as pans and platesstill laden with food,and all manner of cutleryand kitchen utensils

And occasionally,if necessity dictates,she will usethe Five Point PalmExploding Heart Technique.

FootnotesNunchuck - is two sections of wood connected by acord or chainShuriken – throwing starSai - is a three-pronged truncheonSuruin - a weighted chain or leather cord. It is aweapon which can be easily hidden prior to use, anddue to this fact can be devastatingly effective

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FALLING DOWN PARTY

On old square rigged shipsthe royals were flownimmediately above the top gallant.Set very high, above the royals,the sky sail, and above thatthe skyscraper;a small triangular sail,only flown in very light winds.

When the Tower Buildingwas constructed,after Manhattan was clearedof hills and trees,crowds would gather, even atthe slightest sign of a breeze,to chat, drink beerand smoke cigarettes,while they waitedfor it to fall.

If they had enough patienceto stick around for a littleover a century,they would have gotexactly what they wanted;and my oh my,it would have beenworth the wait.

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WHORING MYSELF FOR JESUS

My Sunday school teacherwas a devout manwho could recitethe King James Biblechapter and verse,the beat of each wordaccompanied by a thumpof his fiston the well-thumbed testamentthat sat on his knee,its size a symbolof his faith.

He promised us ten pence a verse;I set to work,the following week reciting,word perfect, John chapter three,pocketing thirty six pieces of silver.Next was to be Psalm 119,but he suggested I readMatthew 19:24 instead.

With hindsight I am gladI did not sell my soul to Jesusin exchange for a mansion,streets paved with gold,and an incorruptible crown.

I kept itfor someoneworthy of it.

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STATUS UPDATED(Facebook verbatim poem)

I had an amazing Valentine's Day with Andrewand am looking forward to my party tomorrow,we'll be hitting the Buckfast soon.

I woke up just there, really hungover,and turned around to notice,that even in my drunken state,I left three massive glassesof water beside my bed.

I got a surprise for my sixteenth birthday,a late gift, four weeks late.I suppose that would have made itNew Years Eve, if I could remember,not that it makes any difference;sweet,sweet sixteen.

We'll never drift apart.Where have I heard that before! Facebook status changedfrom in a relationship to single.If you would not make her a wife,do not make her a mother.I wish you could experiencethis with me.Your choice.

I'm being a soliderand fighting the morning sickness.I fucking hate being pregnant;I don't mean to sound ungrateful,

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but it's rough.I'm eating for three, not two,and boaking for Ireland.Two Kinder Buenos,four bits of toast and jam,two Terry's Chocolate Oranges,my feast of a dinner,about eight cups of milk,and I’m still waiting on my McDonald's...what the fuck.

I'm dying to get out one more nightbefore the plum gets any bigger,and, no, I won't drink.Anywhere decent to gowhere they won't ring the policeif you have no ID?When you're pregnanthormones go up the left,at the moment they are,and I’m craving cock.

Getting the baba's first baby grow today,and actually cannot waitfor my first scan with mummy and Chloe.My due date is on my Dad'sthirty sixth birthday,happy birthday Granddad.I'm still attemptingto stop smoking,this baby better love me.If I could go back in timeI would change a lot of things,being pregnant isn’t good craic.

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I can't wait to meet you,twenty weeks will be so slow.You know all you need is me.

Just sixteen, with life to go.

SHADOW BOXING

It feels like I've goneeleven rounds - the shadowis winning on points.

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ODE TO MY CHILDREN ON THEIR WEDDING DAY

What will I dance toat your wedding?I didn’t learn tofoxtrot or waltz,like my grandparents.I will ask the DJif he has some oldiesand I will embarrass youwith the Birdie Song,or Las Macarena,or the Timewarp,or Y.M.C.A.

If you’re really luckyyou’ll get to see meplay air guitarto Smoke on the Wateror head bangto Ace of Spades.I might just chill,and take a pill,and raise my handsto Voodoo Ray.

Or perhapsI’ll just grabyour motherby the scruffand pogoto The Pistols;“Oh, we’re so pretty,oh so pretty…”

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GHOSTSfor Mary and Margaret Patterson

Finally, after much pleading,I took you to the old graveyard,not at night, but in broad daylight,and still you clutched my handwithout a word, not worryingif anyone noticed you.We tripped over tussocksand hidden rocks and hollows,pulled back curtains of grassto look at stones,old and weather worn,words lost to wind and rain,and you asked me if dead peopleminded us standing on them.

We walked through a window,into an old church with no roof,birds nesting in beam sockets,and walls, wound tight with ivy,that had no business still standingafter seven hundred years.We stood where people preached and prayed,where the new born were welcomedinto the world and the dead carried from it.You worried more about warning signs,“Danger, Falling Masonry, Keep Out”,than you worried about ghosts.

Leaving, we happened upona grave of a mother who diedthree weeks after the birthof her daughter, who survived her

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by only eleven days;long enough to see her first Christmas,but not a New Year.

I clutched your hand without asking,and considered a father who carried his grief, like a stone,another forty years.

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BLACK EYED PEACE

It was a marriage of convenience,a gun shot wedding,of sorts, coercedfor the sake of the children,for better, for worse,but it wasn’t love,it was bitternessthat bound them together,

They fought,eye for eye,tooth for tooth,tooth and nail,to have and to hold,by the throat,and impale each otherwith whetted words.

Bruised and battle wearyfrom going over old ground,they have found themselvesback where they began,Belfast confetti still on the streets,blood stains on the sheets,and poison between the linesof their Valentines.

Too much water has passedunder bridges that have beenbuilt and burnt so often.All they can think to do is makeanother pot of tea and sit in silenceon the same side of a round table

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drinking from half empty cups,and ignoring the herd of elephants in the room.

They lick the woundsof their irreconcilable differences,and agree to differ.

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HUNTING FOR THE AURORA

A coronal mass ejectioncaused me to wake my sonat a quarter past midnight,on a school night,and wrap up him carefully,to shut out the cold,to keep an cosmic appointmentwith electrons, plasma and protonsthat had travelled a hundred million milesto meet us.

At Magheracrosswe huddled for an hour,hats pulled down, coats zipped up,squinting at the horizonfor green, and red, and bluearcs and curtains spiralling to the pole.The groundswell of a distantAtlantic storm, searching for a shore,slammed onto the cliff below,and we saw nothing.

Then we stopped looking north,and looked up, and I gave him Orion,and he gave me the Plough,and I gave him Jupiter,gifts that had travelled more thanone hundred million miles.

His last wordsbefore he fell asleep,"If it was easy to findit wouldn't be so special".

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