Bedtime

Another poem for you. You might notice a theme emerging!

Bedtime
by Patrick Shortall

Arrived at the end of the day

My life feels vaguely empty

I don't know what's missing

but I don't want to sleep

Of everything that's provided for me

How can I not have enough?

Poor in every way

except the ones that show

Educated, Satisfied, Warm, Popular,

Everything I need.

Organised, not stressed

Even comfortably tired.

Like the force pushing back,

The problems shift ahead.

I now know how to wake up

But I can't get to bed.

The gentle buzz of the laptop

The busy train outside

The blaring light above me

I'm cocooned in here to hide

Fall asleep without going to bed.

Poetry: Top That

Top That

by Patrick Shortall

Getting out of bed is the biggest achievement of my day

I quickly reach my peak and then slowly fade away

I open up with greatness and I close with infamy

the dark hours of the night, I hit my lows

My energy is wasted simply trying to move my head,

Every time I wake up I think I'd prefer to be dead.

After my great achievement the rest of the day is a waste

My waking days are spent looking for a challenge to replace

The simple joy of starting a day, no longer so simple.

Not even joyous, just anti-climactic, delirious.

Instead of triumph, the hours stretch out in front of me,

Like a range of mountains to be traversed, an eternal fruitless quest.

The goals of life seems trivial when compared with my desire

to diminish the struggle but increase the glory of my morning mire

I strike before the iron is hot, before it's even burning,

I envy that infernal clock, the hands are always turning.

My secret struggle of every day, my life's biggest achievement

If I'm to ever top it, I need to give up

and asleep I stay.

Trying

Another poem written by yours truly. It's pretty self-explanatory. Let me know what you think of it, I love getting criticism!

Trying 

by Patrick Shortall

I just read some poetry

now I want to write some too

but I can't lose the feeling

that it's all in vain.

My hand stretches for the pen

fingers straining to scratch

etching out those little figures

before it falls and slides

like my body

thrown off the merry-go-round of life

I'm lying on my bed

but it won't stop spinning

Trying to figure out

why I should even get up

fail before I start

I can never be the one

That I want to be

Every time I dream

close my eyes and I see

All those visions so sweet

But when I awake

they grow so faint

fading fast with the fog

starts to cloud my thought

Notes and Ideas amount to

Draw a line through

Try not to forget why I need to write

Try not to remember I've got nothing to say

A Little Piece I Wrote Yesterday: Run

I don't know if this is a poem or what but I think it's nice. It just came out of my daily practices, pure stream, but I've broken it up into lines and stanzas here. Not sure how it fits but let me know what you think. Hopefully there will be more to come.

Run

I'm running down these pages quickly
like a big hill, dry in the sun.
Those clumsy thumps of strides,
footfalls, hard,
come down on the dry ground.

Running before you knew
anything to run away from.
Just running towards your future
that seems to come too slow.
Running to catch your dreams.

Running just to feel the wind in your hair.
And let it catch your arms
and bring them out wide, spread like wings.
So fast, you can fly: Swift and effortless.
At one with Gravity, the basic force of nature.
And for that moment you're free. 

It's over before you know it.
A long trudge back up the hill,
but at the top the sun is shining all around.
Engulfing you in a cocoon of warmth.
And the wind rolls down the hill, ready to cool you.
Inviting again, that second descent.

Run.

Break Time Text Message Triptych

I was a little bored during my break at work today. But I was sitting out in a nice terrace with fallen golden yellow fallen leaves all around me. So I got a little inspired and my phone was the closest at hand. The first one naturally fell just one character short of the 160 standard text message, so I tried to keep the others to that limit too. So they seem to me like a nice modern take on short forms like a Haiku. If I had more time and was more dedicated maybe I would try and edit them to fit exactly. Oh well...


No. 1

Sitting alone in the Autumn garden. Must not be too slow. Must speed up. Take a break from life. You can't just stop for a break. Work it out til you clock out.

No. 2

Japanese girl. In America. Pleasant and engaging. Potential s a friend. Even remember detail swap. Even look up. But gone without a trace. Lead gone cold.

No. 3

Passing time. No, timing the past. Looking back on what has gone. Waiting for what hasn't yet begun. Where does one start and the other end? My question too.

On leaving Ireland

While spending some quality time at home in Dublin, I browsed the bookshelf that was just behind me while I sat at the computer. When my computer gets slow or I get bored, I turn around and look to some poetry books there for a moment of respite. One day over the summer I came a cross a great little book of Prose, Poems and Parodies, by Percy French. I'm not sure if it is well-known, but all I know about it is that must have belonged to my uncle. On the title page, in neat hand-writing, it bears the monograph 'A.S.' and the date - 31/12/80, his birthday. This man, Percy French, was born in Ireland, but educated in England. He was fascinated by the people from the west of Ireland and he collected local poems and prose from them. So without saying anymore, I want to give you a bit of a taste. Here is one of my favourites which I found as I flicked through this book.

"If."

If I should die to-night,
And you should come,
And stand beside me,
Lying cold and dumb,
And, if while standing there,
You whispered low,
"Here's the ten pounds,
You lent me years ago."
I would rise, although they'd laid me flat,
And say, "What's that?"

If I should die to-night,
But rose to count,
With trembling fingers,
That long lost amount.
I might live on;
      But when
You said, "Here's your umbrella
And your fountain pen,"
For one short space
I'd gaze into thy face
      And then
Drop dead again.

A little silly, but it gave me a good chuckle! The style of the pieces are such that, you almost have to read them out with a thick Irish accent. I'm not from the West so I just stick to a Dublin accent, but I think the effect is the same. I might share some more in later posts.

When I was leaving for London I decided to bring that little book with me. I'm not very patriotic and I hate those romanticized images of Ireland, but these poems do capture something unique about Ireland. They make me feel very Irish even though I'm not from the west or even the countryside. It's also poignant that the book was given to my uncle who moved to the U.S.A. when he was about the age I am now. I don't know what the intention was, I should ask him about it sometime. But it makes me think of all the different attitudes that people have about leaving Ireland. I already feel like I'm become over-sentimental, I'm only gone a week! But I want to get the full experience of whatever I'm doing right now.

So here are some of my thoughts on leaving Ireland. I may be coming back after my year, but I don't know. So, I'm not very patriotic. There's a lot of things about Ireland that I don't like. Things are so badly organised there, and don't get me started on the politics! It is a very small place, and sometimes the people can even be small-minded. Those are some of the things which made me want to leave. Also there seems to be very little there for me. There are very few jobs and opportunities. It seems like Ireland doesn't want its young people because we all have to emigrate to find work that can support us. I think that most people that have left Ireland have at least some of these feelings in common.

The way it looks to me, most people who leave fall into two categories. Either they are very bitter towards Ireland, and they never want to return, or else they find a new kind of patriotism and they exaggerate their Irish-ness as much as they can. I know I'm making some generalizations. This is just how I perceive other peoples reactions. I'm sure the individual experience is much more complex. For me it definitely is. I have some anger and bitterness towards Ireland. I never really felt that I belonged there. But at the same time, when I leave I realise what an important part of me it is. To know who you are, you have to know where you are coming from. I was born in Ireland, I grew up there, so now, whether I like it or not, it's a part of me. I know I could've been born anywhere in the world but I was born in Ireland so I might as well embrace it. I don't think I'm going to go crazy patriotic, but when there's a little distance I prefer to appreciate the positives. So Percy French and Macklemore will keep my Irish eyes smiling until I end up back home.

I've got one more poem that reminds me of Ireland. I saw it first, in Avondale forest park in Wicklow. A very special place for my family. I originally presumed it was one of the Irish poets who wrote it, but I've just found out that it was an American poet named Joyce Kilmer. Even so, it's a poem about trees, which I think is the most beautiful thing about Ireland. Just like Percy French, it's very simple poetry, but that is what I like about it. Maybe I don't know enough about poetry - I'm willing to learn! - but I think this is just my style. And this poem gives a perfect explanation of the style it embodies. Why be complex when natural beauty is so simple?

Trees

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree. 

- Joyce Kilmer