Monday, November 28, 2011

THE PINK WALL OF MONARD





THE PINK WALL OF MONARD


I drove past you twice today
And wondered where the guardians of your soul;
The keepers of your pinkness
Have escaped to....
And how....?
And why....?


I missed your pink twice today
And wondered where the artists of your birth;
The authors of your story
Are cindered then....?
And if....?
And when....?


I sighed for you twice today
And wondered where the painters of your time;
The watchers of your heartbeat
Now buried in....?
And so....?
And but....?


I questioned you twice today
And wondered where the carers of your spirit;
The lovers of your pinkness
What home boxed in....?
And where....?
And.... OH....!





Maureen Walsh - November 2011

There is a pink wall in Monard, that I have driven past many, many times on my way to Limerick over the last 36 years. Earlier today, I dropped my daughter over to Shannon Airport to catch an early morning flight back to London and found myself wondering why this wall belonging to a pink house, that had once been so lovingly 'pinked' for as long as I have lived in Ireland, was now 'greened' with damp and flaking from neglect. Many's the time, I spotted the man of the house, complete with broad-brimmed hat and braces, with a brush in his hand and a tin of of pink paint at his feet. The shades and hues might have varied from summer to summer, but the wall was always PINK, which brought a sense of joy, fun, and yet at the same time; a sense of continuity.

Today, as I despaired at the wall's neglect, (avoidable or otherwise) I found myself wondering what had happened to the man with the braces and broad-brimmed hat and his good lady wife.

When I go home to my native town, Crewe, I sometimes find myself, perhaps stupidly, pining for the old shops and streets of my childhood, that have been anihilated and replaced with shopping malls, offices or factories.

There is however, a certain amount of comfort in travelling to say a small town like Fethard in Co. Tipperary, where several old shopfronts have been maintained in all their glory.

Nothing lasts for ever, but for some reason that thought saddens me. If Sigmund Freud were still alive, he might suggest, that my sadness signifies a sub-conscious fear of being forgotten when dead and buried. Hope that doesn't mean I'm guilty of narcissism!!! Ah well....sometimes the truth hurts I guess!


Ciao for now!

Friday, November 18, 2011

LAMB DAY





'A cigarette?' he said looking into her eyes. She couldn't bear another second of his concern and sank down onto the cold, wet cement steps in front of the theatre. She wanted to avoid his blue kindness, but missed it instantly, and then hoped ... hoped that she wouldn't have to watch him walk away through grey drizzling rain, because she had disappointed again. She dare not look up, and leaning over to fiddle with the zip of her boot, she was met by the chiding glare of a ginger cat, that lived on the wall, opposite. 'What ...have I disappointed you too?' she thought. 'If only I could behave like a woman ... a grown up woman! At what point does the girl or boy become Adam and Eve?' His soft breathing floated gently into her awareness, and she thinks back to the lamb day. The lamb had become detached from the sea of ewes and young, in a nearby field. The agony of separation and isolation barbed into its distressed cries, highlighted her own pathetic inadequacies. The poor creature was eventually calmed and soothed, as one sheep, wailing and keening in its response, emerged from the grazing hundreds, to rescue and suckle once more, the wanderer. 'The familiar!' she thinks. Two knees become four, as he crouches beside her and familiar lips brush against familiar neck whispering, 'A cigarette?'





Maureen Walsh - November 2011

And speaking of lambs.... this is one of my all-time favourite songs Someone to Watch Over Me from Ella Fizgerald. I had the great honour of performing this song with the RTE Concert Orchestra some years back.





http://youtu.be/JANcQf3fjuA




Ciao for now!

Monday, November 7, 2011

RHYTHM OF LIFE





RHYTHM OF LIFE

Cells.... 
Moving.... standing still,
Multiplying and dividing.
Worms, buried, making love...
To themselves, in the dead.

Leaves....
Paint.... pap'ring pavements,
And the cracks between toes
And those cells, making love....
To the others, in a bed.


Litter ....
Curling....fighting death,
To be seen, to be read.
And its words, making love....
To the thoughts, in your head.

Railings....
Rusting....keeping out,
The dangers of the darkness.
And his fears, making love....
To the rhythm, that we thread.





Maureen Walsh - November 2011


Ciao for now!