by Tom Lavelle
There was the right way and the wrong.
Schooling meant nuns, brothers, priests,
right-handed salutes if our paths crossed.
We had to bless ourselves
passing churches, hearses, holy water fonts
with the strong hand that held the knife,
not the one that grasped the fork.
My brother, his first day at school,
short-trousered, scrubbed behind the ears,
copybook open for his baby scrawl,
clasped the yellow pencil in his left hand.
Sister Camillus stuck it firmly in his right,
threatened to strap the citeog behind his back
or if that didn’t work, hack off the devil’s paw.
back
Thursday, December 31, 2009
A Little Bag of Tasty Clouds
by Marcella Morgan
Suzie was the kind of girl who, when she was at a gig, would spend the whole time taking pictures of the band with her mobile phone. That is why God gave her cancer.
God called this micro-management. It was a form of divine intervention that required him to live among his people, to watch them closely, judge them on the little actions of their lives, and punish or reward them accordingly. He spent his days giving fungal infections to old women who spent too long counting out their money in the shops, giving winning Loto numbers to flatmates who did the hoovering and cooked brownies for their other flatmates. He felt it was a much fairer way of doling out divine retribution.
The downside was he had to forgo omnipresence. He had settled in Galway for the time being, and spent his days watching boys banging their bongos on shop street, spent his nights in the Roisin Dubh, wearing his favourite high-waisted jeans and neon pink converse, drinking Bud from an Erdinger glass while he checked out the young ones in their body-con dresses. It was a pity really that, being God, he was out of everyone’s league. God always went home alone.
And he always finished the night with a bottle of Cape Reality from the Chinese, and two bags of prawn crackers. He loved those tasty little clouds he had flavoured with all the creatures of the sea. They really were the most magnificent of his creations. Little puffs of promise, they stayed buoyant on the greasy plate of his Chinese takeaway, greeted him unperturbed in the cold blue dawn of his hangover, still looking to be eaten, collapsing to a joyous nothing in his mouth. The prawn cracker existed only to be enjoyed.
Humans on the other hand were always looking to be saved. The Roisin depressed him, really. The young people, they had no respect for him anymore. Those prancing nihilists with their head shop highs and ambivalent sexuality, they treated him like a spiritual ATM machine – they called him when they were down all right, but you wouldn’t catch them on their knees praying when the times were good that’s for fuckin sure.
This was the generation that had relegated him to a lower case h, and could he blame them really? He hadn’t been performing very well of late. Gone were his halcyon days of great floods, of plagues and impregnating virgins, without them losing their virginity. To think he created the world in seven days. What had he done lately? Made a face appear in a tree in Limerick? Pathetic. Every now and then he’d intervene to set things right – save a dog who’d been trapped on an ice-float heading out to sea, and everyone appreciated those little miracles, but the big stuff, he just wasn’t up to it anymore. He was crippled by a feeling of plunging desperation, a bad thought that dropped like a rock into the deep well of his omniscient mind – it was all hopeless, his futile tinkering.
His creation had grown into a sprawling monstrosity, and things just happened now by themselves – he didn’t have the control that people thought he did. His initial divine action had set off a series of human reactions that had rolled away out of his grasp. He wanted to stand before humanity and say: Folks, it’s outta my hands. But how could he do that? He was God, he was all powerful, and if praying to him gave some people hope why not let them at it.
He did listen to the prayers – he had them on shuffle on his i-pod. He flicked through them as he walked the prom. Flicking forward before each prayer ended, and flicking faster until it was only the first sentence of the prayer he listened to, faster until it was the first word, faster and it was only the first syllable he heard, then only the intake of breath, the silent mouth open – God walked the prom flicking faster and faster and faster through the screaming silence of his children’s prayers.
And then he stepped into Freeney’s, in out of the rain. He sat at the bar beside a man who was staring at the wall, and ordered a pint of Guinness in an Erdinger glass. The man beside him nodded hello. God nodded back, watched his pint settle.
My dog died last night, the man said, She was old. Passed away in her sleep. Unusual for a dog to go peacefully like that – they usually have to be killed before they’ll die.
God folded his arms across his chest. Dogs like being alive, he said, that’s true.
The man stared at the wall a bit more, and then he stared a bit at the insides of his eyeballs, and then he stared at God.
Wasn’t that terrible though, he said, the earthquake there.
What earthquake was that? asked God.
The one there about a month ago, was it? In Africa.
God shook his head, Never heard about it, he said.
Well a lot of people died. It was terrible, the suffering – God them blacks they know how to suffer. I saw them on the news screaming and wailing – they know how to let it out.
God sucked the Guinness froth from his top lip and said, Better in than out.
And isn’t it true, the man said, my oldest she lost her first child there a year ago, still born. She cried and cried, we thought she’d never stop crying. The boyfriend, not a tear shed. He was strong for her, and he’s been the worst affected. Not working now. He’s started to get awful religious, my young one’s worried about him. He told me one night that he thinks that if he’d prayed more to God, he’d have saved the baby. I told him that if God does exist – he doesn’t give a fuck about us. And do you know what he said? He said – you may not have faith in God, but He has faith in you. I almost gave him a wallop.
So you don’t believe in God? asked God.
The man shifted on his stool, the piles were at him. I’m not saying I do, and I’m not saying I don’t. Because I don’t have to. The question of God, that’s one question I don’t have to answer. Did I tell you my dog died?
You did, said God.
I’m going to get a pup, for the youngest. She loves aminals. Has a rabbit. Calls him Roger – I’ve no idea why she calls him Roger, but she calls him Roger anyway.
God finished his pint and headed for home. When he got back to his palace in the sky he wandered through the empty rooms. They were cold, and they were dark. All his trumpets were rusty, all his angels fled. And God realised, though it wasn’t really a realisation – seeing as he has known everything for eternity – but God realised that the life had gone from his kingdom in the sky. And it was the life that had held the walls of the rooms together, that had held the bricks of the walls together, that had held the grains of the bricks together, the atoms of the grains…
But life is always moving on, said God as a slab of plaster fell from the ceiling, and all we can do is follow it. And then he sighed, settled down into his celestial armchair and turned on the telly. Repeats of South Park were playing back to back on the Comedy Channel. God laughed when Kenny died and then, feeling peckish, he dipped his hand into the sky over Galway and grabbed himself a fistful of tasty little clouds.
back
Suzie was the kind of girl who, when she was at a gig, would spend the whole time taking pictures of the band with her mobile phone. That is why God gave her cancer.
God called this micro-management. It was a form of divine intervention that required him to live among his people, to watch them closely, judge them on the little actions of their lives, and punish or reward them accordingly. He spent his days giving fungal infections to old women who spent too long counting out their money in the shops, giving winning Loto numbers to flatmates who did the hoovering and cooked brownies for their other flatmates. He felt it was a much fairer way of doling out divine retribution.
The downside was he had to forgo omnipresence. He had settled in Galway for the time being, and spent his days watching boys banging their bongos on shop street, spent his nights in the Roisin Dubh, wearing his favourite high-waisted jeans and neon pink converse, drinking Bud from an Erdinger glass while he checked out the young ones in their body-con dresses. It was a pity really that, being God, he was out of everyone’s league. God always went home alone.
And he always finished the night with a bottle of Cape Reality from the Chinese, and two bags of prawn crackers. He loved those tasty little clouds he had flavoured with all the creatures of the sea. They really were the most magnificent of his creations. Little puffs of promise, they stayed buoyant on the greasy plate of his Chinese takeaway, greeted him unperturbed in the cold blue dawn of his hangover, still looking to be eaten, collapsing to a joyous nothing in his mouth. The prawn cracker existed only to be enjoyed.
Humans on the other hand were always looking to be saved. The Roisin depressed him, really. The young people, they had no respect for him anymore. Those prancing nihilists with their head shop highs and ambivalent sexuality, they treated him like a spiritual ATM machine – they called him when they were down all right, but you wouldn’t catch them on their knees praying when the times were good that’s for fuckin sure.
This was the generation that had relegated him to a lower case h, and could he blame them really? He hadn’t been performing very well of late. Gone were his halcyon days of great floods, of plagues and impregnating virgins, without them losing their virginity. To think he created the world in seven days. What had he done lately? Made a face appear in a tree in Limerick? Pathetic. Every now and then he’d intervene to set things right – save a dog who’d been trapped on an ice-float heading out to sea, and everyone appreciated those little miracles, but the big stuff, he just wasn’t up to it anymore. He was crippled by a feeling of plunging desperation, a bad thought that dropped like a rock into the deep well of his omniscient mind – it was all hopeless, his futile tinkering.
His creation had grown into a sprawling monstrosity, and things just happened now by themselves – he didn’t have the control that people thought he did. His initial divine action had set off a series of human reactions that had rolled away out of his grasp. He wanted to stand before humanity and say: Folks, it’s outta my hands. But how could he do that? He was God, he was all powerful, and if praying to him gave some people hope why not let them at it.
He did listen to the prayers – he had them on shuffle on his i-pod. He flicked through them as he walked the prom. Flicking forward before each prayer ended, and flicking faster until it was only the first sentence of the prayer he listened to, faster until it was the first word, faster and it was only the first syllable he heard, then only the intake of breath, the silent mouth open – God walked the prom flicking faster and faster and faster through the screaming silence of his children’s prayers.
And then he stepped into Freeney’s, in out of the rain. He sat at the bar beside a man who was staring at the wall, and ordered a pint of Guinness in an Erdinger glass. The man beside him nodded hello. God nodded back, watched his pint settle.
My dog died last night, the man said, She was old. Passed away in her sleep. Unusual for a dog to go peacefully like that – they usually have to be killed before they’ll die.
God folded his arms across his chest. Dogs like being alive, he said, that’s true.
The man stared at the wall a bit more, and then he stared a bit at the insides of his eyeballs, and then he stared at God.
Wasn’t that terrible though, he said, the earthquake there.
What earthquake was that? asked God.
The one there about a month ago, was it? In Africa.
God shook his head, Never heard about it, he said.
Well a lot of people died. It was terrible, the suffering – God them blacks they know how to suffer. I saw them on the news screaming and wailing – they know how to let it out.
God sucked the Guinness froth from his top lip and said, Better in than out.
And isn’t it true, the man said, my oldest she lost her first child there a year ago, still born. She cried and cried, we thought she’d never stop crying. The boyfriend, not a tear shed. He was strong for her, and he’s been the worst affected. Not working now. He’s started to get awful religious, my young one’s worried about him. He told me one night that he thinks that if he’d prayed more to God, he’d have saved the baby. I told him that if God does exist – he doesn’t give a fuck about us. And do you know what he said? He said – you may not have faith in God, but He has faith in you. I almost gave him a wallop.
So you don’t believe in God? asked God.
The man shifted on his stool, the piles were at him. I’m not saying I do, and I’m not saying I don’t. Because I don’t have to. The question of God, that’s one question I don’t have to answer. Did I tell you my dog died?
You did, said God.
I’m going to get a pup, for the youngest. She loves aminals. Has a rabbit. Calls him Roger – I’ve no idea why she calls him Roger, but she calls him Roger anyway.
God finished his pint and headed for home. When he got back to his palace in the sky he wandered through the empty rooms. They were cold, and they were dark. All his trumpets were rusty, all his angels fled. And God realised, though it wasn’t really a realisation – seeing as he has known everything for eternity – but God realised that the life had gone from his kingdom in the sky. And it was the life that had held the walls of the rooms together, that had held the bricks of the walls together, that had held the grains of the bricks together, the atoms of the grains…
But life is always moving on, said God as a slab of plaster fell from the ceiling, and all we can do is follow it. And then he sighed, settled down into his celestial armchair and turned on the telly. Repeats of South Park were playing back to back on the Comedy Channel. God laughed when Kenny died and then, feeling peckish, he dipped his hand into the sky over Galway and grabbed himself a fistful of tasty little clouds.
back
The Suitcase of Bees
by Geraldine Mitchell
She brought it everywhere, its silver, dimpled surface
effervescent with the whirr of wings within.
In public she would spread her skirt’s thick folds
to mute the angry drone, paint a smile across her face,
hope no-one would notice. Once inside her own four walls
the vibrations grew so shrill she held her head and hummed,
a wild crescendo.
The ambulance crew was gentle as they led her owl-eyed
through the gates, bees still rustling taffeta in her head.
The case was silent, a ruse in sly collusion with the doctor
who swore she was an expert, knew all there was to know
of stings and swarms, their stridency, how to outface the queen.
They built a wooden beehive, surrounded it with lemon balm,
sweet basil, mint. And now, except for mild tinnitus, she is calm.
(published in The Interpreter’s House, Issue 43)
back
She brought it everywhere, its silver, dimpled surface
effervescent with the whirr of wings within.
In public she would spread her skirt’s thick folds
to mute the angry drone, paint a smile across her face,
hope no-one would notice. Once inside her own four walls
the vibrations grew so shrill she held her head and hummed,
a wild crescendo.
The ambulance crew was gentle as they led her owl-eyed
through the gates, bees still rustling taffeta in her head.
The case was silent, a ruse in sly collusion with the doctor
who swore she was an expert, knew all there was to know
of stings and swarms, their stridency, how to outface the queen.
They built a wooden beehive, surrounded it with lemon balm,
sweet basil, mint. And now, except for mild tinnitus, she is calm.
(published in The Interpreter’s House, Issue 43)
back
Chutzpah (extract)
by Cristina Galvin
I killed my mother first. With a hatchet to the head and put her in a Kileen bin bag. One of those big, wide black ones. Not that she was a large woman. Far from it. She was just another one of those frail, wizened old things with a back hunched by too much time and osteoporosis. I got a pliers then and pulled out all her teeth, one by one, cracked them with a hammer and sprinkled the powder like confetti dust on her like she was a bride. This act carried ritual significance. She had commented on my teeth. I had come over to fix the faulty connection in the fridge and through lips pursed and scarlet she said my teeth looked stained, said I really should give up the fags. Those were her very words: “You know, Frank,” she said. “You really should give up the fags.” I had come over to do a good deed and that’s the thanks I got. I really didn’t need the grief. You’d feel peeved too if your mother said the same to you. And as I sucked hard on my cigarette, stuffed her in and pulled tight the yellow drawstrings on the big, wide bin bag I thought, you’re a one to talk; those teeth, you know, I got from you and they were bloody well stained from the start.
back
I killed my mother first. With a hatchet to the head and put her in a Kileen bin bag. One of those big, wide black ones. Not that she was a large woman. Far from it. She was just another one of those frail, wizened old things with a back hunched by too much time and osteoporosis. I got a pliers then and pulled out all her teeth, one by one, cracked them with a hammer and sprinkled the powder like confetti dust on her like she was a bride. This act carried ritual significance. She had commented on my teeth. I had come over to fix the faulty connection in the fridge and through lips pursed and scarlet she said my teeth looked stained, said I really should give up the fags. Those were her very words: “You know, Frank,” she said. “You really should give up the fags.” I had come over to do a good deed and that’s the thanks I got. I really didn’t need the grief. You’d feel peeved too if your mother said the same to you. And as I sucked hard on my cigarette, stuffed her in and pulled tight the yellow drawstrings on the big, wide bin bag I thought, you’re a one to talk; those teeth, you know, I got from you and they were bloody well stained from the start.
back
Steak
by Áine Tierney
Ger is a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day – he only shines intermittently. And as I looked out the window of our shared house in Salthill, I could see the rain clouds gathering.
Ger always struck me as an aged Little Lord Fauntleroy, but on a day when he was feeling peevish. He is precise and neat; one of those people that always look like they are just after showering. Though twenty-three, one gets a sense that he was born into middle age.
We get on well, really we do; but then, there isn’t enough to like about me to arouse dislike. I’m no threat to anyone’s sense of himself or herself. Doing everything right is the wrong way to go about getting people to like you – this normally safeguards me a certain level of popularity. But I can annoy. Especially Ger.
‘I can’t find my mushrooms.’
‘Where are they?' I ask, with the type of intelligence a person uses when asking someone where they are when they are lost.
‘I think I’ve left um up in my room?’
‘Have you taken to hiding stuff in your room now, Ger?’
He tries to ignore my dig, but can’t help furrowing his brow and down turning the side of his mouth. He is fastidious about his stuff and keeps his kitchen utensils apart from those in common usage. Afraid, I think, of what I’d get up to with his kitchen devil knife behind his back.
‘I’ll be back forth with.’
And he was.
‘There’s no mushrooms in your room either?’
‘No,’ is the grumpy response.
‘There are plenty of mushrooms in my press, growing on the bread I bought last week and haven’t yet got round to throwing out.’ He didn’t laugh. Food is a serious matter.
Ger was cooking steak for his dinner, and I drank vegetable soup out of a carton as I watched, from our kitchen table.
‘Must tenderise this meat now. Yes, oh yes.’ He was beginning to get excited. The lost mushrooms were forgotten. The clouds were clearing - for him anyway.
‘Oh no,’ I put my hands over my eyes, waiting for the bang.
Bang. Bang. He slapped the meat against the counter with the base of the frying pan.
‘Like it hasn’t been through enough,’ I call through my fingers.
Bang. Bang.
‘Don’t leave the other side out.’
He turned the steak and started to beat it once more.
He is heavy like his frying pan, lacking lightness; but it endears him to me. There is weight even in his voice. He takes everything seriously, his work, himself, other people, and in this moment, steak.
‘Life can be cruel can’t it?’
‘It can indeed.’ I look into my soup bowl, hungry as Oliver.
‘The pan is very hot, so there’ll be a mad sizzle off it. Be warned. I’ll cook it eight minutes each side.’
His face is a dagger of concentration as he puts the steak in the pan.
There is silence, bar the steak sizzling, for the next few minutes. Ger stands over the frying pan watching his dinner cook, occasionally flattening it against the pan with a fish slice. I know better than to interrupt his concentration.
‘You wouldn’t like that steak now.’ It’s not a question, but a statement he wants affirmed; I’m feeling generous.
‘No,’ I lie.
‘Women don’t like steak generally.’ He stands back from the pan, admiring the piece of meat.
‘I suppose, I don’t know, do you think?’ I say, whilst sipping my Super Valu soup.
‘Mmm. My ma would eat steak, a little one. I haven’t ever heard of a woman eating steak apart from that.’
The steak is on a plate, sitting on a throne of mashed potatoes. Slivers of onions prostrate before their king like faithful servants.
‘We’d cook steak at home and eat it. But not like that.’
‘Not like that,’ he mimicked, laughing at the disgust in my voice, aroused by the red rawness on his plate.
‘I’d prefer it if it weren’t so rare.’
‘You’d never see a young woman eating it anyway, that’s for sure.’
Not around here anyway, I thought. ‘A lot of my friends don’t eat much of any meat either; it takes too much time to prepare. And if I do cook meat it’s normally chicken.’
‘Chicken’s alright,’ he mumbles magnanimously through a mouthful of steak.
I look at his plate. ‘I’d find that very big. That’s an awful lot of meat.’ There is no hope in my voice; even I’m not that foolish.
‘That’s what I like about it,’ he smiled.
‘I don’t think I eat very healthily. If you are relying on the odd cup of Complan for iron and vitamins you aren’t doing too good. If I do eat meat, it’s a ham sandwich, or sausage, or chicken.’
There was no response to my health concerns. He obviously didn’t care if I died of anaemia.
I changed tack. ‘I don’t even like the smell of meat cooking.’ If I could persuade him, maybe I could persuade myself.
‘You don’t like meat when it’s cooking.’ There was disbelief in his voice.
‘No,’ I replied firmly, ‘ I don’t like the smell of meat cooking.’
‘Do you not? Jesus. I got a great buzz out of cooking that steak.’
‘Did you?’ My voice is drier than my empty bowl.
‘Not knowing exactly how it would turn out, how pink it would be in the middle, going with your own intuition. Having the potatoes cooked at the same time, having everything right,’ He continues to eat in silence for a few moments. ‘Did you not like the smell of that steak, did you not?’
‘I didn’t notice too much.’
‘That’s a powerful steak.’ He shook his head from side to side as he spoke, as if over awed by the import of his words, and what they signified.
‘I’d say you like meat, do you Ger?’
‘I love it.’ Romeo couldn’t have been so ardent and Ger isn’t the most expressive of men; the word ‘love’ isn’t one he’d bandy about.
‘That steak, garlic butter over it, ahh, how could you not want that?’
How indeed? But I didn’t answer.
‘I think it’s a red meat thing. What is it about red meat that is so off-putting?’ He waved a piece of steak, attached to the end of his fork, about in the air as he posed the question.
‘The colour of blood.’
‘Is that it?’ Certainly it isn’t off-putting to him. He shovelled another piece into his mouth and nodded his head, ‘Wow.’ He paused for a few moments, gave his salivary and gastric juices time to work. ‘Well, I assumed that, but I couldn’t think of the reason behind it, it doesn’t make sense, its still flesh whatever colour it is.’
‘But it’s more obviously flesh.’
‘Yea, but surely people can see past that.’
‘But sure, people are always codding themselves.’ I knew I was. I looked at his half empty plate.
‘There is something powerful, primal almost about red meat. Harking back to sacrifices and stuff.’
‘Are you tempted to go after someone with a knife to sacrifice them?’ I laughed hysterically, maybe that’s why he is so careful of his set of knives, I thought. He wasn’t impressed with my detour from the subject; I could tell because he stopped eating. The man had been on a roll. I steered back onto course, or as near to the course as I could find, ‘The fatted calf,’ I threw out.
‘No. Yea. Whatever,’ he muses a moment. ‘Fish generally don’t get sacrificed.’
‘Not really. No.’ We must have come to a cross roads without me noticing.
‘They might have a sacred monkfish, or halibut.’ He laughed. But then, his jokes are funny.
‘Yea, but when Jesus was going in for the old feeding the masses it was fish he used, not a cow. The multiplying of the cow did not happen.’
‘Galilean colony was a fish based one. It was natural; there wouldn’t have been cows for miles around.’
‘Hmm. Mmm.’ what’s a girl to say to that?
‘The divine creatures are red-meated ones.’
‘The golden bull.’ A bad example, but he didn’t notice.
‘Yea, and male too. Is that a female thing as well? Is there…….Is there a psychic almost thread here, that can be traced back between these patriarchal systems. Like many religions of the west being male and the sacred dimension to red meat.’
‘Hmm.’
‘If you go back deep into the subconscious can there be some relationship between very archaic values and symbols and…’
‘Women not liking red meat…’
‘Hmm. And contemporary men having no problem with it.’
‘You relish it anyway, Ger, especially with garlic butter on top, and if only there had been mushrooms it would have been perfect.’
‘Umm.’
His plate was empty. One man-size steak taken care of, and as I watched him licking each of his fingers, leaving each white and shiny like a polished T-bone, I was left in no doubt about his masculinity.
back
Ger is a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day – he only shines intermittently. And as I looked out the window of our shared house in Salthill, I could see the rain clouds gathering.
Ger always struck me as an aged Little Lord Fauntleroy, but on a day when he was feeling peevish. He is precise and neat; one of those people that always look like they are just after showering. Though twenty-three, one gets a sense that he was born into middle age.
We get on well, really we do; but then, there isn’t enough to like about me to arouse dislike. I’m no threat to anyone’s sense of himself or herself. Doing everything right is the wrong way to go about getting people to like you – this normally safeguards me a certain level of popularity. But I can annoy. Especially Ger.
‘I can’t find my mushrooms.’
‘Where are they?' I ask, with the type of intelligence a person uses when asking someone where they are when they are lost.
‘I think I’ve left um up in my room?’
‘Have you taken to hiding stuff in your room now, Ger?’
He tries to ignore my dig, but can’t help furrowing his brow and down turning the side of his mouth. He is fastidious about his stuff and keeps his kitchen utensils apart from those in common usage. Afraid, I think, of what I’d get up to with his kitchen devil knife behind his back.
‘I’ll be back forth with.’
And he was.
‘There’s no mushrooms in your room either?’
‘No,’ is the grumpy response.
‘There are plenty of mushrooms in my press, growing on the bread I bought last week and haven’t yet got round to throwing out.’ He didn’t laugh. Food is a serious matter.
Ger was cooking steak for his dinner, and I drank vegetable soup out of a carton as I watched, from our kitchen table.
‘Must tenderise this meat now. Yes, oh yes.’ He was beginning to get excited. The lost mushrooms were forgotten. The clouds were clearing - for him anyway.
‘Oh no,’ I put my hands over my eyes, waiting for the bang.
Bang. Bang. He slapped the meat against the counter with the base of the frying pan.
‘Like it hasn’t been through enough,’ I call through my fingers.
Bang. Bang.
‘Don’t leave the other side out.’
He turned the steak and started to beat it once more.
He is heavy like his frying pan, lacking lightness; but it endears him to me. There is weight even in his voice. He takes everything seriously, his work, himself, other people, and in this moment, steak.
‘Life can be cruel can’t it?’
‘It can indeed.’ I look into my soup bowl, hungry as Oliver.
‘The pan is very hot, so there’ll be a mad sizzle off it. Be warned. I’ll cook it eight minutes each side.’
His face is a dagger of concentration as he puts the steak in the pan.
There is silence, bar the steak sizzling, for the next few minutes. Ger stands over the frying pan watching his dinner cook, occasionally flattening it against the pan with a fish slice. I know better than to interrupt his concentration.
‘You wouldn’t like that steak now.’ It’s not a question, but a statement he wants affirmed; I’m feeling generous.
‘No,’ I lie.
‘Women don’t like steak generally.’ He stands back from the pan, admiring the piece of meat.
‘I suppose, I don’t know, do you think?’ I say, whilst sipping my Super Valu soup.
‘Mmm. My ma would eat steak, a little one. I haven’t ever heard of a woman eating steak apart from that.’
The steak is on a plate, sitting on a throne of mashed potatoes. Slivers of onions prostrate before their king like faithful servants.
‘We’d cook steak at home and eat it. But not like that.’
‘Not like that,’ he mimicked, laughing at the disgust in my voice, aroused by the red rawness on his plate.
‘I’d prefer it if it weren’t so rare.’
‘You’d never see a young woman eating it anyway, that’s for sure.’
Not around here anyway, I thought. ‘A lot of my friends don’t eat much of any meat either; it takes too much time to prepare. And if I do cook meat it’s normally chicken.’
‘Chicken’s alright,’ he mumbles magnanimously through a mouthful of steak.
I look at his plate. ‘I’d find that very big. That’s an awful lot of meat.’ There is no hope in my voice; even I’m not that foolish.
‘That’s what I like about it,’ he smiled.
‘I don’t think I eat very healthily. If you are relying on the odd cup of Complan for iron and vitamins you aren’t doing too good. If I do eat meat, it’s a ham sandwich, or sausage, or chicken.’
There was no response to my health concerns. He obviously didn’t care if I died of anaemia.
I changed tack. ‘I don’t even like the smell of meat cooking.’ If I could persuade him, maybe I could persuade myself.
‘You don’t like meat when it’s cooking.’ There was disbelief in his voice.
‘No,’ I replied firmly, ‘ I don’t like the smell of meat cooking.’
‘Do you not? Jesus. I got a great buzz out of cooking that steak.’
‘Did you?’ My voice is drier than my empty bowl.
‘Not knowing exactly how it would turn out, how pink it would be in the middle, going with your own intuition. Having the potatoes cooked at the same time, having everything right,’ He continues to eat in silence for a few moments. ‘Did you not like the smell of that steak, did you not?’
‘I didn’t notice too much.’
‘That’s a powerful steak.’ He shook his head from side to side as he spoke, as if over awed by the import of his words, and what they signified.
‘I’d say you like meat, do you Ger?’
‘I love it.’ Romeo couldn’t have been so ardent and Ger isn’t the most expressive of men; the word ‘love’ isn’t one he’d bandy about.
‘That steak, garlic butter over it, ahh, how could you not want that?’
How indeed? But I didn’t answer.
‘I think it’s a red meat thing. What is it about red meat that is so off-putting?’ He waved a piece of steak, attached to the end of his fork, about in the air as he posed the question.
‘The colour of blood.’
‘Is that it?’ Certainly it isn’t off-putting to him. He shovelled another piece into his mouth and nodded his head, ‘Wow.’ He paused for a few moments, gave his salivary and gastric juices time to work. ‘Well, I assumed that, but I couldn’t think of the reason behind it, it doesn’t make sense, its still flesh whatever colour it is.’
‘But it’s more obviously flesh.’
‘Yea, but surely people can see past that.’
‘But sure, people are always codding themselves.’ I knew I was. I looked at his half empty plate.
‘There is something powerful, primal almost about red meat. Harking back to sacrifices and stuff.’
‘Are you tempted to go after someone with a knife to sacrifice them?’ I laughed hysterically, maybe that’s why he is so careful of his set of knives, I thought. He wasn’t impressed with my detour from the subject; I could tell because he stopped eating. The man had been on a roll. I steered back onto course, or as near to the course as I could find, ‘The fatted calf,’ I threw out.
‘No. Yea. Whatever,’ he muses a moment. ‘Fish generally don’t get sacrificed.’
‘Not really. No.’ We must have come to a cross roads without me noticing.
‘They might have a sacred monkfish, or halibut.’ He laughed. But then, his jokes are funny.
‘Yea, but when Jesus was going in for the old feeding the masses it was fish he used, not a cow. The multiplying of the cow did not happen.’
‘Galilean colony was a fish based one. It was natural; there wouldn’t have been cows for miles around.’
‘Hmm. Mmm.’ what’s a girl to say to that?
‘The divine creatures are red-meated ones.’
‘The golden bull.’ A bad example, but he didn’t notice.
‘Yea, and male too. Is that a female thing as well? Is there…….Is there a psychic almost thread here, that can be traced back between these patriarchal systems. Like many religions of the west being male and the sacred dimension to red meat.’
‘Hmm.’
‘If you go back deep into the subconscious can there be some relationship between very archaic values and symbols and…’
‘Women not liking red meat…’
‘Hmm. And contemporary men having no problem with it.’
‘You relish it anyway, Ger, especially with garlic butter on top, and if only there had been mushrooms it would have been perfect.’
‘Umm.’
His plate was empty. One man-size steak taken care of, and as I watched him licking each of his fingers, leaving each white and shiny like a polished T-bone, I was left in no doubt about his masculinity.
back
Come to Light
I woke on a morning of sapphire, junked up
in my dusk-smelling bedclothes, a fire in my head
like a truck stop rodeo. It was another one-night motel.
I was still wearing jeans. Empty bottles of bourbon
collected glitter near the curtain’s chink.
I could hear motorway traffic, but not too much,
more switched down low, close to mute.
The television flickered - a big wave coming,
drowning the green coast of Africa.
I lay in a shape as though I’d been searching
for a crawl space beneath the covers,
or had tangled my legs round the torso
of an imaginary lover. My left hand was
still curled, sensitive to a glass that
no longer existed. I tasted whiskey
on my breath, in the pores of my skin.
I was what was left after fire and smoke,
hunger and passion. I was able to move my tongue,
inquisitive, so that it touched my palate
like the beginning of a curse. I was able
to look at dark things, the heavy,
seventies furniture alive with glints,
and I was content, like someone shipwrecked,
to remain on my island, undiscovered,
for as long as the morning took.
Nursing a Star
I wanted it to be mine.
They said it was just a piece
of broken rock.
I said a meteorite.
My dad threw it up
and let it fall, a dead weight,
but I knew it merely slept.
At night I felt the echo of its radiance
from the shelf. Inside, I knew,
an ember lived and glowed
like a prehistoric egg.
To me it had been born of the sky,
was bred out of star dust.
To me it had held court to the moon,
had worn a dress of luxuriant light,
had danced each night in the ballroom above.
Held up, examined
in naked daylight it looked as dry as granite,
but I knew it was biding time on our planet -
that it could last millennia
until the time of bursting suns.
I tried to feed it stories – reports from earth.
I set it on a shelf to breath our climate.
But it sat silent, a prophet to nothing,
and when I nursed it back to a polish
it sat dumb in my hand,
bursting to shine like a lamp,
or looked ready to explode,
just like the spark
that hatched the dawn of time.
David Mohan
The Samurai Lovers
We are blooded on the mountain,
made brothers in the monastery.
Met in a tea-room I used to haunt,
kabuki-lashed, my fan put aside,
a player known more for dancing,
the geisha whiteness of my skin,
you chose me, at just fifteen,
shogun of Ashikaga.
I am apprentice, monk-Buddhist,
sworn to the beautiful way.
Rising at four I drink cold water.
Given by blood, I put off perfume.
In a forest house, the hidden room,
Undressing your armour, slat
by black slat, your silk beard
broken by satin lips.
A reed burns near,
a cricket chirrs in its basket.
The moon lights a pool
in the dark green shade.
A war, you whisper, very soon.
For me, a life of practising
with novice sticks in a yard -
for you, the latest campaign.
But I would rather ghost
your thoughts without that sacrifice.
To wear instead a child’s sword
wrapped in rich brocade.
To be like a pair of cats
that live in the forest,
who have never heard of
the Emperor’s rage.
David Mohan
made brothers in the monastery.
Met in a tea-room I used to haunt,
kabuki-lashed, my fan put aside,
a player known more for dancing,
the geisha whiteness of my skin,
you chose me, at just fifteen,
shogun of Ashikaga.
I am apprentice, monk-Buddhist,
sworn to the beautiful way.
Rising at four I drink cold water.
Given by blood, I put off perfume.
In a forest house, the hidden room,
Undressing your armour, slat
by black slat, your silk beard
broken by satin lips.
A reed burns near,
a cricket chirrs in its basket.
The moon lights a pool
in the dark green shade.
A war, you whisper, very soon.
For me, a life of practising
with novice sticks in a yard -
for you, the latest campaign.
But I would rather ghost
your thoughts without that sacrifice.
To wear instead a child’s sword
wrapped in rich brocade.
To be like a pair of cats
that live in the forest,
who have never heard of
the Emperor’s rage.
David Mohan
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Over The Edge to receive Arts Council funding for 2010
We are delighted to announce that Over The Edge was informed in a letter from the Arts Council this morning that we will continue to receive Arts Council funding for our events during 2010.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Creative Writing at Galway Technical Institute in the New Year- BEGINNERS & INTERMEDIATE
Creative Writing for Beginners with Kevin Higgins takes place one evening per week (Monday) from 7-9.30pm. (8 weeks) It commences on Monday, 18th January, 2010. Advance booking is essential. Places cost €120. Kevin Higgins will provide writing exercises for, and give gentle critical feedback to, those interested in trying their hand at writing poems, stories or memoir.
Intermediate Creative Writing with Susan Millar DuMars takes place one evening per week (Tuesday) from 7-9.30pm. (8 weeks) It commences on Tuesday, 19th January, 2010. Advance booking is essential. Places cost €120. This class is suitable for those who’ve participated in creative writing classes before or begun to have work published in magazines. Flexible exercises and work-shopping of assignments, together with the study of the works of published writers, will help each class member to find their own writing voice.
To book a place in either class contact GTI, Father Griffin Road, Galway Telephone 091-581342, e-mail adultedinfo@cgvec.ie or see http://www.gti.ie/
New Year Poetry Workshops with Kevin Higgins at Galway Arts Centre-BEGINNERS & ADVANCED
In the New Year Galway Arts Centre is offering aspiring poets a choice of two poetry workshops, both facilitated by poet Kevin Higgins, whose best-selling first collection, The Boy With No Face, published by Salmon Poetry, was short-listed for the 2006 Strong Award for Best First Collection by an Irish poet. Kevin’s second collection of poems, Time Gentlemen, Please, was published in 2008 by Salmon Poetry and his poetry is discussed in the Cambridge Introduction to Modern Irish Poetry. His third collection Frightening New Furniture will be published next Spring by Salmon when his work will also appear in the generation defining anthology Identity Parade –New British and Irish Poets (Ed Roddy Lumsden, Bloodaxe, 2010).
Kevin is an experienced workshop facilitator and several of his students have gone on to achieve publication success. One of his workshop participants at Galway Arts Centre won the prestigious Hennessy Award for New Irish Poetry, while several have published collections of their poems.
Each workshop will run for ten weeks, commencing the week of January 18th. They will take place on Tuesday evenings, 7-8.30pm (first class January 19th); and on Thursday afternoons, 2-4pm (first class January 21st).
The Tuesday evening workshop is open to both complete beginners as well as those who’ve been writing for some time. The Thursday afternoon workshop is an Advanced Poetry Workshop, suitable for those who’ve participated in poetry workshops before or had poems published in magazines. The cost to participants is €110, with an €100 concession rate.
Places must be paid for in advance. To reserve a place contact Victoria at reception at Galway Arts Centre, 47 Dominick Street, phone 091 565886 or email victoria@galwayartscentre.ie
Daytime Creative Writing with Susan Millar DuMars at Galway Arts Centre in the New Year
The class is suitable for both beginning and continuing creative writing students, working in either poetry or fiction. Students will spend their week responding to writing exercises designed to inspire, rather than inhibit. In class, they will receive gentle feedback on their work from their classmates and from the teacher. The class runs for ten weeks and takes place on Monday afternoons, 2-3.30pm, commencing on Monday January 18th.
The cost to participants is 110 Euro with a 100 Euro concession price. Booking is essential as places are limited. For booking please contact Galway Arts Centre, 47 Dominick Street. Phone 091 565886 or email victoria@galwayartscentre.ie
Friday, December 18, 2009
Irish Times review of 'Favela' by Alex Hijmans
Alex Hijman
This Saturday's Irish Times gave an excellent review to Alex Hijman's book Favela which is published by Cois Life. http://coislife.ie/Authors/CLauthors/alexh2.htm
Alex now lives in Brazil but for many years lived in Galway where, among other things, he was proprietor of the Bananaphoblacht café on Dominick Street. Alex was a Featured Reader for us at one of our early Open Readings in Galway City Library in Spring 2004.
You can read the review in full here. http://www.irishtimes.com/newspaper/weekend/2010/0109/1224261948224.html
You can read the review in full here. http://www.irishtimes.com/newspaper/weekend/2010/0109/1224261948224.html
John Corless facilitates Creative Writing Night Class at GMIT-Castlebar
John Corless
A new course of night classes in Creative Writing will commence in GMIT Castlebar in the new year. The course runs on Tuesday nights for twelve weeks commencing Tuesday January 26th, and each class lasts two hours. The classes will suit beginners and improvers.
Many satisfied students have taken this course over the past couple of years. Some have gone on to win prizes and had their work published.
The facilitator, John Corless, is a vastly experienced tutor. He has an MA in Creative Writing and is currently researching a PhD. He has performed his work all over the country including at the Electric Picnic, Force 12 and The Munster Literary Festival. He writes poetry, drama and fiction. He work has been published in Ireland, the UK, Norway, Japan, Canada and the USA. He has won many prizes for his writing.
John’s debut collection, Are you ready? (Salmon Poetry) was published this summer and the first print run sold out rapidly. Already one of the biggest selling poetry titles of the year, the collection looks to be one of the biggest selling poetry books for many years.
His poetry is a mix of political and satirical; one critic described it as Paul Durcan meets The Sawdoctors. Another said: "... he shines the tell tale torchlight of his killer wit into all the most embarrassing areas of contemporary Irish life. No-one is safe..." The Western People said: “…side-splitting humour and tongue-in-cheek commentary are synonymous with John’s poetry…"
Anyone interested in taking the Creative Writing night classes should book immediately to avoid disappointment as places are limited. Bookings are made directly with the college only, at their Lifelong Learning Dept., Westport Road, Castlebar. You can telephone GMIT on 094 9025700. The college will host an open evening at the Castlebar campus on Wednesday 13th. January from 7-9pm to finalize bookings. This is an opportunity to meet the tutor who will answer any questions you may have and to enrol for the course.
If you want any further details on the course, or if you can't wait to for the enrolment night, you can telephone John on: 087 98 43 900.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Galway University Hospitals Arts Trust 2010 Calendar
Galway University Hospitals Arts Trust is selling a calendar for 2010 by the patients of Unit 5 and 6 in Merlin Park University Hospital. The purchase of this calendar directly supports the arts programme in the geriatric units of Galway University Hospitals. The images selected for the calendar are representative of hundreds of artworks produced by the patients each year. The artists who work with the patients have brought tremendous creativity, skill, flexibility and commitment to their work with patients. They run an extensive arts programme with long stay patients including creative writing, music and theatre as well as visual art.
The calendar is on sale in University Hospital, Galway and Merlin Park University Hospital shops for 10 euro from Thursday December 17th or alternatively it is available from the Arts Office.
For further details contact
Margaret Flannery
Arts Officer
Galway University Hospitals Arts Trust
Galway University Hospitals
University Hospital
Newcastle Road
Galway
Tel: +353 (0)91 544979
Email: Margaret.Flannery@hse.ie
Sunday, December 06, 2009
She who has the youth has the future- Wordlegs seeks submissions
Elizabeth Reapy who will be a Featured Reader at the February 2010 Over The Edge: Open Reading has started an online magazine - wordlegs - for young Irish and Norhern Irish writers and young international writers living here and is looking for submissions. The first issue will be out in the new year.
1.2 million millenials on the island. No literature by us for us. Until now. wordlegs is seeking submissions.
Submission guidelines:
1. Writers should be from or living in the Republic of Ireland or Northern Ireland. Work must be from writers 30 years or under on January 1st 2010
2.All manuscripts must be previously unpublished and sent via email to ereapy@hotmail.com
3. Work should be submitted as an attached document and also within the body of the email.
4. There is a strict submission limit of 300 words in flash fiction or 2500 words in short stories.
5. Attach an up-to-date picture and biographical note with a cover letter in the email and as an attachment.
6. This magazine emphasizes its relevance and youth whilst maintaining the literary tradition of Irish writers, please keep your submissions in line with this. http://www.wordlegs.com/
1.2 million millenials on the island. No literature by us for us. Until now. wordlegs is seeking submissions.
Submission guidelines:
1. Writers should be from or living in the Republic of Ireland or Northern Ireland. Work must be from writers 30 years or under on January 1st 2010
2.All manuscripts must be previously unpublished and sent via email to ereapy@hotmail.com
3. Work should be submitted as an attached document and also within the body of the email.
4. There is a strict submission limit of 300 words in flash fiction or 2500 words in short stories.
5. Attach an up-to-date picture and biographical note with a cover letter in the email and as an attachment.
6. This magazine emphasizes its relevance and youth whilst maintaining the literary tradition of Irish writers, please keep your submissions in line with this. http://www.wordlegs.com/
Geraldine Mills, Liam Duffy & Gerry Galvin for final Over The Edge: Open Reading of 2009
Geraldine Mills
The December Over The Edge: Open Reading takes place in Galway City Library, St. Augustine Street, Galway on Thursday, December 17th, 6.30-8pm. The Featured Readers are Gerry Galvin, Liam Duffy & Geraldine Mills.
Liam Duffy is from Galway but is currently attending university in Finland. His poems have appeared in The Shop, Revival and many more. He was also editor of NUI Galway's writers’ society magazine The Sharp Review. Earlier this year, Liam was chosen to take part in a series of summer readings organised in Dublin by The Stinging Fly literary magazine. He recently completed the Advanced Poetry Workshop at Galway Arts Centre and his work features in the group’s highly successful publication Lady Gregory’s Townhouse.
Geraldine Mills was the Millenium winner of the Hennessy / Sunday Tribune New Irish Writer of the year. A native of Galway, Geraldine began her writing career in Dublin where she lived for twenty years before returning with her family to settle in Rosscahill Co. Galway in 1995. Bradshaw Books published two collections of her poetry, Unearthing your Own (2001) and Toil the Dark Harvest (2004). Her first short story collection, The Lick of the Lizard, was published by Arlen House in 2005 and her second, The Weight of Feathers, in 2007. Her third collection of poetry, An Urgency of Stars, is just published by Arlen House.
There will be an open-mic when the Featured Readers have finished. This is open to anyone who has a poem or story to share. New readers are always especially welcome. The MC for the evening will be Susan Millar DuMars. For further details phone 087-6431748.
Over The Edge acknowledges the ongoing generous financial support of Galway City Council and The Arts Council
North Beach Poetry Nights 2009 Grand Slam
North Beach Poetry Nights 2009 Grand Slam, in The Crane Bar, Sea Road, Galway on Monday 14th December at 9pm. with Guest Poet: Raven (Dublin/San Francisco) and Guest Troubadour: The Reverend Reynold with his irreverent songs.
Raven hails from San Francisco. A mesmeric live poet at the very top of his game who has shared the stage with the very best, including American poet Saul Williams, the world's premier live literature and spoken word artist. Raven is a native Californian and perfected his skill at the seminal Sacred Grounds Poetry, San Francisco immediately prior to relocating to Dublin in May 2005. In Ireland he has been published in the Census and Ranelagh Arts Festival anthologies. He has been a repeat performer on Leviathan's spoken word stage at the Electric Picnic, and he currently hosts and performs at Rá, a monthly spoken word showcase in Dublin.
15 Poets take part in the 2009 Grand Slam for the Grand Slam Prize of publication of a Chapbook collection of the winner's poems.
Door: 5 / 3 Euro
info: John Walsh @091-593290
North Beach Poetry Nights gratefully acknowledges the generous support of Galway City Council and the Arts Council.
'Jo Bangles' - Mary McEvoy stars in new play by Dave Lordan
Mary McEvoy stars as Jo Bangles an abandoned woman in middle-age who decorates herself from head to toe with cheap jewels - the only kind she can afford. Taunted by the local kids every time she passes, shunned and mocked by her neighbours and the authorities from whom she seeks assistance, she now has to deal with a teenage daughter who, due to some undiscovered trauma has lost the ability to speak. But Jo Bangles is irrepressible. One morning before sunrise she decides to set forth on a journey that will change her life, and that of her daughter, forever. Join her on her quest for fulfillment and love. This new play by David Lordan is directed by Caroline FitzGerald. For more see http://www.milltheatre.com/shows/jo-bangles
Eamonn Bonner a winner in DART 25 poetry competition
Eamonn Bonner is from the fishing village of Burtonport in West Donegal. He works in retail in Galway City centre. He started writing stories and poems for his own children but as they grew older Eamonn drifted away from writing until he attended the poetry workshops facilitated by Kevin Higgins at Galway Arts Centre. He now writes poetry and fiction for both adults and children. Eamonn also recently won a prize for his poetry at the McGill literary Festival and was a Featured Reader at the May 2009 Over The Edge: Open Reading.
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