January -- Burn's Night an a' that!

Oh indeed, I have my haggis at the ready. I have my neeps and tatties and my whiskey cake or shortbread and raspberries (yet to be decided). I have a couple, well a few, okay I have a lot of fine malts tae sample including a very nice Speyside sent at Christmas by Jim and Kathleen, Glen Morangie a Crabbies and Bushmills 10 yr Malt. 

Burns was my mother's favourite poet and she had a bust of him in the china cabinet. The lowland Scots dialect wasnae a great stretch in Ballymena! We were really more Scots than Irish -- Dalriadans, as I always like to say. We were the folk of the Stone of Scone, the people of the olden kingdoms of the north when the seas were connections, not barriers to trade. When the sea was the easy way to travel.

So I regard Burn's Night as my tradition too, though I never had haggis as a child but this was because my mother could not stand even the smell of lamb! She'd have frowned a bit on the whiskey too even if we could have afforded whiskey. But I love lamb and I like a wee dram and almost despite her encouragement, I still write poems. So I'll address the haggis and enjoy the tasting and here's the story: 

Quare advise tae a buddin' poet

Betimes as a wean I’d help Mammy tae dust.
The Bust, eight inches high aye sat in the corner o' the cabinet
but I wasn’t allowed tae touch it.

He was that young an’ fair and looked tae be made o' honeycomb
so I asked, Mammy, Is that yella man?
Naw yella man’s fer eaten.

Thon’s Rabbie Burns, mammy explained, the greatest Scottish poet ever lived.
My luv is like a red, red rose, A Man’s a man fer a’ that, Ye Banks and Braes,
To a mouse and Auld Lang Syne’s a wheen o’ what he wrote.

We’d learned Ye Banks and Braes in school. I was impressed.
I want to be a poet, I confessed, when I grow up.
Aye, yer arse in parsley! she aimed a bussock at my behind,

You’ll ha'tae up yer ideas a bit, she said.
Poetry’s not a payin’ job and anyway, Mammy lot a hoogh gie fit tae burst,
remember that ye ha'tae grow up first!

First Published in A New Ulster Apr 2018

This was published at the same time and seems more relevant than ever in these day when Ulster's status is in great doubt. 

Belonging

I have the voice of no country. I don’t
know that my native land was ever real;
a place of fractures, born of volcanoes,
rifts in its rocks that never truly heal.
Even the old kingdom was united
more by a turbulence of sea than land.
But the blood, the blood was real between us,
these days depicted (Pict) by the red hand.
We were the Dal Riata. We were Scots.
Feth aye, we were! Fought over and fought back,
triumphed in defeat because Iona
was our own and the Stone of Destiny
belonged to us and spread our culture far.
And yes, that blood was thick and bloody real
between us, Aethelfrith, and the Ui Neills.
Yet we were not planted as in new soil,
but flowed here on the tides of history,
left and returned through many centuries.
Who will inflict a future on us next?
In global politics we have no friends.
But though I have no country and no voice,
I'll remain Dalriadan to the end.

January -- The Ides of

I've been feeling a bit trapped this past week. The cold and icy conditions have meant that I haven't been out for a walk. There's no point in risking a fall when hospitals are so overstretched. Right? 

And we seem to have a mouse! We can hear it periodically scratching about in the roof space which is all insulation. It can't get into the rooms from there as far as we know; at least it hasn't made an appearance thus far. We think it's made a little run for itself in and out. It may be a little uncomfortable up there because we have those electrical current deterents that make a nasty noise through all the wiring. We have traps at the ready just in case and are seeking some professional advice. I can't say I blame mousey with it being so cold. It wants in and I want out. Today we had a visit from the mouse man and he has confirmed a run in the attic. He found some nibbled paper up there. He was a lovely man! He asked how we were and we said fine -- no symptoms and he said 'I mean mentally. How are you coping?'    I felt like saying we were as mad as ever. But hey HOW NICE! He'll be back in two weeks to make sure they're gone and we're alright. That will be the 1st February 😁

In the garden there's little activity. A sudden Flight of Starlings rushed across the other day. I think the sparrow hawk had taken one of them. I could hear squeakings and alarm calls for about 5 minutes after the cerfuffle. This is the way of nature. We all survive as we can.

But the Sun is rising in the sky (or rather we are tilting ever more towards it in our yearly journey) and today for the first time it gave us some warmth through the kitchen door. It also showed up that the glass is very dirty. 

Apart from some political limericks I haven't been writing much. I can't get my head into that space. But I'm not a professional writer and so I don't worry much. If it comes it comes, if it doesn't I'll have to clean the windows of that sliding door instead.

January.

Getting lighter.

Buds appearing.

Birdsong brighter

penetrates my lock-down room

silences the motes of gloom

allowing me in my mind’s eye

to scud across the winter sky

momentarily escaping.

January 2021 -- I hate January and let me tell you why -- Featuring work by Donall Dempsey

Christmas is over. It's not that I like Christmas so very much -- no that's not it. New Year has never been my thing. It's just one day to the next when all's said and done. In fact every day is just one day to the next. But some days you never forget. Some days life doesn't go on! 

The 11th January 1960 was one of those days. I was 5. I'd just started school in September and that was a big deal for me. I didn't like it!! There were other kids there. Scarey kids. You had to interact. You had to compete. You had to learn all sorts of difficult things. It was the beginning of being in the bigger world and I didn't much like the bigger world!

It was a Monday like it is this year and a Monday like no other because that was the day my father died. He was 48.

Jack Kyle

I have written lots and lots about it before and if you would like to read some of what I've written I refer you to this POST 

But the truth is I've never maybe written so viscerally and truthfully as this in piece by fellow Irish poet Donall Dempsey who is a FaceBook friend and has kindly allowed me to share this. This is what it felt like. It's how it still feels. There are days I'm still 5 inside and 

NO I don't like being in the world -- Not in January -- I don't -- not today.

 BEING IN THE WORLD

"I'm scared...!" she sobs

"Of what love?" I cuddle her

"Of being in the world!"

****

This was when she was only a tiny little thing in the world of long ago but her words ring truer now in this rogue world of ours.

Her granny had just died and this all too too solid world of forever didn't seem as forever as it had before. She no longer trusted it if a granny could vanish...would she vanish too?

She cried and "wanted to go where ever Granny had goed!"

She was looking at a globe and asked me if she were in the world. And is Granny not in the world any more? And when Granny finishes being dead then will she come back? And what good is the world if Granny isn't in it. She sat on my lap and listened to auld Jemmy the Joist reading from Finnegans Wake with his own voice. I asked her what did she think the man was saying and she asked "Did he lose his granny too?"

                                                                    by Donall Dempsey

A bunch of not quite Christmas Thoughts 2020 - 2021 -- New Year's Eve

 

The Ghost of an Idea

“This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased.”

Dickens

“Sovereignty” Boris’s beloved buzz-word, is never for the people. Sovereignty, by definition, makes people subject to their so-called betters.

In terms of Brexit, it was always about the ability of the rich to exploit workers without having European laws hold them back and crucially whilst squirrelling away money in off-shore tax havens, which Europe was going to make them declare.

With Brexit, deal or no deal, British people have lost all the recourse to European Law and the protections it offered us in terms of education, fairness in the workplace, the safety net of social services, equitable medical care, housing, pensions, insurance, travel and much more. For ordinary people this is a disaster.

Everywhere we see disparity. In every way our society is becoming more and more divided. The ruling class thrives on division. One only has to look at the privileged in Eton. Whilst other schools struggle for funding from local businesses, which are now often in difficulty themselves, Eton offers a head start and a clear run to those wealthy enough to pay for privilege. The under-qualified are promoted to the top whilst the intelligent poor are kept in their place by underfunding. The last thing privilege wants is an educated electorate.

But the dead and displaced of Grenfell Tower cry out for justice. The Windrush generation cry out for justice. The elderly and disabled have had benefits stripped away. Many have died because of it. You may applaud Key Workers but still Nurses pay does not reflect the value this lying government said it put of their work. We have lengthening food bank queues. Unicef is having to feed British children whilst politicians eat and drink on expenses and at discount. All about us we see the contempt with which the Tories hold the working people of Britain.

The North South divide is widening and united kingdom seems now a loose term of ridicule. Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland – everyone has been abused by Westminster and even in other parts of England there is discontent. Now young people will no longer be able to afford to spend time abroad expanding their horizons – well unless they have a rich daddy. The Brexit lie duped half the people into voting against their own interests. Buzz-words like ‘Sovereignty’ and ‘Empire’ sound fine indeed but they have at their dark heart the spectres of power and avarice. Fine words are the weapons of subjugation.

Everything that divides us in these times of pandemic and global upheaval, when co-operation is more vital than ever for the good of the humanity, is utterly reprehensible and at this very time in history we have the most divisive government imaginable in charge.

Brexit will surely bring ignorance and want. Now the upper classes really do have the upper hand once more and all I can say is

God help us every one!

A bunch of not quite Christmas Thoughts 2020 - 2021

I really did wake up with all this in my head! On Christmas Day!! Had Santa put it there or am I really MAD as a pantomime frog? 

I kept thinking though -- it's all really convenient, isn't it? Or is that just me? France suddenly decides to throw a wee fit because of Covid variant? Lorries stranded? Threats of no veg? Perhaps medicine shortages? Fisheries a HUGE stumbling block? Really? REALLY? Then suddenly and at the 11th hour Boris comes home, waving his arms about, grinning -- and BEHOLD the deal is done: just on time for a champagne and turkey Dinner with his little son AW!

What have we been sold this time? A turkey? Red herrings? 

The message at least is clear! You can put all this behind you now. Boris is Best for Britain! Aye, and he will be king thereof.

Sing-Along-Brexmas

Hark you Angels never fear.

Upstaged Jesus twice this year.

Easter Day rose from the dead

Christmas Eve put Brexit to bed.

Always something up his sleeve...

Big Ben Chimes on New Year’s Eve?

What will Boris think up next

under some other neat pretext?

Hark you media ever sing:

Boris really should be King!

***

Ding-dong merrily on the sly

the deal’s done. It’s a good’un.

Ding-dong never asking why

cos this will save the union.

Cool as ever it’s a great endeavour and we’ll doubt him never may he live forever our great Brexit Giver and on Christmas Day!

A veritable snowman.

All historians will tell the story and it’s death or glory and we’ll all vote Tory and there’s great euphoria ‘nd on Christmas Day!

Oh Boris the great showman.

***

Look at the cuts!

Throw us a line.

Things will be absolutely FINE!

Says he we’re in this all together

and all together his all together

is all together preposterous.

Oh he’s quite the drama queen!

Says he we’re in this all together

let’s be together and stay together

but all together we feel we’ve all

been sold some red herrings.

***

Should old divisions be forgot

make it look like nothing’s changed

Should auld acquaintance be renewed

in case Scotland is estranged.

Oh let’s pretend we’re friends again

oh please oh please oh pleeeeeeeze

It really was a jolly game

a jest, a romp, a wheeeeeze.

But now it’s all okay again

the deal signed and Brexit done.

All reunited just in time

for 2021!

A bunch of Christmas Thoughts 2020 Dec 24th -- Happy Christmas

There's only one Father Christmas.

P I T  S T O P

Eve’s Bar wasn’t in the middle of nowhere, it was somewhere close to the edge. Only two vehicles were parked this late on Christmas Eve and their owners were the only customers. One was elderly and obese. The other, a swarthy middle aged man with white stubble, spoke.

‘Nice suit.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Looks like we’re in the same game… Stopped for a break?’

‘A quick breather, yes.’

The conversation fizzled out and he tried again ‘Come far?’

‘You could say… You?’

‘Been to Alpha Geldera and back.’

‘Really? What for?’

‘Deliveries, you know…’

‘That far, eh?’

‘Oh, it’s a regular trip. Ever been there?’

‘Alpha… Geldera?’

‘Yes.’

‘No.’

‘Oh. You want to get in on that. It’s like bloody Christmas all year round.’

‘You don’t say?’

‘Oh, yeah! The Gelderans are great folk. One long party! Plenty of everything, you know?’

He winked but the older man just nibbled a mince pie.

‘Nice looking rig you got there.’

‘It’s vintage but I’m fond of it.’

‘I like… the livery.’

‘Thank you. Your’s is the silver?’

‘Yes, that’s my beauty.’

‘It’s very… shiny.’

‘Brand spankin’ new, mate. Cost me eighty thousand Geldera Spondools and a case or two of Protilieal Sherbognac.’

‘That’s… a lot.’

‘Well you get what you pay for. It goes nine tenths light speed. That’s how come I’m at the top of my tree.’

‘I see. Nice view from there, is there?’

‘Hohoho! Good one, mate! Nice view I like that. Name’s Kris, by the way.’ The two shook hands amicably. ‘Say old timer, can I get you a drink?’

‘A small dry sherry perhaps.’

‘Whatever you say… Barman?’

The old man thought a drink worth an ounce of civility. ‘What’s she run on then, your silver machine?’

‘Plasma fusion reaction with solar sail backup and organics composite converter cells. Yours?’

‘Reindeer.’

‘Reindeer?’

‘It’s traditional.’

‘Not very efficient though, surely. No wonder you don’t do the Galdera run. I didn’t think anybody used reindeer any more.’

‘I do.’

‘Why?’

‘’Cos they’re the real thing - like me.’

‘Where are they now, these reindeer?’

‘I always set them loose grazing while I snack. Rudy will come when I whistle.’

‘Mmmm…Well, it was real nice talking to you but it’s time I was on my way, Santa…?’

‘Claus. Mind how you go, son.’

Outside the forecourt was empty but for one shiny silver, streamlined vehicle, a sleek, bright sleigh and a uniformed figure busy trying to find registration marks on either.

‘Say, you in the uniform, you a law enforcer?’

‘I am.’

‘Better get yourself in there… That old guy thinks he’s really Santa Claus!’

Kris got into his silver bullet and sped off into the night sky and just afterwards the old man left the Bar.

‘I say, officer did you see that man who just left?’

‘Don’t say he took off with your wallet?’

‘No, but I am a bit worried. He seemed to think he was capable of space travel.’

The old gent gave a low whistle. In the twinkling of an eye a team of reindeer appeared from nowhere and the whole shebang disappeared way faster than light speed, sending a magical trail of sparks cascading to the ground.

Published in Short Humour  Follow that link for more stories.

Happy Christmas and God Bless us Every one.

A bunch of Christmas Thoughts 2020 Dec 23rd -- Colder Pencils

The thought behind this story really began way back when I was little and trying to colour in  a snowy picture. We had some of those colouring pencils that changed colour in the middle. You sharpened both ends. There was a very light blue and a very light mauve, pale pink and even white -- because we used to sometimes draw on grey paper. I don't know whether I ever said it, but I remember having the thought that for a Winter scene I needed colder pencils. I was too young to know about highlighting and I'm not a very good artist anyway. As my mother used to point out -- a bad workman always blames his tools. But there you go -- I just needed to put down the pencils and use Words.

T h e  F r o s t  L a d y

Celia stood with the key in her hand, beaming in front of, literally, her dream home. “Ian, it’s exact!” She crouched down. “Emma, do you like our new house?” But she could tell by the look of excitement on her daughter’s face that it was time to use that key.

As a child, Celia had done a dozen pictures of her dream house but never got it quite perfect. She’d kept them all. Maybe she'd get them framed now. Always mixed woodland to the left, tall conifers marching down to meet it, to the right a five bar gate and dry stone wall, the countryside falling away towards a sleepy river valley. She’d shown Ian the sketches – shared the dream but how he’d found this place, a sheer fluke, a wrong turning that led him miles out of his way. The cottage itself with its leaded windowpanes, roof criss-crossed with grey slate, white-washed stonework and fir-green door looked so much like her drawings, it was unnerving, but not quite the same, not quite. Of course it was still autumn and all of her pictures were snowy.

By winter they’d settled in. Emma liked drawing too. She used to draw Mummy, Daddy and Emma. Then she’d started putting a bump where David was – Celia was sure it was a boy this time. Recently Emma had become obsessed with drawing the house. But Celia could understand that.

“I need colder pencils, Mummy,” she said one day.

“Colder pencils?”

“Yes. The Frost Lady said.”

“Well, if the Frost Lady says so…” Celia played along.

All shades of blue, lavender, mauve, cream, grey were deployed, sparkle was added, Emma was never quite satisfied with the result. “I want to draw it like the Frost Lady,” she said.

“Who's this Frost Lady?” asked Ian.

“Every child has an imaginary friend–or a dream house. She’ll grow out of it.”

Christmas Eve the first snow was lying thick. Emma had been so excited about Santa coming but in the morning she was not in her bed. She wasn’t in the house or garden. There was no sign of her – no footprints in the vicinity, no tire tracks, nothing. Celia felt cold grip her heart. Rescuers joined the search. Day after day it continued and so did the cold spell.

Celia was due and she wanted Ian to stay with her. Why had she gone out? Where? “I know she’s out there, Ian kept saying,” as if the affirmation could work a miracle. He kept going into her room to check – looking out the window. That was what he was doing when he saw the finger draw, in frost, a perfect picture of the cottage. Suddenly Emma was outside. He'd seen her through the window, as if she was part of the picture, holding the hand of a tall woman dressed in white.

“Please, Ian.”

“I swear, Celia! Would I make up a thing like that?”

“Nobody’s saying you made it up, Ian. We’re both under a lot of strain. Maybe you saw what you wanted to see.”

“I know what I bloody saw, Cecelia!”

He stormed out to search the woods one more time. He didn't return.

Celia had no idea how long she’d been lying there. There was an icy pain inside of her, cold where the baby’s warmth should be. She’d tried to call for help but there was no signal and the lines were down too. The snow lay ever thicker outside. The fire had long extinguished. The place was freezing.

Night turned to day. In the thin dawn light, she thought she saw – no, she was sure of it, her picture of the house – or Emma’s picture of it, as if through a misted mirror -- a reflection of the house. That was it! That was why it had never been quite right. It was a reflection of the house, etched in frost. And now she saw there were three figures in the picture. One was Ian. The second was Emma. And the third – it must surely be the Frost Lady. Celia saw she was holding something -- a baby.

“No!” Celia screamed. She gathered all her strength and as she ran straight through the window, an icicle pierced her heart.

Copyright: © 2009 Oonah V Joslin: Published in MicroHorror