From Bath to Cork with Baby Grace

Writing an epic poem is epic work - the result may be epic too - or disastrous.  I remember spending huge chunks of time in November 2009 - writing this poem in a Moleskine Notebook - as I travelled round Ireland [& UK too].

Recording an audio version of an epic poem is another epic job.  I’ve been doing my best.  Now it’s reached the 8th stage, canto 8  [I wonder where Dante was at this stage of his epic Inferno?]

You might like to listen to this version  [I’m gradually reading it into iPhone & sharing it via AudioBoo.]

Canto 1

Canto 2

Canto 3

Canto 4 part 1 & Canto 4 part 2

Canto 5

Canto 6

Canto 7

Canto 8 

What I’d love you to do is listen to some, and write (or audio) a review which let’s me know how you found it. 

Would it be useful to gather my recent audio broadcasts together in one place on this blog?  Would that be handy & attractive for others - especially those who don’t use AudioBoo themselves?

Let’s see…

Here are sounds of my last couple of weeks: [after each I’ve put the number of times each has been listened to - so far]

 I went to London

(1) My son Benjamin O’Mahony played Ibsen at Arcola Theatre Hackney, London by Mahdi Yahya [67]

(2) I felt encouraged by others  [35]

(3) I reviewed "The Emperor Self" and wished I’d seen it twice [158]

(4) I walked towards AudioBoo HQ [26]

(5) I interviewed Mark Rock, CEO  - and met team AudioBoo on Tower Bridge Road, London [125]

(6) I wrote a poem "AudioBoo" after the style of Rudyard Kipling’s Mandalay  [15]

I returned to work in Cork  

(7) I worked for a start-up "On-Line Senior Citizen" [25]

(8) I read my own Epic Poem: Irish Epic Poem in 33 Cantos - canto 7  [11]

(9) I listened to views of others who’ve given up Twitter  [708]

(10) I walked in the city of Cork on a Saturday morning, hear music  [24]

(11) I read Grace a bedtime story : Pinocchio (but audio ran out) [12]

(12) I vowed to take up golf again - after the Ryder Cup team was selected by a Scot [21]

(13) I celebrated Grace’s 5th birthday  [24]

(14) I started the school run from Glanmire thru the Jack Lynch tunnel  [22]

(15) I complained about traffic congestion in Douglas Cork - while I added to it [21]

(16) I experienced chaos on first school day - relived my childhood [27]

(17) I read out a blogpost letter to Grace : her birthday & first day at "big" school  [19]

(18) I worked for another start-up : In Hand Guides & discovered Innovation Vouchers  [25]

(19) I got my car repaired by AutoMotif in Cork, a team led by Paul Allen [35]

(20 I interviewed a policeman, Garda, about cancer - what Boston cops do with Cork Gardai [32]

AudioBoo is one of the greatest inventions of all time.

There’s no point in being half-passionate, half a fan - half a lover.

Of course this judgement is unbalanced, one-sided, partisan, obsessive, crazy.  Eh?  Well, before you take that view, I suggest you try it for yourself.  You may well hate audio - may even detest the sound of your own voice - might ever experience embarrassment.  

But you may be surprised at the versatility & diversity of AudioBoo.  It seems to me to be a tool you can use for many purposes. Those who dislike their own voice can record others - can become excellent sharers of fine content.  AudioBoo is not all me, me, me.  It can be used to honour others.

My latest use of AudioBoo include:

(1) Me reading from my #EpicPoem  - recorded on iPad early this morning (8.56 mins)

(2) A short visit to Triskel Arts Centre in Cork city - an exhibition of glass - recorded on iPhone yesterday  (2.32 mins)

(3) Comments in response to Roy Cellan-Jones who visited Twitter HQ in San Francisco (2.38 mins)

(4)  My work - me doing my best to share information about my job & working style (4.54 mins)

(5) Launch of a new iPhone App - Mission Explore (5.12 mins) - in London - my response  (1.42 mis)

Please let me know which one you like best. 

We got into Shannon Airport last night at about 10.30pm.  The last bit of drama came when the doors of the plane wouldn’t open.  We had to sit down again while the technical hitch was fixed.

I’d spent the flight looking at video footage on iPhone: with a fellow pilgrim whom I’d never met before.  We marvelled at the quality - as we plugged one piece of ear-plug in.  We re-lived the experience, and I admit I loved it.  I have so many video clips.  What will I do with them all?

One option is to fill a DVD with raw footage - and give copies to my mother, sister, cousin and perhaps the pilgrimage director (whose name I forget)?

Another is to do nothing - move on?

Also, I have many audio tracks - some of them I’d love to convert into AudioBoos.  But that means I’d live to learn a couple of new skills - time-consuming… 

The flight into Shannon flew: my sister produced excellent paté from Lourdes market.  Cheese too & decent bread.  Much better than the roll & biscuit everyone else had from the airline.

There was big interest in the result of Galway V Offaly - and a particular retired detective garda from Limerick (who sings bass) badgered me into finding out who won while we were trapped on board.  I think the plane was full of GAA supporters who didn’t mind not knowing they’d missed the longest tennis match in history.

We missed a lot during the pilgrimage:

we missed Brian Cowen surviving another week in charge of Ireland…
we missed a week of extraordinary weather in Ireland…
we missed hourly updates on the sins of Irish bankers & their backers…

I missed the struggle for the survival of Cork Opera House…

and so on.  As we left Lourdes, I felt I would miss much from the week - especially being surrounded by people doing good for others. Never have I had a compete immersion in a culture of caring generously.  I’ve been in many other places where people have worked hard for others, but I can’t remember anywhere that was so totally given over to that sort of thing.  I suppose it’s easy to be good when everyone around you is doing good…

Certainly when I was looking for one honest person in Ireland in November 2009 (see Irish Epic Poem in 33 Cantos), it was devilishly hard to imagine a place where people did their best to help others. 

I remember what it was like leaving Shannon for Lourdes: all those strangers… On the plane back, so many were real people.  The week had done its work of transforming perceptions.  It was quite different from a holiday - when you see people going out and meet again when going home.  Then, who’ve had little to do with each other.  In Lourdes we did things together - religious practice, seeing each other looking after others, eating, drinking, dancing, singing, smiling, chatting…  We were involved in a sort of community - albeit a nomadic one.  So many others were on their 10th or even 20th Lourdes: they’d done it before.  

It helped me that I’d been in Lourdes in the 1960s.  That gave me some sort of safety from anticipated shock.  But I’d completely forgotten most of my first impressions.  Gradually I’ll write down more thoughts about my Lourdes.  

Now I’m happy to be back home in Glanmire Cork - with my closest family.  I have a lot to thank my mother for.  She gave me a great week - and I have no idea how I’ll handle her wish to go back again next year.  Maybe I’ll go again - maybe I’ll step aside & give others the privilege of taking her.   Too soon, now’s the time to dwell in the moment.

Much as I want to move on from Listowel 2010, I can’t.

I won’t be able to stop thinking about it until I know whether there will be a public apology for how I was treated.  I’m inclined to trust the good sense of the collective wisdom, but I’m not fool enough to take anything foregranted.  These things are tough - for all sides.

There’s also a load of great stuff that happened at the festival.  I have a notebook full of contacts, stories, poems - all collected during the time I spent there from Thursday to Sunday.

I must write up the detailed story of the booklaunch of "Irish Epic Poem in 33 Cantos" - before my memory goes altogether.

I must show a few of the snaps I love most.

What’s the point of putting yourself into a rich experience and then not plumbing it, eh?  I feel life is a stream of new experience: the biggest challenge is to learn from what’s happened.

But bigger than that, is the challenge to be in the moment.  Be here, now - and nowhere else.  

So I’m in sunny Cork, in dressing gown, under the ticking clock… Writing away, twittering too, sorting photos on Flickr.  I go for shower and dressing now.  Today is a special day in Cork City- one when the river Lee is being used.

I joke not.  One of the great features of Cork City is its oddly shaped river run to the sea.  So under-developed, so much potential there - I hope the TransformCork movement grows in strength.  I hope it draws in loads of people who love the river and want it to be better used.  Meanwhile I’ve on my way down to the centre - to watch the face-painters paint Grace, drink good coffee and take snaps at the finish of the boat races.

Boardwalk here I come.

But I better dress… 

I’ve been away from my home.

In a funny sort of way this blog is my home.  It’s where I’m more able to be all myself than anywhere else, perhaps.  I’m able to be at my most unclear, muddled, unsure - and confident that I’m fairly true to myself.

This blog was where I first began, in 2005, writing for my daughter Grace.  She as Baby Grace - she’s changed into #omanitot on Twitter.  One thoughtful person suggested I should change the name of this blog to bring it in line with her growth.

I’ve grown too. Grown more used to Ireland, grown more accustomed to being no longer in UK (where I was from 1975-2005), grown more into my skin.  Age does that to you.

The writing of "Irish Epic Poem in 33 Cantos" was a milestone…
It’s an autobiography that crept out of me, behind my back.  Now, I see my history all over the pages - even though I thought I was simply writing a critique of Ireland today.

The publication of #EpicPoem here, the printing of it, self-publication too - incredibly important steps for me.  Why?  Because I began the project, executed it and am now in the process of completing it.  I have some unfinished projects behind me - so it’s a great satisfaction to have brought a big one to fruition.

In Listowel Kerry last week, my self-published epic was launched by the wonderful man George Rowley.  It would have been enough for me if only George & me turned up at the launch. But there was a good little crowd.  The ‘fringe’ event, impromptually organised by Patrick Stack, was perfect as far as I was concerned.  I’ll write a more detailed description later.

Today, there’s a lot going on.  That’s such a truism - but I guess I mean all the trouble around Listowel Writers’ Week.  I don’t want to go into the troublesome aspect of that here, because I had a wonderful time overall.  I met great people, had rich conversations and was a lot calmer than last year.  

The trouble I have is that I get enthusiastic and committed:
I pour so much of myself into the things I’m committed to, there’s a risk I’ll become over-exposed.  My close family & close friends probably worry for my mental health - given my history of severe bouts of depression.  I am fortunate, glad that I have lovely people who care about me, and watch what I’m doing.  They advise me to take it easier.

I’m not the best person to notice that I’m doing too much.  I do a bit of denying, get so much into my passion that I overlook the basics - sleep, rest, quiet time and exercise.  It’s so good to sit and write in a meditative way - gathering myself together with care - looking after myself.  Unless I take care of my mental health, I’m a goner. 

Time now to go off to Adare, to visit my mum.  We’re going to Lourdes France together soon.  That’ll be another exciting experience. Better get some rest before I risk having an apparition, eh? 

When we came from Bath in UK to Cork in Ireland, in autumn 2005, I took up blogging. I knew nothing about blogging - but I had an infant daughter and I felt like producing something for her.

I imagined her reading it years after I’d passed on.  I wrote as if she’d be interested on what her old man thought of Ireland. After living in UK from 1975, Ireland was a stranger to me.  I expected to experience it as a sort of anthropologist.  A re-migrant, re-migrating back to the island he’d left during another era.

Years later, I know more about blogs.  You could say this blog has changed my life. Certainly the doing of it has transformed my way of life.

I hate when I don’t write here.  I miss it. Twitter has been so seductive, it’s kept me occupied. I no longer have times when I have nothing to do.

Right now, I’m wondering whether to podcast the #EpicPoem?  Make an audio version - put it up here for you to listen to.  Would you like that? Would you ever like to have the whole of the Epic Poem in a form that you could play in your car?

I’m far from sure.  Please influence me by your comments. 

I began the Irish Epic Poem on 1 November 2009.  A new Moleskine Notebook… In the front page I wrote these words

"started Abercrombie & Fitch (London, UK) on 31 October 2009
- a book for one purpose

= write 50,000 word poem in November 2009
30 days"

Inside that page I later wrote:

240 pages

30 lines x 7 = 210 words per page [I think at one point I thought I was writing an average of 7 words per line]
127 pages to go in 8 days = 16 pages per day
109 pages to go in 5 days = 22 pages per day
92 pages to go in 3 days  =  30 pages

178 pages @ 180 words per page
= 32,040

These numbers kept me going.  50,000 words was the original challenge: NaNoWriMo.  Miyjoue Radersma introduced me to it.  This was a worldwide movement that encouraged people to write without stopping during  November. Most people wrote their novel, or part of it.  I latched on to the movement for the heck of it: I relished the challenge.  I was so pleased when Patrick Stack in Co Clare joined in.  

There was a website and discussion groups that sustained writers.  I got a buddy, Aaron Howard, in NYC.  We kept in touch encouraging each other.

I failed to write 50,000 but that was the only failure.
Otherwise the writing of the Epic Poem was a complete success: it gave me a platform on which to express myself, during a period of great national turmoil in Ireland.  The poem is personal in the sense that my autobiography is there, albeit sublimated. The poem is political: it’s littered with invective. The poem caused me to gather many of the key influences in my life together.  The writing was furious & sustained; it was also great fun.

I was so glad that it had an ending: it came to some sort of conclusion: it is not unfinished work.

I decided to publish it on this blog.
Typed the first part on  a date I  can’t remember (must check).  72 parts later, I finished the typing today.  The typing journey has been rich.  I’m glad I didn’t give it to someone else to type it up for me.  I got to re-experience the language in a different way while typing, confronting many issues of form, display and punctuation en route.  Typing it up for the blog has challenged my spelling: I’ve used Google all the way to check the spelling of words, and also names of people & places.

On the way I wondered what would happen if I hyperlinked it.  So many of the words are from my autobiography, I can’t imagine anyone reading it without coming across many bits that seem perplexing.  Typing the Epic Poem has made me think about the future of the book - in the context of the incredible potential modern media provide.

I owe so much to Walt Whitman.  He self-published.  He even wrote & published reviews of Leaves of Grass, under a pseudonym.  If he did that, I can certainly self-publish a small edition.  I plan to sell Epic Poem at Listowel Writers’ Week Festival in June. Must print so few that it’s sure to sell out.

Would like me to reserve you a copy? 

CANTO XXXIII (the conclusion)

The Man from Snowy River

There was movement of the lawyers, for the word had got around
That the dog from the Four Courts had won the day,
And had eaten the wild-grown garlic - he had mastered all the sound
So all the wigs had gathered to the fray
All the tried and trusted judges from the circuits near and far
Had feasted by the courthouse late at night
For the constitution’s strong where the wild-grown garlics are
And the mastiff growls the gravy-train delight.

And down by Newcastlewest, where the monastery stands
Their torn and rugged vestments still on high
Where gossip is clear as prism, and the blond stars hang on praise
There is light on that street where lawyers fly
And where along the water’s flow the ghostly weep and sway
To their beliefs, and the molting stains are wide
The Man from Snowy River is a household fool today
And the bankers tell the story of his slide. 

You can fill in the gaps yourself,
that’s the rhythm we want,
a bit of pace, and the march of the foot-soldiering consonants,
with their vowels prepared to go into the valley of death
for the cause of jiggery-pokery
- that’s what your filí were brought up on. 

We are at the end now,
the grains have all fallen,
there is no happy finality
nor easy resolution.
It might have been,
perhaps if we hadn’t started from there.
If we’d eaten different food,
the thoughts would have grown apart
in a different style.

There never were any Englynion,
they stayed stuck in their valleys,
noble lords, warriors unused,
blades blunt, never given a punt.

It was the ELEPHANT that opened the floodgate
and found a willing pen
prepared to take the plane back to a country
it had emigrated from,
a trunk of power
a tail for distractions
killing them
keeping to the line of blank verse
preserving the pace
distributing the echoes
balancing the airs and graces.

To all who’ve come across to the other side of the stream,
I beg you remember there’s reality in every dream.

The End 

CANTO XXXIII (continues here)

"Fuckit Boss he’d disappeared
one minute he was asleep in the gutter
pissed as arseholes snoring farts
I had him Boss
I was standing over him the bollocks
ready for the chop
and some fuckin tarte picked that moment
to spew up her guts over him
First she covers his mug with puke
then she throws off her clothes
and falls on him starkers
fuckin stitchless Boss…

"What? What’d you say Boss?
the reception’s shyte here
the pair of them in the gutter
the the bloody fuckin stormwall broke Boss
the fucking tide took them away
just fuckin washed them off the face of the earth Boss
I was lucky I wasn’t drowned
you know I can’t swim Boss…

"What’s that Boss?
"you wish I’d been washed Boss…

"ah Boss 

he’s gone, no one could get out of that flood Boss
I’d say he’ll be washed up off fuckin Rathlin Boss
Jees I had him Boss
if it wasn’t for that cunt
I’d have the corpse for you Boss
look as soon as I find some dry trousers
and another pair of shoes
I’ll carry on Boss…

"ah no Boss don’t say  that Boss
haven’t I been good to you Boss?" 

Oh dear, oh dear, my dears
it looks as if we’re about to lose another character.
I used to enjoy all that ‘fuckin’,
I’ll miss him.
He was my crudité,
I was writing a note for him. 

(Canto 33 to be continued: one more part to come) 

CANTO XXXIII (the last one begins here)

Wake up lazybones,
get up, you lump of wisdom gone small,
time for you to make your grand entrance.
Zap them with your eloquence,
insight and decisive reversal of all the rules.
Time you proved you didn’t need water to work on it.
We’re looking up to you.
The Redeemer cometh,
prove you are a mighty mouse.

She was a cross between Gráinne Mhaol and a boa constrictor,
she was loud with mouth,
uninterruptable.
She carried a bag of many bags,
each loaded with memories of slights,
bitter glances, overlookings.
She spoke for half the Universe,
as if she were the whole Universe.
Here was a genuine God,
not some frumpy Goddess
or queen.
Here was a woman who knew she knew it all
without peradventure.

"I am the Alpha and Omega of your phantasies,
we don’t really need you.
If we wanted to, we could birth children
unaided by your masculinity.
We are divinity,
you’re an infinity of consanguinity.
We’ll take over the world
when your verses are all reversed.
Look at you Wotan,
all those stains, egg on your tie,
fat on the shirt we picked for you.

God you’re a mess,
and your hero
he’s a lost projection.

You should have listened to you,
or, better still, stayed stillborn." 

The ALMIGHTY was jelly now,
wobbling and melting,
fit for consoling Himself,
but no one else.
The ALMIGHTY knew the final solution was on the cards:
the only way to avoid the failure of the quest
was to kill the flower he’d grown from seed,
accidentally stop the fruitless effort
to clone the human race of the Irish debris
from the one true gene of a quadruple helix.
It certainly looked as if the Irish were a lost cause
led by Archbishop Martin,
the trickster from the Roman Bath.

The ALMIGHTY plunged a hand inside the garment
on which the Milky Way was fashioned.
He drew out the dice,
the pair that clashed and caused the Big Bang
- He was ready for a second throw. 

(to be continued)