Liam Porter
Christmas ThanksAll year I had unwrapped them.
Gifts of time and patience. Understanding and encouragement. I saw days that had unravelled into chaos, packed up again; all those broken pieces squeezed back together. Spirits fortified. I had basked in the warmth of friendship, taken solace from endearment, then stored each precious moment. When Christmas came, I replayed them all, a movie-reel of magic memories. Then, with paper I sat to wrap up in words all I could offer in return. And simply wrote… Thank You All. NovemberNovember came with its usual
temper tantrum that screamed and swirled until its wrecking digits swiped leaves from the trees, flung them to the ground in a rage then stamped its feet so hard it cracked the evenings open. Seizing its sudden opportunity, darkness stole through, poured in like ink in water, twisting tightly its furious fingers around the day until it gasped and fiercely fought for just a few hours of light. Idle EngineThe engine still idles;
whirrs away in the background, as the search for the key to shut it down for the night gets more and more flustered. Under fluffed and flapped pillows, miscounted sheep, half-formed sentences, shuttered-down, silent headlamps. Each new discovery brings hope, but turned and turned again, the wheels still buzz and spin. There is nothing now to do, but wait until the fuel runs dry. Lie in the darkness and try, not to feed it Anymore. Simply StaticTune in, they said,
but all I found was static. Crackling, crispy scrunched up musings. A ball of wrinkled, jagged paper rolling around my head. I twist and turn, search for clarity and try to escape the train of thought, dopplering as it sped that scratchy, hissing fizz screaming ever louder through my mind. But I am on, a different wavelength. Would that lovely silence come, if I simply pulled the plug? Switched off. For I am out of tune. Pulled from a Hole
That laughter, was hard to take
from those who pulled figures like Drummer, from a dark recess. Imaginary numbers. They were fake, but real enough to reel in foolish leaders far too anxious to put skin in the game. For the big boys, it was all just a game. Chortle down the line, mock and sing; defunct anthems. Of course the leaders now, filled with imitation indignation, trip over each other to tut tut, shake their heads and suggest that this is all big news to them too. But with their thick skins in the game they still battered on with their big cheques for banks and bondholders. Many of the small players meanwhile, don’t even have a supper to sing for. With barely halfpence to add to the pence, they wonder now if there ever really was a romantic Ireland? Perhaps some men in suits just pulled it from a hole, then walked away to leave us deal with the stink… Green
They are pale, almost yellow-green now,
those fields. Sporting their new Summer skin-tight silage cuts, close to the surface. Prominent among the patchwork duvet of dark-green, dancing stems on whom the blades have yet to fall. Tractors, busily bounce and buzz like mechanical ants, over and back with treasure of fresh-cut fodder. Long into a night where the light hangs on tightly, like the sleeves of a shirt, to a clothes line. Eventually, darkness will prise those sleeves away, but morning comes quickly in June. And, if the rain stays away, more patches of pale-green will be sewn on the countryside quilt tomorrow. |
Learning to DanceBehind those inner walls
of sheer self-doubt and inhibitions, lies the rhythm that sneaks sometimes from head to tapping fingers, drumming out time as they dance on a table top, beating out words on a keyboard. Beyond that though, everything is measured. The trick is to try to free the tempo that for so long had been beaten down, then rolled into nothing more than taps of a toe. The journey from head to feet is one that is fraught, with mistimed movements and always counted steps. Even when walked first, hand-held slowly, through every single motion, they manage to bemuse. Trying the patience, it is time to shift the weight of expectation, to repeat and rehearse, until there is something; like freedom of movement. Until it looks at last like a dance. Night SentrySleep eludes me now,
for there are places beyond the dark I have glimpsed in terror. So, even with closed eyes I am now a sentry; a wound-up spring ready to jump at every sound. A knight in pyjamas, an adrenaline-fuelled man on edge. I am the first responder, and sleep eludes me now. Scratched Out DayI have scratched out,
another day. Peeled away layer after layer. Tearing through, digging deeply, until each task was finally, done. But those long hours have left their pulpy, soft, sappy residue under my fingernails. So, I sit at my keyboard and try, to scrape it all away. The Lightning Storm
It was a mismatch.
The fireflies appearing for a second or two in the evening sky, paling like fairy lights against the lightning storm. A meek mannered tempest that splashed its yellowish white across the black ceiling of thin clouds over and over, like morse code. But there came no thunder. I stood and watched the spectacular night show, all picture and no sound. Noise
There is never
total silence. The background noise choosing to scream when quiet prevails and I shut my mouth, but can’t close my ears or shut the inside of my head where all the thoughts batter and bounce around. And people think I am sitting quietly, writing, but all the while words are trying to drill their way out of my mind onto paper. They are rushed and fuzzy, scampering, trampolining. It is a circus in there and those solemn thoughts are sometimes, all just noise. Ploughed Field
Today you were cut deep,
sliced open from end to end, and everything was suddenly turned upside down. Torn asunder, you bled fresh brown into yourself until you glinted again in the September sun. Overhead, on the wires, the black music score of birds silently played out the evening, and the light of the tractor flashed amber and warned of the winter days yet to come. |
