Things, words, life.

Posts tagged “60’s

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First Novel…Joanne

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Ireland, a work in progress.

Knock, Market Day, Ireland 1966.

 

 

Streaming down the hills from Wicklow with banners and boots and donkeys braying and the smell of burning turf and Guinness for the drinking of,

red faced log like men with waistcoats from their fathers and sharp wet noses like the noses of their black and white and black dogs that drive them like sheep through the emerald fields and over the stone walls and down the twisting snake of a lane that swoops and dives and dips and swerves drunk on its own gay thoughtless joining of the villages of Knock, and Banfe, and Killymiwilly.

The women were singing the day away with songs of the lost kingdoms and Druids with golden staffs, and oh the comely princess with hair the colour of the sun, lips kissed with berries and eyes as dark as the starless night. what is love Mrs. Lynch why it’s ten times hotter than fire Mrs. Finch and I’d have married him then were not a cripple with a withered leg and a sister on the stage

OReilly takes out his watch the half hunter from his pocket and beams the joy of knowing when to start and when to stop. ‘There’ll be horses to catch before night.’ he shouts to the men and the boys, ‘take ropes and sugar and bells, a guinea for the stallion if you please.’

OReilly leaning on Cassidy’s long bar wiping sea fret from his facial hair a better pint there never was me boys an all down and dripping black, the smacking of many lips slapping by god yer roight sur an yes oil have another for t’would be churlish to refuse

and still behind the bar thin Quinn dreams pulling the white tusks the sweepstake and the winning of

speeches to be made and a new brown suit stuffed with crisp notes and a bottle of Jameson in the pocket

while by the fire young Mary McCoy stirs the bleeding sparking embers remembering the fire of dirty Dermot McCray and kisses burning lips

oh I never should for ’tis a sin but not of you don’t put in the tongue, the priest will know and then

seven hail Maries an worth a dozen more if should I let him but I’ll not have me best green cardy ruined even so,

by the bar Ben Brown looks down at her with wolf eyes imagining a dozen Mary’s dancing sturdily the summers green with cymbals and a blind accordion

the dresses bouncing over dimpled knees flashing, flinging, and furious then off running into the long corn field calling the boys you’ll never catch me and if you do I’ll never tell.

Eleven of the clock as me names OReilly and he puts the watch asleep,

the mornings washed away an all washed and waned and spent in idle games then out into the bright tight dazzling sun the road knee deep in promises of other places and spent wishes.

A mile or three to Knock will pass the afternoon away for tis a shame to hurry

OReilly mutters good day to you father to the black crow priest flapping storm warnings from the swinging gate St. Peter and Saint Paul and all along the path between the dead and dusty ancestors

and him Father Murphy staring blind into his dreams hears bells ringing, choirs singing, babies crying, time ticking,

never too late OReilly, forty guilty years since last confession,

please father I did put a mirror under Kelly’s skirt what did you see there boy there were birds and mothballs, bicycles and busses, badgers and the brown bull of Cooley sure god will strike you blind give me here your hand my boy for Jesus will forgive.

And out beyond the town the rolling road OReilly roams whistling the miles away to Knock.

What is your heart today Mr. OReilly sing the women of the market a fine fat pig with a smile on his face or a pair of piebald hens, a sheep’s head freshly skinned eyeballs intact a ox tail shaved, talced and lotioned,

I’ll have a brace of dreams me girls go easy on the spice.

The river running swift and dark and under the town’s grey walls skimmed green moss while silent seated men with rods and nets crouch staring at the upside down world of the other bank and peer into the waters for a glimpse of half forgotten hope, what was it now that slipped away like a thief in the night.

Then over Tanker’s Bridge and into Cork Lane and the knocking of the green door opened

Clara Clara would you ever be looking at yerself for me eyes are starved of yer light and I hear only yer voice in my dreams And into Clara’s parlor eyes dancing hands aflutter small white teeth parted oh Clara sure I’d kill for a smile

And the arms around him and the coolness of her cheek and the smell of summer on her breath spinning spinning until they fall giddy with the wanting and the needing and the remembering

Taking her face in his hands and diving into the dark pools of her eyes cool and warm and cool again her hands busy peeling, shelling, stripping until nothing’s left but the white smooth surface of a place unexplored

Now she says now and all is lost except the being and the doing as the earth rolls away and leaves them lost in a darkness full of flickering lightning, and the moaning like the wind in the chimney on a winter’s night, and the breath like thunder in their ears, Now, and the hands like claws gripping now, now, and then the crying like the hurt, Clara oh Clara, Mr. OReilly now, now, now

And down the days tumbling through the bright white place into warm seas to rest pillowed on the ocean the sounds slip back birds sing, voices, the sound of the river in stillness and the beating of the hearts among the clouds.

O’Reilly stepping high across and back across the Liffey by the Tankers his hand on Clara for the kindness that’s in it and off to Brady’s by the quays

A full meat house stuffed and smelling cigarettes and sweat and smoke and stout and burning turf, and heads a turning as the door swings shut no ladies here shouts Aemon from behind the bar

Sweet times and looking each the eyes knowing unsaid words and remembering will you stop with me tonight Ah Clara I have horses to catch and men to find and tales to tell

when will you come to me again

I’ll come when the gorse blooms on Slieve Leag, and when the salmon leap for joy, I’ll come in silence if you listen hard me boots on cobbles in the night by the haunting of the sickle moon I’ll come

keep warmth for me between the sheets

Standing outside Brady’s last goodbyes and him away across the darkened town with lights in windows and the crying of the bairnes driven to their beds on bread and dripping, hot milk and Horlicks, Dads sitting by the fire reading the Echo while the women elbow deep in soap whisper to the listening night

And out into the country and the road to Balfe O’Reilly strides under a pair of moons lighting the pale road to the distant hills and dreaming as he goes where is Brian O’Sullivan who could play the fiddle and Johnny Byrne who ran away to Blackrock and other foreign parts where are the chieftains of childhood and the terror gangs of the back lanes and the girls who ran screaming home to mothers with red elbows and bleeding hands.

The night surrounds him whispering the voices of old behind the shriveled oak under silent rocks breathless in the grasses

The road a silver belt around the earth that he could walk forever careless of time and the passing of mute friends

Will I see you again sweet Clara, will the spells of your eyes and your lips draw me back,

oh aye, I’ll come in the spring when the weather is kind and the sky is sprinkled with larks when the you hear the music of Dagda’s harp and the wind is stilled and the ashes cold in the hearth, I’ll come my love when the gorse blooms gold on Slieve Leag.

Then Balfes dark roofs in the valley below the smell of the turf burning while the town sleeps drowned in dreams OReilly’s boots on cobbled roads the horses are in the stables and the cats stalk shadows in the streets.


Living in Montmartre

Catherine in Montmartre

Catherine in Montmartre

I live in Montmartre because it is on a hill, and being on a hill I have the impression that when I make my way home at night I rise up out of the dross, the flotsam, pyrotechnic  human zoo that is Pigalle and Clichy. My room is in an alley off the Place des Abbesses called the Passage des Abbesses. No abbesses or even abbots have been seen around here in  living memory, but it gives it a touch of class otherwise unmerited. My  room is on the ground floor with a low window looking out onto the street, there are no curtains but a folding metal shutter serves to keep the place reasonably dark until I wake up usually about twelve or one. I have little in the way of furniture, in fact I have none. A foam mattress on the floor with one sheet makes a bed, and I also have a black plastic inflatable armchair that someone gave me. The thing has a slow leak and gradually subsides into a sad formless mass in the corner of the room over a couple of days. I feel it has a slightly manacing aspect when part deflated and in the semi-darkness of the room at night we study each other with distrust. The tiny kitchen is equipped with a camping gas, an enamel pan, two mugs of different designs, one metal teaspoon, and two plates of different designs. There are several piles of books dotted in various positions, and a couple of posters tacked on the walls.

It might be imagined that this less than palatial abode would not tempt any young lady to share its modest amenities, but it did. And a couple of days after we met up on the Metro she moved in, life was never the same again.


Mr. Norman Scott, from ’60’s People’

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Norman Scott and Emily Small, 1968

Carneby Street outside ‘The Roaring Twenties’ early evening and two or three spades are hanging around the doorway waiting for business. Cars stop in the street not bothering to pull over or park and the guys rush over to make the deal, grass, acid, whatever. Nobody looks, a copper walks by on the other side, more interested in the latest see-through fashion in ‘Granny Takes a Trip.’  Going into the basement with Norman, spade territory, smells of hash, patchouli, joss sticks; funny looks but we play them at table football, badly, drink rum and coke and smoke Balkan Sobrany. Everyone’s cool. Outside it’s night and the  crowd is gathering outside the ‘Twenties’. Girls in micro-minis with kohled eyes and vermillion lips, long haired guys with flares, Frank Zappa moustaches, joints hanging out of  mouths. Everyone’s cool.


Mr. David Bowie from ’60’s People’

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St. Michael Street 1968 and David arrives with Angie, they are both stoned and giggling. I let them hear a Jonny Winter LP I’d brought back from the states, unknown in the UK then.  He’s a sort of white Jimmy Hendrix David said. I lent him the LP, never got it back.

Upstairs in the house in Clareville Road, David’s trying out Space Oddity on me, he’ s got this thing he calls a stylophone, sort of weird grating electric sound I think, but the track is great.

Shooting the cover of Space Oddity with David, Calvin Mark Lee, Zin my assistant. I tell David the strobe is as bright as the sun, the ‘Sun Machine’ he and Calvin laugh. Zin looks blank. Then Calvin freaks out because he thinks Zin is himself twenty years ago. Happy days.