Re: R: [acornlive] submits

Nessa O'Mahony (acornlive@dublinwriters.org)
Wed, 25 Oct 2000 06:52:52 +0100 

Ah now

How could I ignore a cue like that? Actually, Chris, I did respond to 
your earlier email but it bounced back because I'd put the wrong 
email extension on it - silly me!

And thanks for the Sibylla reference - I really liked her in Fawlty 
Towers ;-)

Life here is good - we had an excellent night with the Dublin 
Writers Workshop and the Liverpool Dead Good Poets Society in 
early September - a packed reading in the Winding Stair Bookshop 
(on Dublin's atmospheric (means noisy) Ormonde Quay), some 
excellence performance poetry from the Scouse brigade and we 
kept our end up pretty well too.

I then submersed myself for two weeks in short story writing with 
Clare Boylan on a beautiful Greek island called Skyros, where I 
sunned, surfed (as if), scribbled and supped to my heart's content.

Life is now back to the familiar mix of frenetic circle running and 
getting nowhere faster and faster.

If you want to keep in touch, I'm still making the odd, matronly 
appearance on our virtual workshop and discussion board at 
http://www.dublinwriters.org/discus/index.html - things have been 
getting a little fractious there, what with people impersonating other 
people and some fairly frank criticism which is ruffling feathers - I've 
gone through a whole barrell of oil and the waters are still troubled - 
maybe some of you enlightened folk might stop by and add your 
wisdom from time to time?

Hope everyone is well - oh yes, EA9 is due by mid-November, I'm 
feverishly cutting and pasting right now. I'll let youse all know.

xxx

Nessa

From:           	"Christopher Neenan" <chneena@tin.it>
To:             	<acornlive@dublinwriters.org>
Subject:        	R: [acornlive] submits
Date sent:      	Tue, 24 Oct 2000 21:43:04 +0200
Send reply to:  	acornlive@dublinwriters.org

> Hi Sean,
> 
> Yes indeed! is ther life after 17???? Yes, there is and it gets richer and
> richer and richer.
> Keep that poetry comin'. You are well on the way.
> Hey where's Nessa got to? We are lost without our Muse or Sibylla.
> ----- Original Message -----
> From: Sean van der Lee <ritesean@hotmail.com>
> To: <acornlive@dublinwriters.org>
> Sent: Tuesday, October 24, 2000 6:17 AM
> Subject: Re: [acornlive] submits
> 
> 
> > Here is my newest poem, based loosely upon a true happening which my
> > friends' father, a Coptic priest, was right in the middle of. Any comments
> > or questions would be much appreciated and replied to quickly and fairly.
> By
> > the way, I have been 17 for almost a month now, man, where did the first
> > decade and a half go? Anyways, give this one a shot, I have also attached
> a
> > new one which my feeling are somewhat mixed about.
> > Thanks,
> > -Sean
> >
> >
> > Jihad?
> > Upon first glance it appears that some
> > foreign dignitary, celebrity or king is on parade,
> > That is; the streets are filled with jubilant throngs
> > of Arabs, arms raised, women leaning out windows,
> > gossiping and smiling, as the men below
> > quickly dispense with such foolishness.
> >
> > Enter sound: cheers here are jeers,
> > the fists raised in anger and hate
> > along the tall, narrow streets of Cairo,
> > the gossip is of a vengeful nature,
> > traded in humorous tones,
> > High, high above the masses but
> > Far, far below the heaven of both religions,
> > The sky is neglected,
> > Save by the Coptic priest in long black robes,
> > matching his greying beard,
> > A dark-beaded wooden rosary around his neck
> > carrying a wicker cross.
> >
> > The children of Allah spit upon him,
> > knock him off his feet,
> > throw rotten fruit at him,
> > Stroke automatic pistols while repeating ancient oaths meant for
> > scimitars of Damascus steel,
> > He is guided by the trackless blue sky,
> > To which his eyes are steadfastly riveted,
> > With a quiet dignity, speaking loud
> > Above the clamour of the crowd,
> > And silencing those with ears,
> > who turn towards Mecca,
> > and raise their eyes to the skies
> > miles above the deserts dirt.
> >
> >
> > Daybirth
> > After the initial shock died down
> > - the ripples on the pond sojourned and abated -
> > Almost everything became clear to him: he wondered why,
> > why he was better fed than his captors, who
> > when tearing a piece of bread gave him, the prisoner,
> > The larger half.
> >
> > Was he, the 'enemy' worth that much to them that they
> > would selflessly sacrifice what little was left of their comfort,
> > to assuage the fears of this man they had trapped,
> > As they had been trapped all their lives?
> >
> > They spoke to him in halting English or
> > deliberately slowed - but always acclerating Spanish,
> > of their cause:
> > Their brothers and sisters starving fearful on the farms below,
> > Their brothers and sisters rotting fearless in the graves below,
> > as they walked along the mountain roads from
> > hideout to hideout -
> > Always ready for the drumming of helicopters in the distance,
> > the drumming of the rain on their dishevelled corpses,
> > Still they marched on.
> > He was sent home in exchange
> > for a Marxist held years in a Bogota jail without trial.
> >
> > After a shave, a shower, an expensive meal, he awoke, troubled,
> > swung his legs out of bed, turned the bedside lamp on,
> > Placed his spectacles upon his face to watch the sun rise,
> > All the time knowing
> > that his brothers and sisters marched into the Colombian dawn,
> > to the beat of freedom,
> > Raining down from the heavens into the jungle where they lie.
> > And wait.
> >
> >
> >
> >
> > _________________________________________________________________________
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> >
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> >
> >
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