The Lighthouse, On the Green
Thomas Taylor’s, phenomenal gift,
to his father, a mock lighthouse,
not facing, seas, or oceans, but
endless, fertile, green fields,
hunts, races, grazing sheep
and cattle, every living being,
in its proximity, illuminated,
by its, extraordinary presence
and splendour, like walking
around, the sharp corner, in
Rome and seeing, The Pantheon,
in all its glory, with your own,
two eyes, for the very, first time.
The towering height, the sheer
scale, of ambition, skill and
talent, to produce, the enormous
feat, of building a lighthouse,
on a green, in a field.
With nothing to do, but to
travel, to the light and marvel,
at the towering, colossal, presence,
of an inland lighthouse,
built, for all of us, standing here,
in total awe, of it today.
The ebb, gush and flow,
the dark, opaque, waters,
reflecting, the orange streetlights,
in the centre, of the river,
the water, flowing, over the glow,
that, in the darkest waters,
there is always, light, if you look,
Two Way Mirror
Who and what, you think,
you are and what you think,
the person, across, the road,
the service user,
the perceived enemy,
the service provider,
think of you,
is that you?
So, who and what,
‘Let, The Day Begin’
Strolled, from Armstrong Walk,
passed the beautiful, memorial park,
glittering dust, always, in our hearts,
through Adare Drive, near the rank,
up the steps, could smell the bacon
and hash browns, all so fresh, at half-past
Ordered the full-Irish,
sat down, marked a few,
in the 4.20 and 4.50,
for The Curragh, as a father
and two sons, placed an order,
getting ready, for the barbers
and the morning, soccer matches.
Handed the plate, a beautiful
lady, smiled back at me,
a full, plate of gold,
the fried-eggs, perfectly cooked,
the sausages, still sizzling,
the rashers, crispy, the pudding,
so fresh and the toast, roasting.
Happiness, on a platter,
looking over, the balcony,
at the passing shoppers,
saw a few politicians,
walking through, briskly, in suits,
the view, from way up high,
full of sunny expectations,
time now, ‘to let, the day begin’.
How, To Be?
Like the lighthouse, or spirit-level, if only, it was that simple,
to be, a human being, in a life’s time.
Ontologically-being; some concerns, arising, out of that, large vat,
of unknowing, please excuse, my ignorance, of that.
So, how be?
Being the human, long after, purely instinctual living, after Plato, Aristotle, Darwin, Nietzsche, Freud, Jung, Sartre, Daly, De Beauvoir, Woolf, Irigaray and Greer.
Where and how, ‘do we go, from here’?
Movements and moments, collective and individual, with similar needs, yet an evolving species, needs and wants, wants and needs, breeding and feeding, feeding and breeding, silk ears and sow’s purses, what happened, to, right and wrong? through, the mist, smoke and mirrors and dust? Basic, necessities and trust, the world being ours, not mine or yours, to fail, is to try to succeed, in the first place, all part and parcel, of the process, of aiming, to continue, to exist, then there, were binaries, promiscuity, or restraint, happy or sad, industrious or lazy, ambitious, or passive, single or married, in company or alone, introverted or extroverted, sensitive or boorish, old or young, fat or thin, rich or poor, what can you help? What can, you not? Free speech or hate speech? Violence or policing? Anger or passivity? Family, community, society, promiscuity, broken bonds, fragmentation, individualism, aloneness, free states or policed states, too much freedom, like Munch, illustrates, or two little, like Burke, what about, just right and wrong and unities of meaning and purpose, togetherness, in an unequal world, species, solidarity, our eyes,
looking out, for each other, in one life and its capacity, for consciousness and the value of conscience, free from, the wrong narcotics. How, to be, how, to live, how to go on, your guess, is as good as mine, writing, at this, late time, blank space, blank space, blank space, blank space, blank space………..to be continued, by someone……..
Rain at Night
in soft sheets,
the open window,
late at night,
long past bedtime,
of the rain,
End of The Summer
the garden centre,
on the hill,
in the back seat,
noticed the sky,
no longer blue,
with a sense,
of the summer flowers
at a knock-down
price, late August.
About the Author
Gavin Bourke grew up in Tallaght, Dublin. He holds a B.A. Degree in Humanities from Dublin City University, an M.A. in Modern Drama Studies from University College Dublin, and a Higher Diploma in Information Studies. His work covers nature, time, memory, addiction, mental health, human relationships, inner and outer life, creating meaning and purpose, politics, contemporary and historical social issues, injustice, the human situation, power and its abuse, as well as urban and rural life. He has been published widely.