Iniskeen Road, Dublin Four

The anthology of poetry from which so many of us were introduced to 'serious' poetry was only ever intended to be an interim anthology. If you check the inside cover you will find that it was introduced in 1969, the summer of love and indeed many students have fallen in love with its contents through the years.

In school, we would often have been told that great poetry is timeless. At the tender age of seventeen, the word 'timeless' means very little except that it describes the average length of most classes. As I have grown older I have come to realise that what our English teacher was trying to get us to understand was that great poetry records the most common of human behaviour and so acts as a mirror for the world.

Take, for example, Kavanagh's 'Iniskeen Road'. If ever a poem has remained fresh in terms of language and description, this is it. If you haven't read the poem, I can assure you that you have been a character in the work many times over. If one has ever attended a nightclub (or dishcoh as they are known in some parts of the country) then one has stepped into the world so vividly described by Ireland's most honest of poets. The bicycles have been replaced by taxis but everything else is the same.

The dance floor is crowded. Groups of boys and girls dance excitedly to the latest number one. Sometimes the groups are mixed, in other cases it appears as though invites are needed to break the monopoly of one sex over the other. At the bar, a few lads lean casually against the counter, nursing the one drink they can afford for the night. They rarely talk to each other. They have no need. These guys share a language so unique and universal that with a slight wink of the eye or a nod of the head in a general direction they can convey they only message that matters on a night like this: "If we weren't so busy here at the bar, she'd be the lucky girl tonight!". A gentle nod from the commrades and the mission has been completed. The target has been identified and marked and who knows, perhaps in a parrallel universe, one of them might pluck up the courage to ask her out.

If one were to stand outside, one would hear the constant pounding of the bass rhythm and one would hear voices, faceless and faint, beneath the cacophoney that is now called music.

Why would anyone stand outside?

Sometimes the disco just isn't your thing. I hated discos. For a start, I could never figure out why one would pay £5 to get into a place so that they could spend the night buying overpriced beer and shouting at people who couldn't hear them anyway! Of course, there were other reasons not to attend but now is not the time to go into tham. Suffice to say that there are many of us who hated discos and were only too glad to leave that part of our lives behind us.

Kavanagh was one of us. Many of my friends used complain that Kavanagh was a grumpy poet and a bleak one at that. I cannot argue with this because he is bleak, grumpy and depressing. But then again, the country he describes was bleak, grumpy and depressing. People like to look back and imagine their childhood worlds to have been wonderful and gay. The Ireland that Kavanagh describes was dark and dreary and under the influence of several competing factors. The clergy, the media, the politicians and the parents all made strides to control and limit the world in which people could express themselves. The dance was the one place where expression was permitted. Under the watchful eye of the local parish priest, Billy Brennan's patrons began to develop an expression all of their own. As they developed this 'wink and elbow language of delight' a new Ireland was born.

This, of course, is not the reason why Kavanagh stayed outside. He was a poet and felt like the outsider. I know this because it's what I was told and even reading it again now, it is quite clear that he wears his unease at the prospect of socialising like an old battered coat. He was one of us. He didn't like to go in because it simply wasn't his scene. He preferred 'solemn talk' to dancing. I guess he had two left feet too.

Soundings, the book, lasted 33 years on the Irish Leaving Cert course.

Kavangh has done slightly better.

Iniskeen Road : July Evening

 The bicycles go by in twos and threes--
 There's a dance in Billy Brennan's barn to-night,
 And there's the half-talk code of mysteries
 And the wink-and-elbow language of delight.
 Half-past eight and there is not a spot
 Upon a mile of road, no shadow thrown
 That might turn out a man or woman, not
 A footfall tapping secrecies of stone.


 I have what every poet hates in spite
 Of all the solemn talk of contemplation
 Oh, Alexander Selkirk knew the plight
 Of being king and government and nation.
 A road, a mile of kingdom, I am king
 Of banks and stones and every blooming thing.

And so, Ladies and Gentlemen...

What do I write about at this stage?

She walked in and some of us revelled in the terrific irony that those she had come to impress were no longer in the hall. Grand entrances should be well timed and let's be honest, she had got it all wrong.

Looking back, as you will have noticed I tend to do, I can no longer recall her face, nor can I recall any of the speeches that were given on any given night. What I do recall is how important these nights were for so many of us. Not because it was a chance to meet girls but because it was a chance not to meet girls.

The lads who left the debate early had a particular gift. Very often this gift was confined to the fact that they were good looking and grls liked them. They could 'chat-up' girls very easily because girls spent their time approaching them so that they too could look cool. I don't deny that I was jealous of those students and perhaps somewhere in the back of my mind that jealousy lingers. I wasn't the best looking guy in the school and, as I have shown earlier, I was incapable of talking to any girl.

The important thing was that I was not alone and the Friday night debates proved this. Those of us who got excited about the girls schools coming to town had all the insecurities of a security guard carrying a fistful of diamonds through one of the better parts of Cork city at 2am on a Thursday morning. However, ,we still had one skill that so many of the cools didn't have. The ability to talk in front of a crowd and not get embarrassed.

When the speakers on the floor had finished their attempts at convincing us that what they said was true the real debate began. One by one, the nerds would stand up and say their piece. This didn't happen in any random fashion. There was a hierarchy and we all know our place within it. It allowed those of us who were new to the discipline to watch the old pros before standing up to have our say. The statements were sharp, the humour pointed and the insults well-aimed. The audience would wake-up and the atmosphere became somthing almost tangible. As the adrenaline flowed for those thirty minutes or so, it was easy to forget that one was not the best looking or most popular in the room because one could create an alternative persona and hide behind it in public. For those thirty minutes we were alive, we were heard and most importantly of all we were the centre of attention. And we had no hair gel!

When the vote was taken it was all over. We became faceless creatures once again and blended seamlessly into our surroundings. What I remember now is that the really important part of the evening began although I did not realise it at the time. The few of us who shared the same interests and inhibitions would slowly make our way towards the city centre. I suppose we walked slowly so that we could savour the last morsels of whatever magic had enveloped us earlier in the evening. We talked excitedly about the most clever of statements that had been made and without ever requesting it, we informed one another of her reaction to each and every one. Then we went for a burger and chips, laughed some more and took the bus home.

By Monday the debate woud be old news except for those of us who were there to order the meal with a Coke. We had not gone, nor had, as yet, any desire to attend the teenage discos that were held around the city on Saturday night. We would smile at the stories we were told about the cools and their gang and secretly wish that we had been ready to take that first big step into discoland.

Which leads me to my next point...

Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentleman...

Re-reading the passages that I have written so far, it is becoming clear that as a younger man I suffered some sort of complex regarding the fairer sex. Indeed, one might easily argue that this is a complex which has survived to this day. (Just ask my wife!) Part of this must be due to the fact that I attended an all boys school. Another reason must be that I was the youngest in the family and was, naturally, protected like the most precious, precious of jewells.

The rest can be accounted for by the fact that while growing-up, I was a bit of a twat!

There was a strong tradition of debating in our school. On certain Friday nights the school theatre would fill with the high pitched voices of girls. We never debated against boys schools; we never talked to the girls in attendance. Given the choice of delivering a speach to an hormonal audience of sixteen year olds or speaking directly to a small group of girls, one always chose the easier option of addressing the crowd. At least when one addressed a crowd, the speech was prepared and there was always a natural finishing point.

I can not descirbe here the buzz of excitement that existed in the school on the day of the debates. Those in the know (the guys who had talked to girls, claimed to have girlfriends or who simply used hair-gel) would start the day by feigning disinterest. They would casually mention a few names of girls they knew from the visiting school while laughing at the thought of attending the debate. The cool girls didn't debate, they told us, and for some reason we believed them. A lot of the cools were rugby players. Girls liked them. They had cauliflower ears and liked rolling around in the mud on cold wet wintery days. These were very manly things to do and girls liked that. That's what they told us, and who were we to argue; they were, after all, much, much bigger than we were.

By lunchtime the excitement had reached fever pitch. The cools were slowly deciding to go because she was going and she was gorgeous. She liked rugby players with brains and it was a well known fact that anyone attending a debate had brains. She also had a special interest in the night's motion 'That this house would send all men back to Mars'. Yes indeed, she was a tough nut to crack but it could be done, they reckoned, so they agreed to go to the debate en masse. The rest of us were the lucky ones. We got to watch the cools at work. There was absolutely no doubt that the cools would crack the case and another young lady would be initiated into the society of Rugby Players with Girlfriends.

The reality of course was much different. As the hour approached, she was nowhere to be seen. The cools were suddenly at a loss regarding what to do with themselves. Here they were, cool but at a debate, which was totally uncool and yet, if they walked out, they would look even more uncool. While the rest of us cast a cold eye over the young ladies who had been nice enough to attend the debate on time, the cools walked in and out of the hall repeatedly to make sure that they had been seen by all. By the time the debate started, they had positioned themselves along the back row nearest the door. The plan being the same as it was for every debate; stay long enough to be noticed but leave early enough to be cool.

The lights would dim, the chairperson would call for order, insult a friend and get the debate going. One by one the speakers rose to pasionately argue their case. They engaged each other in rousing points of order and eyed each other up in a manner that suggested that the debate would not end at the bell. Time whispered by among the audience and the surrounding darkness highlighted those who filled our world with reasoned rhetoric.

Oblivious to arguement, the time neared for those with the hair gel to leave. One by one their seats whispered relief at their departure and with the determination of cat stalking it's prey they manoevred their way down some steps to the door. With one final look to the crowd, they shoved open the door exited.

That was when she walked in.

The Planter's Daughter

Few things in life are a strange as a single-sex education. To be honest, it wasn't so much as single sex as 'No Sex' but considering the circumstances I suppose I should be grateful for that. This is not to say that I did not enjoy my school years. Quite the contrary. I had a ball in secondary school and the fact that the school was all boys merely meant that I had time to develop my own unique personality without the pressure of having to impress girls.

Naturally, however, there were side-effects.

For most of my second level education, girls remained a mystery to me. I never liked mysteries. They made me nervous. Our school used to finish early on a Wednesday and I had to endure the torment of passing clusters of giggling tormentors on the way home each and every week. While they were probably talking about something completely different, I always felt as though the gigglers were laughing at me. But that's the thing about being thirteen, fourteen or even seventeen. We become so self-conscious that we forget that it's not the looks that matter it's the personality.

To make matters worse, I lived in an estate (a "park" as my mother liked to call it!) which had a girls school at it's entrance. I can't prove anything, but I am pretty sure that all the girls used to lie in wait on a Wednesday afternoon until they could see me making the dash for home only for them to emerge in 'giggle groups'. I still feel embarrassed now at the thought of it. There was only one course of action a fellow could take. Eyes focused on the ground, I would plow forward regardless of what stood in the way. Every now and then I would disturb a group of pretty stubborn gigglers but generally the plan worked and I would reach the safety of the house door in one piece, if a little red in the face.

Looking back it is hard to believe that I could ever have fallen in love before I left school. Yet love is an unusual thing. It seeks you out and haunts you until you give in to it's charms at which point it slowly weaves a web about you. The web that trapped me was woven in the Spring of 1992. It was a beautiful web; delicate to the touch but strong enough to hold me in its charms to this day. I was not the only one to fall for her. Most of my classmates thought that she was the most exotic creature they had ever laid eyes on. Much of our lunchtime discussions centred around which ofus would be her most suitable mate. I rarely suggested myself, but meeting her again, as I did recently, I am quite sure that we would have enjoyed a classic romance.

We never held hands. Never felt the warm tingle of a first kiss on our lips. We never even walked together. If she had ever known how often I looked at her and thought about her, she might well have been scared; but I was hidden by the trees as the men were hidden by the glasses from which they drank. Sometimes a lady is so beautiful that one cannot approach for fear the picture might in some way be ruined. What if she giggled? What if she looked past me towards a handsome shadow in the distance? As it happens, I don't think she would have done any of these things. She was too nice. Even the other girls knew that (and if I'm not mistaken many of my friends compared their girlfriends to her, to devestating effect).

Yes, she was truely beautiful. I am glad that we have crossed paths once again.

I believe that it is time you were introduced. Eyes down now...

The Planter's Daughter
When night stirred at sea
And the fire brought the crowd in,
They say that her beauty
Was music in mouth
And few in the candlelight
Thought her too proud,
For the house of the planter
Is known by the trees.

Men that had seen her
Drank deep and were silent,
The women were speaking
Wherever she went -
As a bell that is rung
Or a wonder told shyly
And O, She was the Sunday
In every week.
Austin Clarke.

The heart drops. The sound of giggles pass.

It Begins!

I have always wondered about blogging. I have reached the age of 35 and have found, to my horror, that computers and technology are beginning to pull away from me. I am hoping that this is one of those things that I can change; that somehow, by mastering the art of blogging I will scatter the assault of time on my person for a little while longer. Looking at all the different tabs above - Settings, Layout, Edit Html etc. - it looks as though it will be a long battle.

Fortunately, I have prepared for this battle by considering previous battle I have fought and survived. I say survived, because I am not so sure that I can say that I won too many of them. The old Leaving Certificate exam was one such battle that comes to mind. I was never the greatest of students. In sixth year I paid a good friend of mine to do my French homework for me every mornig before class. It seemed like a good idea at the time even if the friend in question had chosen Latin instead. In spite of my reluctance to participate in the endless ritual of homework, I passed the final exam only to find that in later life I fell in love with France but found it impossible to speak to anyone there! Thankfully the French word for toilet is not too different from the English.

English homework was different. I loved writing. I loved reading. I loved talking about writing and reading and English was the one place where I could do all three. I am sure that I spoke 'an infinite deal of nothing' but those who taught me nodded thoughfully at everything I said and gave me the impression that my opinion counted for something.

That was the important thing. As a teenager I was shy and awkward and I believe that I expressed myself through the writing of others. What I mean by this is that I always seemed to find aspects of the course we studied that related to me and I tackled them with the ferosity of a Munster pack. I understood Hamlet's procrastination (and how I loved to use that word) easily. I recognised the men who 'drank deep and were silent' as a mirror image of myself. Voicing my interpretation of the works in class was, in reality, my attempt to highlight things that were of concern to me.

Over the years I have changed. I still procrastinate, mind you, but I have found new ways to be heard. This blog is going to be my private diary in the public domain, much like the voice of that boy who used to speak-up in English class all those years ago. I hope that if anyone reads this they will enjoy the battle we are about to wage against time. In looking back, I hope to really remember all the emotions that the old Leaving Certificate Course stirred in me. If you like, you can join me. I won't know you're there but I'd appreciate the company.

I hope to post a little section of the old course on here once a week. It might not always work out that way, but when it does it should be a blast. Sometimes it'll be poetry, others prose or Shakespeare. I'll start next week. I even know where I'll begin. The first time I fell in love. Ah...l'amour.

Forward, march!