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TRIPLICATE
By
James Fitzpatrick
SMASHWORDS EDITION
PUBLISHED on Smashwords
ãJames Fitzpatrick 2010
The right of James Fitzpatrick to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with all copyright, Designs and Patents acts
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Contents
1. Autumn
2. Tricoteuses, for Maudlin Troy
3. A Full Life of Narrow Streets
4. Haze
5. A New Day
6. The Hill
7. New Teutonia, the Burning of Proust and Hemmingway
8. A Snowball and Napoleon
9. Belief
10. Crossroads
11. Old Men, Young Men
12. Sunday Evenings in the St. Regis
13. 18
14. The Belle of the Rose
15. Early Incipient Gleam
16. Fuadach nan Gàidhea (Expulsion of the Gael)
17. Labels
18. Butterfly in my Pocket
19. Retire and to Avalon
20. A Trip to the Dentist
21. All Shimmering Horizons
22. Dodo
23. Oliver
24. Any other day
25. 'Old Blue'
26. IT
27. Christmas
28. New Year's Eve
29. The Children of L’Oiseleur and the lady of Heaven
30. The Protector of Knights and Kings
Mini Bio:
James Fitzpatrick is a poet, playwright and Script Writer born in Cork and brought up in Dublin Ireland. He is the creator of the Triplicate method of writing poetry explained below, and is in the process on completing a 3 (Long) poem collection called ‘Conquest’ out March 2011. He is currently working on a Book and accompanying Screenplay called ‘Fisherman to the Fuhrer’ completion date Summer 2011. He currently resides in Dublin Ireland and has been involved in poetry since the 1990’s.
Triplicate/Triplicism
A Triplicate is classified as one of a set of three identical objects or copies. In this use of word the poems are set out to cover 3 topics. ‘Triplicism‘ is the Method and Form name, using the Themes as the cover and Opinion as the root of the creation. Example below.
E.G.
Lincoln signs Emancipation Proclamation Main Theme (Abolition of Slavery the breaking down of barriers)
The signing of the Good Friday Agreement may be the Sub theme (The coming together of cultures and religions creation of a stalemate)
The signature of the first cheque for a piece of Contemporary Art The opinion (The creation of a conflict between contemporary and modern for Media space and time, plus government and private funding).
Notes:
Most poems will carry some notes. It is a method applied to the ‘James Fitzpatrick Poetry’ Group on Facebook and was devised because of the want of explanation as to the meaning of some poems. ’Conquest’ will carry nearly 20 pages of notes at the back of the book relating to the poems.
Cover Art:
The cover art is a take on a portrait painting of Joseph-Ignace Guillotin who was the inventor of execution devise the Guillotine. The picture represents a view of how contemporary art has affected modern’s place in society and how Individual country’s economic growth may be affected by IMF intervention. ‘Triplicate’ is written using blue ink to represent the Corporate connection to the damage caused to both Modern art and the Global Economy, cutting across the throat and neck of the inventor and creator, the red ink on the name represents where both art and General economics will notice the largest changes, socially. Art and Economy are the two central Themes, the Opinion comes through the blurred background, and the lack of surety the future holds for the writer and the creation and strength of a new method.
Autumn
There’s Creaking, stretching, humming and licking,
As pages are flicked,
Through blue veined fattened fingers.
An Old weathered troubadour leans back,
Staring blankly at a Familiar Woman,
Who’s weeding her way through modern suburbia….
From outside to inside,
Sounds of heavy blows and frequent pants,
Smash their way through aging cobwebbed panes.
These great protective sheets, of scribbled hue,
Sit peeling in a late summer breeze,
While the wrinkled man dunks another custard cream.
He’s waits and watches,
For Fall’s delicate ship to finally dock,
To Drop anchor,
Amid the green golden footprints of another summer.
The western bees buzz by, amassing their winter army.
Over a lazy back wall,
The hedge line attacks the shed filled stock,
Silently creeping beneath a streaming Light,
As it Peers through outstretched naked arms, stinging climbing ivy.
That autumn glow hunts with searching spotlights,
And devours the unsuspecting,
Seeking the Hardened clover, as it rustles amid the Stony clay beneath .
The well fed soil fears no beams,
Or Crunching of innocent roots, now splintering under the strain,
But hides from the spell of footprints,
As they come clumping by.
For the lady,
As the difficult raking builds up a cooling sweat,
Autumn buries it’s head on summer’s shoulder,
Sprinkling dead fingers over the seeds
And grasses of springs silver tapestry.
This woman could weed,
A botanical ‘mastress’ of Olympic stature.
Older there’s no doubt,
But still revered among the gentlemen, down
At The crumbling bingo hall.
Roughened Shovel hands grasp and pull and twist and tear,
Then plant and work
The softened soil with fork and the magic of experience.
She was old school working with new boots.
Her mother, a giant of a woman,
Had tilled the same furrows, working the
Ancestors of newly slaughtered moss
Till they screamed with a rip.
The Hedgerows grow slowly out of remembered fear,
Of how this old lady could bend her back.
A poem which relates to both Seamus Heaney’s ‘Digging’, the EU and the unfortunate movement of art from the Modern/Post Modern to the contemporary. The poem is written from the viewpoint of the Voyeur or third party. It watches the creation of a new Europe, and new form or Art while respecting the old. In this the old man watches his wife, a follow on from Heaney watching his father dig and how it reflected the passing on from generation to generation, also there is an admiration of previous and inspirational poetry such as ‘Stony Grey Soil’ by Kavanagh and how it affected Heaney. The old lady is respected as is the Older more refined Europe, but where the poet finds the need for change in politics he does not necessarily agree with the cultural and populist changes in art.
The poem uses different images to create ‘Triplicism’. E.G.
‘But still revered among the gentlemen, down
At The crumbling bingo hall‘
The Bingo Hall, refers to 3 things. The first being the ‘stereotype’ of what is old, to some it was new when it first arrived, such as a political ideal (e.g. Lisbon treaty) or artistic movement (e.g. Modernism) or the bingo hall itself. The second is the ‘Togetherness’ of the ideal. In art it’s the ‘Movement’ in Politics it’s the ’Parties’ and ‘Agreements’ and finally in the Community it’s the coming together of peoples. The third and final aspect is ‘State’ of the Bingo Hall. Here it is crumbling in need of repair or replacement, as in the ‘System’ of political reform, the format of ‘Contemporary art’ the lack of ‘Community Spirit’.
Tricoteuses, for Maudlin Troy
Virgil’s piece extends across A well oiled map,
Now framed by a jealous aging Aphrodite.
Foreign painters sketch the faith of weaker brothers,
While tightened armies slide on sticks with shrouded gifts.
Why do they climb our walls and jump ashore, will no Soldier dare to stand?
Now harrowed by a sharpened edge, and cursed with histories of past riches,
Abundant men no longer fear, the arrowhead so quietly dulled.
They’ve robbed the laughter from the crowd, the jeering nears
A biting end, the circus draws it’s bloody clowns,
Will she stand or bow or cry?
Cast now upon the hill of time, Should we curse the man behind the Easel?
Or shake the head, readying for the fall, Was there er’ a Troy for Maudlin to wall?
Both poems ‘No Second Troy’ (W.B. Yeats) and Tricoteuses, for Maudlin Troy, follow the same structure of questioning through lines 5,10,11,12 and although both are close to 100 years apart they rely on the circumstances of time to bring them together. Yeats uses Helen of Troy to represent his own hero in Maud Gonne and the first poem uses Goya as a story teller painting a two layer picture, one of the Battle of Troy as a background (representing the embattled Irish Economy and the war between contemporary and Modern art) and a person facing the Guillotine in the foreground (representing both Irish Sovereignty , and the eminent death of Modernism). Yeats determines the people Maud is leading will never be able to free the country, later detracting this commentary in Easter 1916, in the first poem the question is asked again as to whether there is someone who can lead a weakened country.
A Full Life of Narrow Streets
Along a hill, at the edge of a great town,
A freezing blanket creeps as a soft sparse mist,
Hovering lightly above the body a of man.
For a few cool moments it envelopes him,
Soothing his tired senses,
As he counts loudly the passing of grey mountains overhead.
On a sound, he turns his gaze slowly left,
The bells are singing out a another defiant beat,
As snow lands softly on a faraway moon.
In front, but not close by,
Wet flakes melt lines of morning strollers,
With the hoofs of companions embossed upon the heather.
His eyes close as he settles to dreams of futures possible,
Picturing rows of steaming turrets, sharpened blades,
And crumbling fear, as they draw known faces on fancy paper.
He hears whispered talk of sagging brows and lobbing smiles,
Scribbling and Scripting our morning news.
New artisans paint Headlines in his head,
“Work, save, and Beg.
Make ends meet,
Work those streets,
Bare them writers, debaters,
Leaders, loiters,
Teeming with poor lice“.
Upset now, he straightens, filled with sculpted fear,
And flagging hope,
Devouring ideals of painful labour,
Darkened evenings and prose.
The Narrow Alleys echo his comrades screams,
‘They are Flogging the undesirables‘.
Cries of the deserted ring out in his ears,
As sweat now pores on dirtied boots.
On A One page of women Jubilant,
Black Coffins swim across the oceans,
Singing corpses chant the Voters Slogan
‘The great appear great,
Only because we are on our Knees’
The Parisians have embraced the soul of his youth, stole his heart,
Hardened his resolve,
And emancipated print the newest of his chapters.
He’ll fall upon the lords great will,
The ‘Singers’ and ‘Wobblies’ will call and cheer,
While unrest leaves lanes of torn and listed books.
It’s a world only make believe could,
Make so real.
Locked in, Locked out,
Fattened Guerrillas stalking shadows,
In jungles of law and lands.
Their people Long since, Ner’ forgotten,
For He hears their whispers in his sleep.
This Farmers land, had workers lead
Their kin To the gates of Slaughter,
Then scavenged, begged and stowed to the cloudy Hill
Of Overlooking
To remorse or return, is a question beyond the door of the living,
He must Shed not for the defiant butcher,
But more for the life now gone,
Since sold to an aging critic.
He was Born in to the Poor mans world,
But now freed from it’s chains,
Must help make what‘s fallow ripen.
On the streets where rumble were once great walls,
Where mounted high, the heavenly stag did Breed,
In fields where blight had starved their plates,
He would toil and drive and Dig and Build.
That day, That day in May,
Upon a hazy heather pillow,
A life of history filled a lonely man.
As He lay and held the hand of glories past,
He raised a fist to salute the one which had just begun.
He shakes hands in his dreams of men in mist,
Along hills, at the edge of great towns.
A poem which explores a story of realisation of an Irish farmer robbed of Land and forced to travel to America to find work. He comes in contact with James Larkin and James Connolly and is inspired to learn how to read and write, bringing him in to contact with novelist James Joyce. Throughout his travels and work he keeps his religion close to him, reminding himself of what St. Patrick had brought to Ireland and what he had come to mean as a symbol of the country worldwide.
In this piece he is daydreaming, staring across The Hudson bay area to Manhattan New York from a hillside. He is alone with a copy of Ulysses and thoughts of returning home to help fight for the re-instalment of Ireland as a sovereign nation. He has heard of the execution of Connolly 1916, which has had him leave work physically sick, knowing he may not go back to his job, feeling he had been summoned for great deeds. He dreams of this call to arms, to take up the fight to protect Ireland’s sovereignty, and hopes to return to his homeland, but as with all dreams the reality is hasher then it’s more foggy of cousins, and the leaving of his own dream harder still.
HAZE
As early morning saliva rests with cobweb graphics,
On a master-plan of natures carpet roll,
Grubs bask in beautiful soft duskian strokes,
Stretching crawling and wriggling then plucked.
Confusing direction signs comic a hedgehogs stroll,
While balls of yesterdays cuisine is juggled by a blackshell.
Then as early morning composers fight for the airwaves,
I get a wink, from a faraway star, through the walls of a fledgling’s winter Dome.
A New Day
We sit, remembering her stroll by our canal,
With her lipstick coated crusted lips, her long mermaid hair,
And her culturally motivated boyfriend.
Passing seniors casting Napoleonic glances, at plastic boots,
And fashionable bag.
Musty levelled friends, throw eyes over a balding polished membrane.
Decadent scalp scratched twice monthly, on fortnightly visits
to cliff top holiday shacks with express plastic.
A trenched coat neighbour slips compressing a lopsided grin,
dropping their sour milk on sick stained door matt.
Years on, Our dark figure now blonde,
drives its way through yesterday’s history,
Casting glances at life’s cross roads,
Never stopping, but to park and walk.
Pain lifting with the morning sun as she speeds on,
As Grins gel in to laughter, at chips laid and lost.
The Hill
You are Standing at my highest point,
Above a Golden line,
I spy and watch you slowly crumble,
Imagination mine.
I send the icy flowing sea,
Rising as a soup.
Your cold feet pinch your toes once more,
As you tie another loop.
The clouds begin to greatly gather,
Giving you some flack,
Again stroking loves and fears,
Once down, there’s no way back.
You take the big leap out of chance,
Tracing carpets pure,
Edging left before the dance,
Unknowing, but somehow sure.
You look back soon, to lose your step,
Steadying, safely moored,
Your return would now be deemed a failure,
It’s how it’s all construed.
You break the Crest one Third from down,
Feeling proud you got this far,
Trotting like a thoroughbred,
But thinking simply of the end.
Soon the grass meets darkened path,
Beyond which the river’s sat,
Browns and minnows and other such things.
Creates a smile from the harshest dim.
As You stand upon the bank so broad,
With my shadow in full bloom,
You now consider me a fraud,
And begin to fight the Gloom.
You look back again my boy,
Your footing now ideal,
You have beaten me badly how,
For now I’m but a field.
From the skies an eye does now appear,
Where once there was just fear.
Dare not let the Billy go, Dare not let it go my dear,
For a cup of brew, is all you’ll need, it’s all you need for sure.
The writer ’Hill’ plays the part of Depression in this mini ‘Play-Poem‘, which was created to ultimately become a duel between the reader and themselves. The setting is the edge of a steep Hill (Representing the pinnacle of someone in life) which has a steep slope, clouds circling above and river at end of a path which people decide to enter (Virginia Wolfe’s Suicide) or walk away or to dismiss exists.
The Piece is written in Triplicate and in simple ‘Rhyme’ format. Little description with flow taking more prominence as it makes it easier to recite and remember. Also the simplicity of the wording helps give the meaning the central position as opposed to the description of the meaning being the focal point here. The three central themes are: ‘Depression/low self esteem/pressure’ ‘Return to self awareness and fitness/challenges/Being lost adventuring’ ‘Political Arrogance/New Political Landscape and new Political beginnings’.
As the poem comes to a completion, the shadow of the ‘Hill’ which represents the fears you have had before you finish, becomes a flat and open field, thus giving the impression the ‘Hill’ is something you have created, but which does not actually exist. The premise lies behind the belief that all pressure is in the main self-made, but that with guidance support and help the pressure and stress subsides, and thus the idea of difficulty becomes no more.
(Excerpt From) New Teutonia, the Burning of Proust and Hemmingway
It followed then, on an orange spring morning, across a calm burgeoning landscape, Birds flew
Skyward in darkened masses,
Scattering then swooning.
The lands below them swarmed with the dotted revelry and haughty ignorance, where
Spawned, Growing Un-like for the same, and before.
Teutonian shadows, scour the drifting minds of youthful new Wartburgia, twisting turning
Unfallowed Teens in to adult Cleansing machines.
Farms are quietly tilled, while chickens dance and choke on the fumes of a roasting hog,
Awhile the fields Bay for ink of the treasured.
Excerpt of a Poem written for National poetry day, based on the burning of ’Un-German’ books in 1933. A German Student Association (Deutsche Studentenschaft) proclaimed a nationwide "Action against the Un-German Spirit" burning over 25,000 books in May of Same year. The action followed a haunting prophecy from 19th Century Poet Heinrich Heine.
“Dort, wo man Bücher verbrennt, verbrennt man am Ende auch Menschen":
"Where they burn books, they will also burn people."
Relates to the 21st century destruction of the modern classic, and emergence and terror of the conceptual and contemporary to the author, while focusing on the creation of the right in Politics and the relationship of the individual with the media.
A Snowball and Napoleon
From the Hazy and Smokey ruins,
Just Beyond the harvester’s Castle,
Come the Two now fabulously fattened Pigs.
As They trundle forward,
Shuffling from the left to the right,
They Howl and snort their farmyard anthem,
Throwing their snouts in to the chilling air.
Without demand, but to no surprise,
The skinny chickens join the beastly chant,
As The hard working stabled beef, but moo and nod,
And the sheep Secretively Stamp to the sound of the future.
In shiny coats, but hard ridden, the Mares stand side by side,
Clad in the smell of the fumes from the past,
But Ready to breed the brood of tomorrow.
Their entrance complete, the well dressed pork,
Dance to clean in the murky waters of the Garden Pond.
They lay under the Burgeoning sun of another Empire,
Before climbing their well formed mound, of steaming dung.
From here, the new king makers, survey our lands,
Clad in the Cloth of the Royal Baboon
Tails Curled by beauties of far flung cultures.
But, as they Slowly simmer in the afternoon heat,
The oppressed silently march below,
Past the crowing Cocks,
Softly massaging the protecting hounds,
And on to hills of Forgotten masters plains,
To build, to beg, to boast
Of an Island once again
Reference used is George Orwell’s ‘Animal Farm’. Was written as Ireland was being represented in talks with IMF/EU on Debt and it’s repayment.
Belief
(“Patriotism is not enough”)
What if I told you,
There was once a woman stronger then
A Squad of 16 men,
And that the one man who could of saved her, didn’t,
But celebrated her death as a victory.
And What if I was to tell you,
There was once a Soldier
Who would one day save the world,
Only To have us pretend he didn‘t exist,
Till we made a film about his life.
That a woman we wouldn’t let sit beside us on a bus,
Would change history
And inspire a movement.
And that a man with no legs could take a seat in the skies,
Only to land walking taller then the people who crippled him.
What if I told you,
That there was a another more special person,
And that there were nations of people who believed in them.
And that one day, they too would be talked about.
And what if I was to tell you,
That was you
To Celebrate ESPN’s 30 for 30, this is a Poem celebrating little known highly motivated and Inspirational Hero’s of Life as opposed to Sport.
The four People Referred to are:
Edith Louisa Cavell (4 December 1865 – 12 October 1915)
Knut Haukelid (May 17, 1911 in America – March 8, 1994 in Norway)
Irene Morgan (April 9, 1917 – August 10, 2007)
Douglas Robert Steuart Bader (21 February 1910 – 5 September 1982)
“Patriotism is not Enough” is one of the last quotes of Edith Louisa Cavell before she was shot for helping over 200 British and Germany Soldiers in WW1
Crossroads
The old man with the clay pipe, Settles back,
Packing Another chamber, and sucks deeply.
He lies on the grassy tufts, under the weathered crossroad sign
Which Creaks and moves softly above.
The blackened road ahead Shivers under the haze of
Burgeoning heat,
While Around him, Nature buzzes, Flutters and tweets with
Familiar sounds.
A mile away, a mature couple’s rattling car, winds it’s way slowly through beef
And grain land.
The broad yellow sheets swoon back and forth,
While Feathered Planes take quickly off, Gliding and stumbling
On the busy strip to a landing stop.
The worn and stained car map lays open on the lady’s lap,
As the old man grumbles about the lack of straight roads.
Hungry though, they march on in their old red convertible,
Followed now By the shiny blue car of yelling youths behind.
The Old Man on the mound watches the noisy vehicles come to a stop.
The red car Turns to the left and on to the Boireann, the
Shiny musical one, spinning right and on to the city.
He smiles as stretches and Lies back,
Puffing sucking chewing on the stem, his little
Piece of hardened bog wood.
This poem reflects both the history and impending future of Irish Politics in the eyes of the author. The Old man holds duel character here, representing the aging yet puerile classical Irish poet and the impassable hedgerow or mound for central politic.
Old Men, Young Men
It’s an early morning rise and rusty car,
Or A Daybreak tune in morning mist.
It’s the lonely car’s shadow in an emptying Park,
Or The gun and cloth, bullets and shining leather.
It’s the morning meeting and impending woe,
Or The lines of brotherly men praying and murmuring.
It’s the lunch time rumours and tapioca pudding,
Or The final order coming in over the phone.
It’s the one on one afternoon meeting with HR,
Or The hand to hand with sharpened bayonet.
It’s the wavering glaring digital extra 0‘s,
Or The friends who fell screaming reddened and alone.
It’s the smiling friendly interviewer and promotion,
Or The dirtied bloodied letters home .
It’s the realisation,
The demoralisation.
It’s the new job in towering offices,
Or The day you carry a friend on board.
It’s the buying and selling the fortunes of others,
Or the sacrifice of others for you.
It’s the papers and Channels expressing new fears,
Or the fearless stares of war ridden faces.
It’s the shock of a recognisable foe breaking,
Or the arrival and disembarking.
It’s the afternoon group meeting with HR,
Or it’s the Mother and Father in painted room.
It’s the packing of boxes and shocked impressions,
Or the Lifting of memories in crafted wood.
It’s the unending crisis and stories of woe,
Or the dept of Love and incomparable loss.
It’s the Demoralisation,
It’s the Realisation.
A piece on quote 'War is old men talking and young men Dying'. It's used here to help reflect how important employment has become to the point of life or death for some. It's also paints a picture on how promiscuous 'Conceptual' art has become in media terms and how 'Modern' and 'Classical' forms of art are being sent to an artistic grave. How large amounts of funding (Towering Offices/Large outdoor Million dollar contemporary pieces) are being spent on an art form with a historically short lifespan, but the classics are being forced out of the mainstream and work to the point of extinction.
Sunday Evenings in the St. Regis
The cooling evening drizzles by,
Mistily Squeezing through,
A Cracked Window,Curling, caressing a grey complexion.
I’m lobbying alone again, watchfully listening, counting my
Bag of Chupa-Chups.
Again, That Spaniard’s Fried Eggs swirl past,
Wafting up Lobster scent,
As the dring dringing of phones collide with the
Fizzing of my Alka-Seltzer.
Soft Lipped seats
Swallow me slowly, as I drift in to a coloured darkness.
Front Right,
Two Lawyers Argue about the path to The afterlife,
As a quiet Waitress chirps with the Mushroom Salesman.
My honeyed toast is delivered by a Disney like Character, foot long
Bread accompanied by mystical laughter.
My Evening complete.
As the time passes,
And the Surreal Egg Man anoints the Salesman’s present,
The Stony Charactered patrons tut-tut the interruptions.
A Bar empties of it’s central Character, as Spellbound tourists mumble
Incoherently.
He’s leaving alone,
As the group behind knifes in to their shiny shells,
Staring at my red succulent mouth.
With beating heart, I lift my full stomach.
The phones have all gone quiet.
A poem relating to an incident which took place in a Hotel Bar in the St. Regis Hotel in New York. It is said Andy Warhol offered a Lithograph of Marilyn Monroe as a present to Salvador Dali. Dali promptly urinated on the Object to the Delight of Warhol. Dali is said to have not respected him as an artist.
It also reflects Dali’s move from the centre of ‘Surrealist’ Movement. He was unofficially ‘delinked’ from the movement by it’s creator Breton, However without Dali the Group had lost it’s leading light. The bar in the St. Regis would have been attended by The Rolling Stones among others all there to be around Dali.
He is known to have travelled around with a small motorised toy in the shape of 3 fried eggs. To Dali this was all part of the Artistic Branding Job he gave himself.
The St. Regis gave him a platform to meet other artistic people he could impress his art on. He was able to get work in Disney for 6 weeks creating a cartoon which was shelved and only recently finished. He Did adverts for Alka-Seltzer and designed the Chupa-Chups Lollipop.
The evening in the St. Regis typified The effort Dali made publicly to promote Surrealism, which had been created by Breton among others after the war using Freud’s thinkings as a backdrop to their work. The final ‘Knifing’ of the Lobsters at the end of the poem refers to Surrealists efforts to distance themselves from Dali (Using his Lobster Phone as example of his different and better recognised respected style). Dali again represents the authors preference for the Classic over the less relevant pro-contemporary surrealists who fought with the eccentric artist for popularity.
The poem also refers lightly to the ‘Lobbying’ done by the writer to change the direction of Art, from the ridiculous to the more defined ‘Revivalist’ or to similar style, feeling the salesmanship of Dali, has become more important then the actual art. This is reflected through the use of Warhol who was to go on and use the influences from Dali in his Advertising Campaigns notably with Campbell’s Soup.
18
The lonely boy wakes, groggy, and to shouts and laughter,
Surreally surrounded by a world of country croquet, gramophones
Football and hot breakfast.
The big house in front welcoming and warm,
Where Cheers of joy waft through large open French doors, followed by cracking
In the distance.
Clouds of Bacon aroma drift through the hut's window as he
Turns sleepily on his right. Squeaky Wheels chase in circle of eights
Amid Clock code blackboard teacher's shouts for quiet. The Cold meat
Shivers as the Wagons Circle.
The scribbler writes home leaning on his polished Lewis, Scouring noting
His brothers, Describing the horror of the flying circus he attends in the afternoons.
The call is up, the blackboard cleaned, the scramble begins as fluffy clouds gather.
The loner scours for spying diving Albatross above,
As he enters his shiny new SE5,
He has no longing for orders on a muggy May afternoon, for the cane awaits the disregarding.
The rain pitter patters on the windscreens of the Suicide Club as they sore,
Onwards and upwards to the unknown.
Their courage is unlimited, their usefulness, 'Kaput'.
18 refers to the amount of flying hours a pilot in the First World War did on average before being shot down, while also referring to the year 1918, when Duchamp decided to walk away from NY and art for a year. In 1917 he proposed 'Fountain' was a new work/form of art. To the writer 'Conceptualism' drives art to surreal levels of simplicity and effort, allowing the depressing portraits and dark background of the early 20th century create the sinister atmosphere to the poem. 'Cold Meat' here are young artists/pilots sent to their deaths, if they did not follow the rules of engagement with the enemy/pro-contemporary critics.
The poem relates to the morning and last flying day of 20 year old Albert Ball (Veteran of over 50 duels, only to be killed chasing 'The Red Barron's Brother') and how his courage and fearlessness reflects art in the early 20th century. 'Kaput' is the final word uttered by 'The Red Barron' after being shot down by 'Rhys Davis' of 56 Squadron in 1918 (from the same squadron as 'Ball'). 'Fountain' signifies a turning point in 20th century art. The end of the classics running the museum floor space. After 'Fountain' the writer feels Art in some ways lost it's political and central themes, even though the intention of the creator was to shift the focus of art from physical craft to intellectual interpretation. In doing so, for the poet, ‘Art’ lost it’s core and replaced it with it’s shell.
The Belle of the Rose
The Morning's Bluey Turquoise torrents go growling past
With their white eyelashes blinking and smiling.
She's standing there alone on a nearby Rock,
Almost Wanting to jump in. To swim to nowhere.
Shivering.
Those Blue sky reflections, jump dance then sparkle,
As a Mermaid sits thinking drawing.
The Afternoon fills with the forests musical charm, The
Artist's Greens greys browns and Reds
Dashed with Yellow naive strokes.
The subject centred as the buzzards circle above the canvas.
Early evening howling brings the Blonde to rise through naked bark,
Crunching on springs winter helpings,
As the hoarders awakened stash brings life on barren ground
And on she goes.
It's all Her Silhouette now, unreachable, but recognisable. Her gait
Now changed to tiring steps and stumbles.
The Orange sky momentarily looms over the green pastures below, only to be
Gobbled by the craggy outline and brighter Orb.
Her hilltop shadow, distant, stands in Gatsbian Majesty,
The future, The
Princess of my dreams.
Early Incipient Gleam
As The Morning’s Dawn meets two sets of young eyes,
The ripened Orange sky caresses the green carpet below.
Succulent Apples , fully grown, fall bouncing
Against spring frost, splashing ice needles high
Among lengthening shadows.
Nature’s silver tapestry disturbed, newly grown but bitten
Green strands fade, whither.
The Lummarist completes his work as streams of Light
Duel with floating dust particles.
The dawn smiles brightly through shutters
Kissing me lightly on greying fleshy cheeks.
Monistic feelings run strong through coursing veins,
Like a Nulla through hard rock.
Her last, I’m dripping on hardwood below,
As Niobian sized tears, splash from the Motherly Angle above.
Paper grasped hard and torn bearing ill news, is crumpled dropped
A promise broken on a new sun,
The shilling paid will bury me in the morn.
Till tomorrow.
Niobe: Said to have wept so much at the death of her children at the hands of Artemis and Apollo that her complexion can be seen in rock formations at Mount Sipylus.
Nulla: Valley/River
Lummarist: Someone like Van Dyke who specifically used light in Painting
Was written at a time when a new beginning in Irish Politics was upon people, after the successful bedding in period after the agreement made in Ireland (The Good Friday Agreement) in 1995.
It’s central characters are a sickly and dieing child, being held in the arms of a loving mother (whom has lost other children in infancy) and a painter (Lummarist) who although broke himself gives them his last shillings, or symbol of last chance at peace.
The mother has been told she is to loose her child by the doctor paid for by her employer the painter. She must sit to receive the next payment, the payment which will help bury her child.
The child has not passed and plays on the possibilities of him/her living thus the agreement working. The painter represents the realties of living in this scenario, the not knowing the lack of compassion and the fact the painter must also finish and sell to survive.
Fuadach nan Gàidhea (Expulsion of the Gael)
That cold morning with the foggy breaths,
I remember we climbed back the hills of the seaweeders,
Arms flapping, dry lips sticking,
All striding upwards and forwards
Chewed heather spotted a natural purple Tapestry,
Built by yesterdays
Hands and hinds.
Stopping, Standing on the bare rocks of Fuaigh Mor, Counting
the curious bobbing white heads,
We were naked in our own unread ignorance.
Camera laden men and women carried the future to the past
Walking on the unburied,
Lost and enslaved.
On their final winter’s Morn,
They awoke to the cries of beasts and men, coughing blood and
Smoke from burning lungs, staggering here and there.
Proscription left them with rocks and sticks,
No Salmon
In Their rivers.
The Black Watch stripped the mighty ideals from painted canvas,
No Helmsdale exile to the rescue.
Homes ablaze with fiery pride, villages left stranded,
sparse, jobless, workerless.
The cool lower oceans beckoned the Improved, shoeless, potless, friendless.
Forgotten.
We pictured, scaled and digitalised the stony scrub,
Underneath the head of our host,
Rawlison grinning through an unpolitical lense,
On a sunny afternoon.
Then back to his lower greener lands,
Stopping high to breath the purer air, then on
Slipping downwards towards our new age horse.
We returned, as the cold blue morning melted in to an orange evening,
gelling the day in to one Trek over rugged Free landscape.
We reflect on The Wild Salmon's return to highland waters,
It's new dawne meeting natures hoar tapestry once more.
We leave remembering.
Relating to Clearances in Scotland approx 250 years ago, also incorporating the expulsion of Modern and classic arts from the media and it’s replacement with the less cultured Contemporary.
Labels
Department strolling...wandering in a daze of
Different colours, textures, sizes and styles, all alone and unflustered.
It's a present, a big surprise for someone I love, better
Then 'I care' or 'Just for you' no, it'll be new boxed and well labelled.
There's no receipt needed, it fits so perfect in the mirror, it could almost
Wear itself. No fear of reprisals for copy catting, no slagging off
Nor making faces, this is unique. One owner new season.
She'll stand out like a catwalk queen eyes peering in jealous
Squint, she'll be tied to magazine fantasy. I'll be persecuted of course
By an older ideal of what is pure fashion.
As a customer, and innocent of advertising, I'll deny responsibility
Cowering behind better morals and motives. I am merely the procurer of said item
No fault I do bear bar a victim of unfortunate circumstance I'll say.
Box opened, the shock drawn like a Da Vinci sketch of taxied body, from mouth open
To ears closed the picture complete. The dream crushers chubby hands are dropped
For hankied nose blowing. The messenger shot, hands high pride low.
The dress size double digit stare is vacant, as is the hollow appreciation. The
Hunter killed by it's prey and dragged to be devoured by fallen tree and natural
Foliage.
Leaving silently to catch the sigh as you turn, this another page in histories chart
Of luck and dumb, you drift out.
Today's mistake, tomorrow's news.
The Trench Letter
I remember rain ricocheted down against the tarp cover, While I sat and watched droplets
Entwined like loving reptiles copulating, spiralling on my left staff.
It was Impossible to concentrate,
Not with such memories running through me,
Surrounded by freshmen nervously cleaning glasses only to muddy
Over and over again.
A lost Child mentioned in a forgotten lovers letter, Memories of
Parisian Coffee on a spring morn. It was A happy dying thought.
The whistle broke the scribbling silence to create a whispered hush,
'Bayonet's' our Masters cried.
Orders were met with prayers as grown men wept the final seconds of memory,
Lovers chased across beaches and fields once more to the background symphony
Of explosions and whizzing metal screams.
War is beautiful to those who benefit, we gained little in the
Fields of life and death. Our buckles and spirits barely held us up.
A minute Countdown and the pencils nailed the parchments to the mud,
Posties and runners would muse later, as we had done to fallen others.
In front right on rotten steps, He shifted uneasy while scribbling. He was 17,
Our youngest bravest soul who would not make manhood.
With Blonde hair, blue eyes, his mothers favourite had
A youthful smile which could hide the gravest fear. His head popped
Up, I smiled, he smiled and wrote some more, Dear Mum fading over a knee
In a river of melted lead.
A week before he had come to me, tales of lying ages, curious and full of life,
I knew we would carry his letter home.
The final whistle blew and this time with eyes closed we all mounted our hills.
Some fell where they stood, we ran over them as we screamed, and prayed as we ran,
We held our heads and bodies at angles to the right or the left,
We shot and did not reload, we shook but dare not forward look till
It happened.
A quick whistle and explosion in your chest, your arm your leg.
You'd cry for your mother till the devil himself begged the whistle blowers return.
It's how I imagined it for him, blonde hair sparkling eyes, as grown men
Surrounding a mud trodden letter, marched a crumpled body taken away.
The reptiles slithered in to the mud off the only shiny part of a dirtied boot.
The letter had slipped from my hand in to a pool of red stained water.
Only words stared up from melted lead.
Dear Mum,
'My father stares at me as we are about to go over, he knows not what I feel
For you both. He may not know me but he will be proud, I will make him proud'.
The Trench Letter
At a Marked grave in a wet French field, I stare at a white cross. A field of young flowers
Plucked before spring for the honour of old men in dark rooms. They have crippled me by proxy.
A tear filled grey haired lady places flowers at the grave beside. We catch each others watering eyes.
We stand and stare. Proud parents, lonely parents.
Ironic look at someone trying to create conflict for self or political betterment. It's done through the eyes of someone who meets their kid in the Trenches in World War 1 for the first time. He is unaware the boy is his son or why he lied to get to fight. The father is sure he will die but ends up burying his son. This parents refer to the economy which has now been affected by a generation of greed and lack of fiscal care, the younger person losing their life is indicative of the economy which will now be the norm for a number of years without political and social responsibility across the globe.
Butterfly in my Pocket
The sound of country rebounds around the aging Chevy
As a Blonde youth stares curiously out at pines and Swooping Mascots.
The odd turn in road meets with leaning smiling, squeezing of insect
Album. The collector anxious to add a new trophy, a new page.
At home sisters argue, then Blue eyes cycles off to find her rock.
The adventurer bares Mum's envelop, gripped tight, hair waving, afternoon cooling.
There waiting is the yellow speckled slightly dusty winged warrior.
Her fingers brush the colours, nose and guidance system. Athena curled to mouth.
A gust as a strange car motors by, leads to dusty spits and race home with bounty.
Home life is simple unhurried infused, as Motherly eyes gaze skyward while buzzards
Circle the valley below right.
Sister scrubs the aging monster, cursing the Green Murray luxury of another. But everything is just too
Quiet when alone.
As the big hand strikes six four feet march up the dust road. Worry casts shadow on deep hungry blue sky.
In
the distance, shimmering under
A heat haze, The Banana shaped seat
lies lonely on it's side.
There's a jog then a panic run. Screams
boomerang in the valley louder on return.
For days and cold
lonely nights, red and blue hats swarm like bees over tree covered
area,
Scouring beckoning but luckless and saddened.
No
sign of envelop, little sign of hope.
The rock lay bare.
She
had got her butterfly and had made them all proud.
A
Dovelike Angel, flying higher now but on different winds,
migrating
North, then waiting. Standing by her new rock for the
four feet to march and meet once more.
Butterfly in her
Pocket.
This was created after reading this story on CNN and on hearing more news of war casualties on different sides in Afghanistan and Iraq. The theft of innocence is no longer deemed a crime and in this case both the child and the M.I.A. Solider are forgotten only to be remembered by family not by sacrifice.
http://www.cnn.com/2010/CRIME/01/25/grace.coldcase.pockett/index.html?hpt=P1
Retire and to Avalon
It’s Last day jitters, as butterflies fly around your paunch,
Lift you in, and press the button.
A Yellow dusty Tinkerbelle sniffles as you rise.
With The Glass room now above tomorrow's tycoons, shirts skirts colours
Weld in to one, all a blur.
You smile to yourself drunk on New Years
Memories, dinosauric melodies make you tap your feet.
A cough wakes you from a drifting slumber in the archives, and you
Struggle straightening, you’re seventy years young, strolling weightless.
It's the Water machine, then on, nodding passing open plans filled with
Unfed fish, mainly just staring and not noticing, unkempt and unmanaged.
Mini Breakfast, Boxes packed and a wander over to the Kitchen. A nice smile and
Chuckle with Balkan from front desk, followed by some alien conversation about a fruity phone.
Before lunch a Corridor stroll followed by Picture gazing at stories untold and found out,
Firings hiring’s debates and debacles, the future the past the here and ever after.
Later, as the graveyard awaits the stuffed and well shot, you’re
Trapped by Glengarry's finest, leading and grinning with Naive pomp.
Afternoon gobbles You up.
Home time, and your beckoned. Pictures of cream and jam cake fill your pictorial senses.
At the office door, There's a Parting of the dead sea, leaving a red Monster insured and growling.
Old legs new wheels. You sigh and grin wildly inside.
Days end and butterflies return to lift you in to the glass room once more, full
Of foreboding, turning and holding the new handlebars.
The Blur decreasing now in to fine coloured patterns, Tycoons with faces, wrinkleless fashionistas.
You Sober march from the crucible of youth. New engine new map new plan.
Tinkerbelle sparkles as you stride through your past.
A Trip to the Dentist
Walking briskly, breathing the dragon’s fire,
You’re painted in navy overcoat and multicoloured
scarf.
Today, you walk the park,
The place filled with dark outstretched bards of many kinds,
Some creaking and all
twirling, then serenely resting.
Violent gusts hold you up, as you nervously count,
Clicking your fingers, thinking about last years photo's and stories.
You grin at memories of ‘Mitching’ and Holidaying, as you kick a leaf and
Nearly slip.
Leaving grassland, you cross the busy street to the old library,
Then climb Steps of marble with top hat of granite,
gargoyles stare as you buzz and enter.
Formalities over, and needled, Numbed you peer at a robotically desked officer,
Nodding, dribbling, smiling,
The waiting room empty.
Your dentist, with same smile greets you warmly.
There's a hand held out accompanied by muttered promises of painlessness but
it's just lips moving.
You are walked in and your mind made up. You're jabbed again.
Some time Later, As your Rinsing some giant marbles around your new bucket sized mouth,
And flicking a lizard tongue across soft Razors,
You wonder at all the fuss.
You smile back at a grinning idiot in a sink pots reflection,
As the Goodbyes are chanted and You leave feeling lighter.
At
the desk as you skip to the door,
Texting mumbling sucking
dribble, Wiping and smirking.
You trip back across a quieter road to a leafy wonderland, shaking your head, loosening the scarf
as you start to Jog a little.
You pass a human octopus, all arms and lips, with a beak chewing lunch
Enjoying a warm benched afternoon snuggle.
You're Immune to peril as you kick a dirty soaked collage, and fall.
Lovers distant chuckle,
while offering token gestures and sarcastic advice.
You’re Muddier now, less numbed and more pained,
So You stand as the gust of earlier returns.
An easterly breathes dragon clouds of mist in to an ever darkening sky.
Feeling less jaunty, and lonelier, you trek home past the living bookshelves,
On a path More travelled and less managed then before, no two roads but one
The wood is all but gone.
All Shimmering Horizons
In front of her, a deftly silent rolling hill shimmering in the heat,
To her left, black hats bump and scurry in hot dust piles.
Not far behind, where Zambos built another world, lay huts and homes
Igloo mountain tops flank her right, with prosperous green lawns.
At Hills peak, A cooling bottle of Cola waves away a
Monarch as a bird chirps invisibly on spying breakfast from a nearby tree.
Ahead left, and above, two great Gatsbian and bespeckled eyes, stare lifelessly,
Limply from great matchbox fantasies, as the crusader swoops for
For the winged feather as it floats behind a collection of mighty wood.
Right, Ripples chase each other across waters golden sparking a rainbow,
A war of colours taking place while insects struggle in jungle green landscape.
The road ahead lays littered but quiet, animals strangely pass in speed,
All the while a river of pain flows silently From Dessalives to Bouyer beneath.
Further on, with Hornet's buzzing overhead, as paper man passes with woodwardian smile,
She turns right, through voûtes françaises soaking up the sweet Smokey
Aroma of Burgos legacy. Suddenly, as quietness falls complete, Darkness shudders hallways Roofs and Chalky Domes, dreams and books start spiralling downward. Then, It's black.
Boots, dogs, flashing lights, as eyes blink at tomorrows Portrait makers,
No shawl for youthfully dusty face now freed, ultimately trapped.
Standing, shaking, wondering dreading, as Fitzgerald's paranoia spies a
Wonder, floating falling resting on an outstretched hand, beautiful dots and Athena lives on.
In front of her, a bustling straightened darkened hill shimmering less,
To her left blue hats march in straight lines piling tomorrows interest.
Behind her green lawns peppered with pearls of wisdom and hope,
And to Her right, Ice huts now melted leaves nobian lakes to seep
And prosper under light forgiving wings and shoes and books.
The Monarchical school stretches out to catch Many eyes not one smiling
Remembering, to a backdrop, of Golden Crossed Horizons.
This poem was written as part of an exhibition for 'Haiti Relief' with the subject matter being Horizons. I would rather use Horizons in the metaphorical as I can't paint of Take pictures to any standard bar a bad one. Even so the poem was created quickly with little forethought so please be generous in your critique but honest.
Brief Synopsis
The Poem relates to a girl and her trip to school the day the earthquake in Haiti struck. The girl represents through actions, the place of a narrator and through her eyes you get to see the two Haiti's. The one we know has been the destroyed and the one we hope will be rebuilt. It reflects the foreign involvement and paranoia very prevalent in Haitian society due to the change of Governments and the disparity between the rich and the poor. The girls feels the paranoia too with the two F Scott Fitzgerald (The Great Gatsby) type eyes staring at her from above the bank outside the 2nd floor Opticians. This type of poem could be very long incorporating the countries history and uprisings against oppression, but here it deals with someone who represents futurism within the country, the coming of age the jobs the technology the opportunism rather then the dull rigid rules of the past.
In the poem the left represents the socially deprived more union run workers and their plight, the right the more dictatorial political class running the commerce and country. Behind her represents the past and rebellions and in front represents the future or now and what is about to happen. The art form used to tell the story is self-dimentionalism, whereby you tell a story through a character or set of characters in a voyeuristic watchful distant manner. You observe and relate without judging or commentating but as with Campbellism it contains a start middle and end. The title represents constant false dawns of democratic security, the shimmering fools gold too frequently overvalued, with horizon after horizon bringing pain rather then relief. It finishes reflective of the strong faith in the people who dwell within the crumbled walls, and their ability to rebuild shattered minds and hearts through symbolism and belief.
Dodo
Savour, the last of the species, vigorously jotting
Painting it, scribbling on hidden rocks, caves and jaggedness.
Fattened are some by blackened hearts, scales no
Herbert would bare, first generation, last generation.
Critical Levels explained through lessened droppings,
Awhile Raphus Solitarius ghostly walks right by.
Hearty fire glows unevenly over wettened rocks, as we
Sit gaping at histories new metaphor churning on
A spit. Claws up claws down hoo hooting to the moon
As we pioneer our way to dawn, 100 or more steps to the end.
Tearing to the bone rampant breathes steaming in dawn's chill,
Mauritius leaner now, All's gone bar the flag and a friend named Alice.
To the writer a Dodo represents a dying Species of Artist, in this case it’s the modern poet. 'Savour' refers to what the poet wants people to do, as if every morsel of modernistic poetic creation will soon vanish in to the thickening black ink of contemporary critique. It is 'the last of the species' as Music Film and Sport have taken a front seat in modern society, whereas theatre prose and poetry are struggling 'vigorously jotting Painting it' it being their own demise. The irony here is the poem is about the beginning of the end of a cycle of art where 'scribbling on hidden rocks, caves and jaggedness' the critics, spies of stronger industries, stay hidden behind the murk of corporation and greed to bring down the simple scribe, without considering what is taking it's place. To the artist these are cave dwellers 'Fattened are some by blackened hearts' refer to their oil rich world and friends which 'Scales no Herbert would bare, first generation, last generation' Herbert, the first to find and name the unfortunate bird (1602 although the Portuguese would have come across the Dodo in 1507) would be sickened by or would probably utter 'The person who finds what is unique and different is often the reason for it's disappearance or eventual distinction' in inexorable guilt if alive today.
The scales refer to justice and whether there was any for the Artist or bird. The bird Herbert finds is new and trusting of people having been on an island away from predators and like the poet knows of no impending danger. Commercialism of art thus becomes the giver and taker. The first generation of known Dodo/Artist very quickly became the last. 'Critical levels explained through lessened droppings' refers to the level Amount of new good art and the opinion of the author of some new contemporary art and what it can be compared to. 'Awhile Raphus Solitarus ghostly walks by' at first this white bird which looked similar to a Dodo was classed as an 'Albino Dodo' this has since been disproved, similar to what the writer believes has happened with modern art, in the sense some non-original artists have walked in to the great Museums, and the great machine of world critique churned out fabulous epitaphs for the modern age. As if the Contemporary Art walked in invisible, while Modern art, now quiet ugly and out of fashion, had the door shut firmly in it's face.
'Hearty fire grows unevenly over wettened rocks' Hearty because the want to escape post modern, is so strong and it glows in the sense it's want for new, is being advertised, sold in a public vulgar manner. It's unevenness comes from the fact the campaign through programmes on 'Saatchi' art et all is not concise constructed or knowledgeable enough of the transformation from one form of art to another in different eras but merely a game for artists to expose what they have to sell. Rocks represents the strength of the campaign and the foundations with which the market feels it is based. Late night documentations and others on free channels 'as we sit gaping at histories new metaphor' have placed the modern and post modern poet on a white water rapid ride to extinction, but asking if it should have a place. The 'Metaphor' being 'As dead as a Dodo'. 'Churning on a spit' is the feeling the end is inevitable but being drawn out slow with new art failing to impress it's impassioned fan base or peers. However Modernists are stuck between what is new and what is liked, not quiet finding themselves any longer accepted, nor being discarded. 'Claws up and Claws down' refers to the fight of artists for poetic licence but the exposure to great mentors is weak. 'Hoo Hooting to the moon' explains the view of many modernists of contemporary and it's lack of intelligence and creativity, it's crazy idealism and belief the public will put up with it without questioning it. 'As we pioneer our way to dawn, '100 or more steps to the end' refers to how Art has now taken a road not travelled by many others in business maybe the wrong path, commercial first, 100 referring to the years approx it took for man to destroy an endangered species. 'Tearing to the bone rampant breaths steaming in dawn's chill' explains how artists of a modern age can feel art has gone, dawn referring to a new beginning for art, chill referring to how it feels to the author. 'Mauritius leaner now, All's gone bar the flag and a friend named Alice' the island country bares the Dodo as a symbol on it's flag, leaner less valuable referring Mauritius as the world of art, clean lines beautiful sandy colours expensive yachts moored outside Sotheby’s, all gone now, the new age rich the moneys which came and went in the world of art. The flag, flagship, representing Yeats's collection. His book, sitting more lonely then ever on the dusty lower shelves of Irish fiction, represent what Poetry and it's importance to our past now means to the new publisher the new bookshop and ultimately the new reader. Alice is Alice In Wonderland where Lewis Carroll uses the bird, then popular in culture as bones had been found proving the bird had existed to those living in the 1800's maybe 1850's, as a symbol of something lost forever.
Oliver
There was the boy, scared brown eyes, torn Green Jumper, Stood at
The west wall, alone confused not connected.
His new world, Vast, Shocking and Changing, All he had
Just gone, Vanished like it never existed, now parentless.
A Big vacant blonde smiled awkwardly, nodded
His way then turned us to her office. Images of her
Past staring behind wooden framed windows, Gardener
Glove in hand, peers through larger, through me.
Minutes, Paperwork, Pleading, legalising and signing all
The while Peach Petals Copter Downwards, softly landing.
Hand Shaking, nervous marching through old horror Alleys,
Yesterdays screams ringing in our ears, the trees more naked now sway.
Through wooden frames, brown eyes smile back, as pink
And white copters twirl once more, wax mountains leak name.
Canine growling at twisting green torn rag brings youthful laughter,
Amid shadows of outstretched naked branches and squinting windows.
Oliver is a metaphorical reference to 'Oliver Twist' the 'Orphan' (The original name of the poem) and a stab at modern day ‘Cromwellian’ figures who chastised Ireland's want to be economically and independently strong. It's a reference to the post recessionary Ireland which has come through regulatory changes Cultural Changes and Banking foreclosures or takeovers and where it now presides in the mind of the author.
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