Lockdown Reflections on Grey

Posted on by celfypridd

foto©robcullen16052021.

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Lockdown Reflections on Grey

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Waves of lines, white tides, rollers moving,

Breaking on another shore in another time,

Waves rolling in silence, slow as mercury,

Silver, shimmering, there is no sun in this sky.

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It is a panorama without feature, or horizon,

I can fix my gaze outward – it is fixed anyway,

Sunlight moves across the unmoving vista,

Unchangeable, and slow grey traffic passes.

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The windows of people’s houses have the blinds drawn,

Now and then, I used to see someone look out of their window,

They never looked at me, they never waved, made any sign,

I stopped seeing people, one day there was no one to see.

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I used to see people walk past, old couples mostly

They became fewer, sometimes ones, rarely two

The people walked very slowly. Walking so slowly

It was like watching someone move in slow motion.

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There are no people walking past – it becomes dark,

And the houses opposite don’t show their lights,

The supermarket truck used to deliver every week,

I’d see the same men, they’d ask how I am,

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The deliveries changed to just once a fortnight,

The drivers just leave the boxes outside the door.

A woman used to come out of her house and stand

Waiting for the bus to go into town, she stopped

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Standing at the bus stop. The bus stopped coming one day

Something felt wrong it was because the bus never came.

There are always ambulance sirens, blaring night and day,

Blue lights flashing, when they pass the house, they are gone

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I take no notice now it is constant they will stop one day

Outside this house to take me and I will be gone too.

Where are the people who believed in miracles? Why are they quiet?

People in the concentration camps asked – Where is god?

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They announced there are vaccinations coming for everyone,

They made it sound as if our scientists had performed a miracle,

they sounded like they believed a miracle had happened,

could a vaccine be found for depression and mental health?

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©robcullen16012021.

Mental Helath and Covid Lockdowns an iceberg shadowing its Titanic.
foto©robcullen16052021.

My Right Hand

Posted on by celfypridd

foto©fionacullen31032021

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my right hand

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my right hand holds the towel tenderly stroking dry

the pacemaker tucked neatly in under bulging skin

a pouch the surgeon made while I watched the film

the day before wires were pushed from my groin

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through the aorta with a camera filming inside me

guided to my heart I watched its voyage on the screen

above my head — then the announcement made

all arteries and veins clear — “vena amoris”

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I remember wedding rings on the heart finger

my right hand holds the black as night coffee

sticky as thick molasses swirling in the cup

my right hand holds the spoon, lifts the cup

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my right hand holds the knife blade holds the axe

guides the spade drives the steel into the soil

holds the pencil strokes the dog dries the dog

my right hand picks up the phone, opens the front door

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touches my mother’s face a foto taken one Christmas day

my right hand turns the key starts the ignition starts the car

my right hand holds your waist cups your breast feels your heart

fills another cup with coffee holds it out for you feels your warmth

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my right hand rubs tears from my eyes rubs tears from your eyes

gently smooths your cheek this is the hand that has a tremor

left overs from car crash PTSD flash backs night sweats nightmares

today it stopped — yesterday my right hand didn’t shake at all

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my right hand feels the smile on my face the grin feeling the emptiness

of another shielded day my right hand feels the warmth of the earth

my right hand an honest hand wrinkled with age with some scars

some used to be blue with coal dust, a silver scimitar on my right thumb

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from an accident in the street when the bike skidded overturned

the day after the coal had been delivered to Mrs. Jones No 9

the fading blue has gone only the memory remains unchanged

may be its healing nerve ends reconnecting forgetting editing out

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my right hand raised in a wave as I watch each child leave after a stay

drive away a too short visit close the door on a cold day my right hand

holds you holds your look of sadness holds you tight as I watch tears

fall for each child’s leaving feel you come into my arms my right hand holds you.

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this is my right hand that has not shaken another right hand in greeting

for a year this right hand will open the door shake a strangers hand once more

this right hand waiting to be shaken and shaken again by someone else

the right hand of a friend, someone close, someone else — long absent

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this right hand holds a voice on the phone perhaps a ghost on a screen

this right hand is waiting to be held feel alive to hold the warmth of someone

else

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©robcullen10052021

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foto©fionacullen31032021

The time for music*

Posted on by celfypridd

fotocredit picture alliance/CPA Media/Wagner

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This is the right time for music

the dead are carried in

a child wrapped in a shawl

this is the right time for music

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There is the right time for music

the drone of the pipes begin

a keening cry a prayer a hymn

this is the right time for music

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This is the right time for music

a plea for mercy for forgiveness

the burial place sought and dug

a child wrapped in a shawl

this is the right time for music

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©robcullen25042021

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*A poem in response to Dave Rendle’s poetic response to the Armenian Genocide — “No time for music”.

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foto credit unattributable

The New Emptiness.

Posted on by celfypridd
foto©robcullen010620

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The New Emptiness

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And I also know, that all through this land right now

People are dying. And so many will be left to cope

with the harshness of sudden loss.

Of being left alone. And all that it brings.

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As if that isn’t enough. I know too that tomorrow,

I’ll walk out in the rain, make my way through

shining green Hawthorn copses,

heavily festooned with white bloom and I’ll think of you then.

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27th April 2020

©robcullen010620

“The Decree of Ne Temerre.*”

Posted on by celfypridd
“Under the stone eyes of Mary*”. foto©robcullen110321

“The Decree of Ne Temerre.*”

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There is a photograph taken at People’s Park,

my mother, father and sister,

standing in front of the open gates,

I am a child in my mother’s arms.

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An uncle had died of TB,

a particularly virulent strain,

his brother he’d infected was in Dublin,

in a TB ward never to return.

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His brother had come home,

when the war was done,

his lungs carried the strain,

one brother infected by his brother.

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There was no freedom here,

a grandmother of one faith,

married to a grandfather,

of the state recognised religion.

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But the freedom was of love,

the way they joshed and laughed,

cocking a snook at cruelties conventions,

in dangerous times for either.

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Their love persevered,

in spite of the disconnection,

families estranged, rejection,

and so a lesson was learned.

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The love of a church to murder children,

with its smiles, those killing smiles,

the freedom of a church to traffic children,

with closed eyes and the endless miles of lies,

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the love of a church to brutalise,

young, single mothers, with nowhere to turn.

The freedom of a church to hide,

its crimes and the deaths of small children.

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And in their black clothed piety,

set themselves above all others,

absolve themselves of guilt,

set themselves above Christs teachings.

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There was no freedom here,

we watched with open eyes.

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©robcullen110321

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“Under the stone eyes of Mary*”. foto©robcullen110321
  • Enunciated in 1907, Ne Temere requires that all children of a mixed marriage be brought up as Catholics. Before 1907 the tradition was that the boys in such a marriage would be brought up in the father’s faith and the girls in that of their mother.
  • Ne Temerre resulted in couples of both faiths being rejected by their families, particularly farming families, where the oldest boys who married a catholic would result in the Catholic children of that family inheriting the land. But the impact of Ne Temerre had much, much wider repercussions than this and its a subject that requires greater study. I would recommend “Different and the same” by Deirdre Nuttall.
  • Ne Temerre to all intents and purposes was a cleansing of Protestants from the Republic of Ireland.
  • “Under the stone eyes of Mary” is the title of a novel I am currently editing.
  • Being second generation Irish was confusing on many levels, returning “Home” raised further confusions.
  • Having a Catholic grandfather excluded by his farming family, and a Protestant grandmother excluded by her family provided a minefield when returning “Home”.

©robcullen110321

Looking down through dead water.

Posted on by celfypridd
foto©robcullen3.12.2020.

Looking down through dead water.

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On the ferry,

I liked sitting

on the edge,

looking down,

through dead water*.

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I was returning

to a place

that was

and was not

my home.

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I had never

been away,

returning

on the ferry,

looking down.

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The River Suirs’

waters swirling,

muddy grey,

where it meets

the sea.

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In the morning,

waiting, waiting.

Nearer now

to the quay,

where he’d be waiting,

with the brake

and horses,

a pair in hand.

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Home again.

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Looking down through dead water.

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©robcullen06032021

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foto©robcullen3.12.2020.

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Dead water is the nautical term for a phenomenon which can occur when there is strong vertical density stratification due to salinity or temperature or both. It is common where a layer of fresh or brackish water rests on top of denser salt water, without the two layers mixing.

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or water eddying beside a moving hull, especially directly astern.

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or a part of a stream where there is a slack current.

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©robcullen3.12.2020.

NOT HERE ANYMORE NO MORE.

Posted on by celfypridd
Image for post
foto©robcullen30012021.

NOT HERE ANYMORE NO MORE.

Rob CullenFeb 4 · 2 min read

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Telephone call came at five,

To tell her he’d died

At four thirty,

Died in his sleep peacefully.

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She listened in the darkness,

It was morning,

But it lightness wouldn’t come,

For four more hours.

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She made a cup of tea,

Sat in the quiet of the kitchen,

Everything was quiet now,

So she made lists of who to call.

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It was two hours before she would call

The three children,

Let them sleep in the quietness,

Let them lie like she used to.

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She stopped herself from saying

“when he was alive”

Now she’d have to get used

To thinking of him — dead, not here.

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Not here, lifeless, not here

Anymore, no more,

But he lived, he had a life,

I am his wife I am here.

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He did good things, but he is not here.

No more, any more. No more.

Not here anymore, no more.

It will be light, it will be morning.

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Written for my sister Maeve who is here.

Maeve who is always here.

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When the Cadman’s arrived in Northern Ireland in the early 1960’s, the Roman Catholic population did not have political representation. They had the vote but the choice on offer to them was Protestant Unionist parties. The UK Labour Party was not allowed to set up its stall in Northern Ireland and Unionism was all powerful in the six counties. Roman Catholics were exposed to a hate environment extolled by Unionists. Housing conditions were poor, unemployment rife as was poor health.

Neither of the Cadman’s were catholic, or indeed of any religion. But Keith and his friend John Hume set up the SDLP along with other quiet men and women. They saw that political representation would lead to full emancipation for the Catholic population — Keith Cadman was one of those quiet men who worked behind the scenes, but whose quiet work in the end moved mountains. It should be remembered.

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Without the SDLP and John Hume the Northern Ireland Peace Agreement wouldn’t have taken place.

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We have a reason to be proud of quiet men.

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We have a reason to be proud of the women who stood at their backs through it all.

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©robcullen30012021.

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