The Words Zine

by the WORDS Writers Group performing @ The Art Hand

GOLD

FAIRIES

HEART

CRACKED

GHOSTS

TALKING

TREASURE

SPIDER

FOXHOUND

SHITE

ISSUE 2€ 2

CATASTROPHE

LIGHTNING

BOMBERS

LADDER

HIPPIES

SKYPE

RASHERS

JUGGERNAUT

VIKINGS

BELIEVE

Dearest Readers,

Welcome to our second issue. This time around we have a big variety of writing. From Stephen Walsh’s witty Christmas Conversation #276, to Speedy Kaynine’s sad lament and Matty Tamen’s The Prize of Love, all sorts of poetry and prose are covered in this December edition of the WORDS Zine. TheWORDSWriter’sGroupPerforming@TheArtHandhaditsfirsttwo Skype poetry readings last month. Mike Absalom, in Mayo, and myself, since I am now living in Spain, read our poetry for the event though we were bothmilesaway.Toexperiencesuchaneventthroughaconstantlyflickeringinternet while hearing snippets of poetry and prose was strange but interesting. To listen to the audience laughing at a witty line of poetry and wanting to laugh yourself, but feeling it silly to laugh because you are at least a thousand miles away. The Skype video calls have proved to be a popular new step for the WORDS event, who knows we might even stream the event live! The next WORDS event is Wednesday, January 8th at 7.45pm. The submissions deadline for The Words Zine is the 20th of each month. Please email to; roisin_ph@hotmail.com Full details; www.theArtHand.com/words or ring 051 292919. Thank you to all those who submitted this month to the WORDS Zine and I hope you have fun reading! The Editor, Róisín Power Hackett

WRITER PAGEStephen Walsh 3Sean Corcoran 3Greta Murphy 4Judith Flynn 5Clare Scott 6Mike Absalom 7Speedy Kaynine 8Anthony Mulcahy 10Mareike Eccleston 11John Daly 12Anthony McCarthy 14Matty Tamen 15Kathryn Curran 16Niall Geraghty 17Róisín Power Hackett 18Derbhile Graham 19

Produced @ The Art HandEditor: Róisín Power HackettLayout and Images: Sean Corcoran Distributor: Tom Power

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Christmas Conversation #276 by Stephen Walsh

"Is it here or there y'are?""WellI'vestartedupherebutI'mnotfinisheddownbelow.""I know the way, I've started up above but I'm not done down here yet.""Ah grand, sure I'll see you around so.""Well I'm around, like, but I won't really be about much. Up to me eyes.""Not a bad complaint.""Ah, it is and it isn’t. The work is great but the money is shite.""I'm the same only the other way, the pay is grand but the work is shite.""You can't have it both ways."

Down the Ladder. Excerpt of Film Script by Sean Corcoran

INT. – MINER’S DWELLING - EARLY MORNING

The boy is perched awkwardly between the window ledge and the stool. He is looking out the window again.

EXT. - CLIFF TOP PATH - EARLY MORNING

Again we see...Close ups shots of the Men along the Cliff Top Path. The sound of the sea, the footsteps in gravel and the music building...

INT. – MINER’S DWELLING - EARLY MORNING

The Boy looks down at the table from his perch.

Henoticesthepotatoesthatarewrappedup,helooksbrieflyoutthe window in realisation that his father has left them behind.

Without saying a word he scrambles from the stool, knocking it over, grabs the package and runs out the door.

He leaves the door open.

EXT. DITCHES AND FIELDS – EARLY MORNING

TheBoyrunsoveranoldtumbleddownditchandacrossafieldfollowed by the Dog.

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Talking by Greta Murphy

I like talking.Talking is good.I could talk all day,Every day, any time,I’ll go on and on.I could talk for ever,About anything, anywhere, any place.The I.C.A., the I.R.A., the G.A.A., the A.A., a B.A.Or an M.A.

I can talk aboutThe yanks, the banks, cranks,You name itI’ll talk about it.I like talking to myself,And answer myself back, that’s easy!Talking to the plants,Might as well talk to the wall.Talking in my sleep,Talking to the stars and the moon,Talking to the car,“Go car go for God’s sake”In school, they always said “Na bí ag caint”.“Ciunas!”Ach,is maith liom ag caint”.There’s a great buzz when you talk.Chatting is not the same thing at all.There’s no speed in chat, too slow for me!I could talk for Ireland or any other country,You name it, I’ll talk about it.Talk is cheap, they say.Silence is golden.Loose lips sink ships.But I like talking.A lot.Talk to you soon.

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Greta Loves to Talk! by Judith Flynn

There’s a nice lady named GretaWho’s got many words at will,Indeed, she’d talk for Ireland,She’s veritably BRILL!

If you want to share a storyAnd you’re feeling rather guffy,Yourbestbet’sgoandfindher...Speak to Greta, not Joe Duffy!

She’ll talk about the weatherBe it sunny, warm or rainy,She has views on meteorologyCos of course she’s very brainy.

She’ll review programmes from the tellyOr books that she’s been reading.If you’re taking up a projectShe’ll know what you’ll be needing.

She’ll go on about her family –Her grandkids are a treasure –She’ll tell you about each of themWith animated pleasure.

She’s interested in politics –That isn’t one bit funny –She’d give those TDs and senatorsA good run for their money!

JustmentionhighfinanciersAnd mouth about the banks...Does Greta do them favours?She what? They get no thanks!

She’ll talk you through your problems,Your worries and your cares,Your hopes and aspirations,Your love-life and affairs!

Just hearing her expoundingTakes the weight right off your mindBut try to speak apace with her –She’ll leave you way behind.

She’s a compulsive talker.She’s kissed the Blarney Stone.But be assured she means quite well,She has such a lovely tone.

It’s never idle prattle,She’s naturally loquacious,It’s never gibber-gabber,She’s really perspicacious.

The Health Service in crisisShe includes in her chatter.About overcrowded classroomsShe’ll natter, natter, natter.

Closing rural Garda stationsOr an An Post institutionPrompts Greta’s succinct earfulIn her perfect elocution.

She’s garrulous, is Greta,She’s voluble, effusive,Holding our interest keenly,Not in any way intrusive.

Straight up, honest-to-goodness,No sneers behind one’s back,Always upfront in her commentsAs she goes on, yackety-yack!

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Daddy Long Legs by Clare Scott

One evening a few years back I was walking the grey road home under a warm cloud laden sky when I noticed the air was full of Daddy Long Legs all heading in the same direction. They remindedmeofsquadronsofWW2bombersinflightthatwereshown on old black and white newsreels. It was the only time I have seen so many together going in one direction.

Idon’tlikeflappythingsmuch,I’mabitscreechyaroundthem and Daddy Long Legs or Crane Flies tend to put the shits up me more than most as they seem to have even less control than most insects over where they are actually going.

As I sat on the beach recently one rolled by me completely unable to right himself until the next gust of wind spun him back onto his legs. Another appeared to my right making a beeline for my head as if he were attached to a wire. I ducked back as he sped past my nose and I imagined him calling out for help, screaming to be released from the clutches of the kidnapping eddies of wind that had him in their grip. In fact, as with spiders, the more I watch them the less bothered I am by them. Spiders I came to admire. Daddy Long Legs: I just feel sorry for them.

I found this in Wikipedia…

“UnlikemostfliesCraneFliesareweakandpoorflierswithatendencyto“wobble”inunpredictablepatternsduringflight,and they can be caught without much effort.” It doesn’t suggest why anyone would want to catch one.

I have heard someone say recently that Daddy Long Legs were very poisonous which is not at all true they don’t even bite, they don’t have time what with their hands full trying to get around.Imaginebeingcompletelyfloppyandtryingtogettothesupermarket using only the wind….

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To add to their troubles they also have a permanently long face.

Still, however hard life is for them I am not quite able to have them around me. I notice there are a lot of them around the house these September evenings and a few pasted trembling to the windows in the morning like nervous cat burglars caught in the act so what with them and the wasps I am being very careful when opening my door right now.

It was a strangely stirring sight that evening when I saw so manyfinallyairborne,finallypointingintheonedirectiontogetherlike seeing some sort of collective consciousness at work. Maybe they even knew some insect version of oneness and peace as they drifted through the dusk in formation. At least until they realised that the soft wind they were riding was carrying them out over the cliffs to the dark sea.

On Stepping on a Spider by Mike Absalom

On the hot concrete paththis morningin an unintentional catastrophe of shoe leatherI stepped on a spider.

No need to worry:there are plenty more where he came from.

No! He was the only one of him!

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Two Days in the life of a Foxhound by Speedy KaynineSundayMy name is Lightning, that’s what they named me as a pup; I was

alwaysoutfront,alwaysleadingthepack,thefirstovereveryobstacle,thefirsttothefox’sdenwhenhewenttoground,andthenI’dwaitimpatiently for the digging to start.

Ah that was in the old days when I was the King of the pack, it’s all behind me now. I think last season was my last one, I don’t think I’ll be hunting this season. I heard the yard boy say I was gone a bit slow and stiff and having reared a litter of pups this summer made matters worse. Still it’s grand to see them grow up and ready for the chase, boy were they all excited this morning when they heard that cub hunting was to start and our master had got an invitation to join the local harriers for the day. I was surprised to hear that they were going on Sunday, and not going “till around three o’clock. In the old days it was very rare to hunt on a Sunday, always on a weekday. We would start at six in the morning because a few young inexperienced pups usually got lost and you had thedaylongtofindthem.Ifanyonegetslosttodayitwillbewellandtrulydark before they’ll be found. I was even more surprised when I heard the yard boy being told to load old Lightning. It seems I have another season in me, but surely this must be my last one.

A few of the fast hounds were teasing me. “Well Lightning”, one said, “you won’t lead the pack today, you’re gone beyond your sell by date, but you better not lag behind though, you know what happens to those who can’t catch up, surplus to requirements, kaput!”. The yard was full of nasty rumours about hounds that couldn’t catch up and got lost, and were never seen again, but I believe that good retirement homes were found for them.

When we joined up with the main pack the excitement was at fever pitch, such barking and yelping and then a few cracks of the whip and we were all loaded. I heard someone tell the driver, “We’ll go down to Kilmurrin, good cover in that area”.

At half three we were all unloaded, over excited pups were running around in all directions, but a few belts of the whip put manners on them and they soon fell into line, someone said “we’ll head for the glen”. Some experienced hounds, including myself, searched all the most likely places, at last a fox was seen on the run, the horn sounded and the chase was on, I saw one of my pups up front, “a chip off the old block”.

As the evening drew in I struggled to keep up, I found some of the fences too high and I had to search for a gap. All the time I was falling

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furtherbehind,Icouldhearthehullabalooatleastthreeorfourfieldsaway and soon they were out of earshot and I was all alone. I had to lie down and rest for a while, I dozed off, and when I woke up it was getting duskish, I stood up, looked around to get my bearings and sniffed the air but the only scent I got was the sea.

I decided to make my way back to the cross roads where we started from, all the time on the lookout to see if some of the young pups had been lost, but it seems none were and I was all alone. It was dark when I got back to the cross roads, I could see lights in nearby houses, I was hungry, but knew it was too late to go in search of food. I decided to findashelteredspotandsettledownforthenightknowingthattomorrowthey would come looking for me.

Monday I woke early, went in search of food, someone saw me and hunted

me away. I saw another house and they threw me out some bread. In the afternoon they came with some scraps of meat and more bread. I went to the river for a drink, all the time wondering why they hadn’t come looking for me, I remembered the words of the fast hounds, “better not lag behind”. Surely they would come for me after all my years of service.

I went back close to the house where I had been fed. I heard the woman say she had phoned some people and they would come to pick me up. It was getting dark again and still no one came, as I was about to settle down for the night I heard shouting at the gate to the glen. I recognised the voice, he had come at last. I made my way on to the road keeping an eye out for motor cars, but all was clear. As I made my way over, I could hear the man in the house say “she’s safe”. At last in the dusk I could see who had come to collect me, I trotted towards him and lay down on the grass at the gate of the glen. He had his vehicle parked at the other side of the road, and then he came towards me. What had he in his hand? Hard to see in the dark. No, No, No, N...! Thump!

TuesdayA woman out for her morning exercise noticed a trail of blood

across the road and up the stone fence. She went to the fence and upon looking over it, saw the foxhound dead in a deep drain. It was a sad end afteryearsofloyalservice.Thelandownerwasnotifiedandheinturnnotifiedthelocalharriersandtheynotifiedtheownerofthehound.Inthetwilight hours of Tuesday evening the owner came and removed her from the drain.

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Turning Tide by Anthony Mulcahy

What if I could change the way I thinkRewire the voice inside my headAnd overcome the cost of my daily bread Or somehow stop the clock

All I ever think of is a choice Instead of this endless one way streetAlthough captivating, with bricks that touch the skyAndgoldenriverreflections

It's not a lot to ask forOr is it

If someone could gently remind me whyI'll gladly accept these conditionsI'll gladly concede and maybe even forgetBut will it ever change

How a heart so young and eagerWhich rarely missed a beatNow rides along the wavesAs it waits for the turning tide

Cracked by Mareike Eccleston “Ahh, you’re cracked” I hear people sayAs I’m off to another course, meeting or training day

“Jaysus you’re great, doing all that stuff”As I’m wrecked, feeling awfully rough

“Bet it’s all worth it, or is it? Why do it?”It’s simple. Just doing my bit.

The big bit I’ve been given in life so far,Acts of kindness, a home with a home so afar.

Being grateful to parents and family and friendsOf my old life, the life on the other side of the fence.

Finding new love, my love, new life, new strengthsIn the other world, not travelling awfully huge lengths

Once in routine, responsibility and allThe old world simmering so small

On the back burner but oh not forgotten!Should I just call?

Can’t really help. Can’t really be there.How can a call, just a call, be fair?

Meantime, the new life continues to growOver here, the homesick get enveloped in warm glow.

With new friends and plenty of loving shared around,New sisters, new brothers, new friends abound.

Giving and caring and healing sore spotsSo gratefully accepted, my heart is in knots.

Maybe, some good could be doneIf it’s for everyone, maybe the guilt will be gone?

Maybe, in a roundabout way, one day it will.Andmaybe,thisisjusteveryone’slifefill.

Taking and giving and minding the balance, Sometimes going completely mad and taking a chance

Like this poem is a fair risky business Maybe inspiring a therapist, a writer probably less,

But anyway, to answer, my friends, and those who have welcomed us here,

I’m cracked but not broken.And that’s all down to a cuppa and a friendly word spoken.

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Ghosts of the Copper Coast by John Daly

From Bonmahon’s rock-ridged Copper Coast,I watched the gold kelp-streamers,Waltz with the waves that went gliding past,Like love-drugged drowsy dreamers.

Then a sinuous mist crept across the tide,With stealthy undulating motion,Its seductive embrace spread near and wide,And lay breast to breast with the ocean.

It caressed the shore on its sensual crawl,And lured away the lights of evening,And secreted them in its sinister shawl,Where its vaporous heart was heaving.

Then in timeless tide-tormented caves,It awoke long sleeping phantoms,While the sensuous sound of the sibilant waves,Crooned melancholy mournful anthems.

In the depths of the gossamer gauze of the gloom,Easy evening winds were sighing,From the ruined remains of their copper-green tomb,Long dead miners were replying.

The hammer’s harmonic seemed to sing in the dark,And the gunpowder’s plundering explosion,And the shattered rock’s roar at the touch of a spark,And ore-wagons rumbling under the ocean.

In that ghostly ephemeral cacophony of sound,The water-wheels again where turning,And two hundred fathoms underground,The candles again were burning.

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AsthefingersoffogtracedtheminesCalvary,And turned histories parchment pages,I saw dream-softened sights, my eyes couldn’t see,And heard sounds from the silence of ages.

While the mist on my hair hung a sparkling crown,My soul by those scenes was enraptured,Then the fog gathered up its gossamer gown,And my heart in its folds was captured.

As the silence of sunset again reigned supreme,I drank from the chalice of anguish,For those miners whose blood stained the scarred copper seam,When death, would life’s candle extinguish.

Forum by Anthony McCarthy

It came suddenly, washing over meLike my brain and memories had disappeared,Likeexistinginanallclear,bodyleftfloating

As if it was propelled by airy being,Drifting in and out of meaning,

Walking but not walking,Speaking without awareness of talking,

Holding conversation with thought and diction’s automations.I’m an instrument of something else

Made with moving parts of entitlement in harmonyBy its own making work of art,

Standingupwithuse,becomingpurposefilledAs if this moment was pre-willed.

The point is becoming clear,It is all I know, my reason to be here.

The numbers keep making sense now,The sounds and sights of petitioned nights

And days where I forget the waysThat led to the same spot

I am more forever now than not,By my own traps truly caught.

In this vision I’ve seen it is part of a dream,If I could turn into day the seeds would be fullAnd would burst with life all the time in rhyme,

Exit all routine strife – an expected gate, after the wait.A new catch with the same bait.

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The Prize of Love by Matty Tamen

My heartI served to youon a plateof goldYou smiled,with a hintof tendernessin your squinting eye Then gentlyyou spiced it.Rubbing in.Your salt bitingdeep into everycreviceand the pepperyou spreadkept mewincing,crying with painthat you tookfor loveMy tearsincensed your hunger.Without warningyou tossed it delicatelyunto the brazingbarbecue,wildflamesburningthrough me, sizzling burnsdarkening my fragile life, scorched dreamsdampening my shrillingvoice,stiffed by hot thongsyou dip in.

Turning me around.Upside down.Making sureI roast allthroughCarefully you place it on plate againcleaned,heatedand with a steakknifeyou slice it upinto tiny bits,its jagged bladecutting througheverylittlefibreof me Each pieceyou piercewith your forks,births loud screamsof painyou do not hear.My tears whet your mouthas your ruthlessteeth masticatemeinto a nasty paste What hope was minewhenmy heartI served to you on a plateof gold.

Fairies in the Bog by Kathryn Curran

“There are fairies in the bog,” whispered Hannah to Eimear in the play park as they glided lazily over and back on the swings. “No there aren’t,” said Eimear. “There are, I saw their houses under the boardwalk with Katie, I’ll show you”.

After an ice-cream break Hannah’s mam took the girls across to the bog. They ran happily along the boardwalk racing each other at the bit where it divides. Lucy, the small cabbage white and her friends Rachel the ruddy darter and Bertie the bumble bee loved flyingalongwithchildrenwhentheycametovisitthebog.

Lucywasaverycuriousbutterfly.Shekeptflyinginfrontof Hannah’s face. Hannah squealed with delight. She wanted Hannah to know the real magic of the bog. Hannah stopped suddenly and looked up, she was sure she had seen some fairy dust fall out of the sky. “Come on Lucy, you come with us,” Hannah laughed.

Lucy landed on her shoulder for a split second and then off sheflewjustaheadofthegirls.“Ahh”shriekedEimearwhensheheard a bee buzzing close by. “That’s just Bertie the bumblebee, he’slookingfornectarfromthosewillowherbflowersthere”saidHannah. How do I know his name she wondered. I just do. Hey this is fun, they thought and off they ran.

Suddenly Eimear shouted stop. “Lie face down on the boardwalk here, we might see skaters on the water underneath” . The boardwalk was lovely and warm underneath their bodies. It felt good in the heat of the sun. “I could sleep here” said Eimear dreamily. “Imagine spending the night here in the bog”

Astheysattherelostinthought,ameadow-brownbutterflylandedonascabrousflower.Thisprettyflowerlookslikeabluepin cushion. As with many wild plants found in the bog old people knew of their special powers. “I remember my grandmother using thatblueflowertocuremyeczema.”saidHannah’smam.“Wow,that’s magical” thought Eimear. The girls got to the bridge. Hannah looked where she was sure

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there had been fairy houses the day before. Nothing could be seen except the ripples of the skaters darting about. Eimear thought her friend looked a little disappointed. “Never mind” she said. “This bog has a magic all of its own. We don’t need the fairiestoshowus.”RacheltheRuddyDarterflewhappilyoverher head delighted that the children could feel the magic.

ByefornowLucy,Bertie,RachelandAlfiethemeadowbrownbutterfly.Wewillbebacksoonandwehopetomeetyouandmaybe more of your friends in the magical kingdom of Fenor Bog.

Katie, 7-8-2013

My City by Niall Geraghty, Age 10

Waterford is so special,It’s a really great place to be,It has lots of places to go,And tons of things to see.Thecityisfilledwithbeautifultowers,That are steeped in history,We have some fabulous beaches,And plenty of scenery.Waterford’s past was quite coloured,I think that’s fair to say.We have had some wonderful people,Which helped the city pave its way,The Vikings came the Normans too,KingJohnfixedthewalls,Along with his crew.Henry Denny gave us the rasher,Inside a blaa it is a smasher.Waterford is our city,We all have a part to play,Come on Mount Sion,Let’s help the city on its way.

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The Ruffle - An Ode to Dame Lane by Róisín Power Hackett

The calm, composed, cacophony of silencemuffles through the days,time passes slowly, you hear the clock clunk,you do things, for other people and yourself,but everything is done, the silver shines upon its shelf,the crockery is put away, the floor polished,dust is not left settle anywhere, even in the curved crevices of sink taps.It has all been done, you have done it all, for others and yourself,the grey cloud crawls across the earth, time ticks,the days slither passed, oddly overcast,and yet, all is what you wanted, you have the green on the other side,the perfection of a day well planned,of breakfast, lunch and dinner marked,with the same patterned table cloth, plates and serviettes,the water bottle, glasses and the mini cans of beer,spread across the coffee table,the three spot lights on, the hall lights off.And the grey cloud crawls across the earth, time ticks.

But where is the ruffle – there must be some insanity,some pull and tug, some stress, some late night dancing with a manatee,a head ache, a list, some urgent thing to do,something, not for other people or yourself,but for supreme fiction, the ruffle and the friction,for the wam, and the bam, for the roar and the clatterof moving bodies and folkish music in the depths of a night club,for the sake of art, for the sake of the lake in Stephen’s Green…Where is falling down the stairs or walking backupon the streets with the clothes you wore the night before,Where is the night-black back alleyway of pubswith a bearded homeless pretending to have a limp,Phil the philosopher plying his trade, rhyming is timing,or the beatboxers on further down, past the bunch of interesting hippies,your joy bouncing off the shimmering black shadows,as the cold bites your neck, as you smell vinegar and grease,where is that golden fleece? where is waking up in the smoky, choky flat,full of tin cans empty of beer, lipsticked glasses filled with ash,and wondering, where is everybody at,where is all of that?

The calm, composed, cacophony of silence, sat and got fat.

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Half Past Christmas by Derbhile Graham

Half Past Christmas is the hushed hour that comes just as Christ-mas morning breaks, an hour stolen from the Christmas juggernaut. You wake all a-tingle. The sky is the colour of ink, but the clock tells a different story. Something exciting is happening. You fancy you can hear Santa’s footsteps on the rooftop. Your stomach carries the memo-ry of the years when you tumbled down the stairs, in search of Santa’s bounty.

You swaddle yourself in a dressing gown and slipper socks and creep downstairs, taking care to skip the creaky step. A veil shrouds the house. You don’t turn on a light, in case you pierce it.

Defiantembersstillburninthegrate.Onatablebesidethecouch,there is a plate strewn with crumbs and a glass with a dribble of milk on therim,leftforanincredulouschildtofind.YouflickontheChristmastree lights. They begin to dance on the walls, showing off their colours, pink, orange, yellow.

You nestle beside the tree. The lower branches tickle your face. The carpet feels scratchy underneath you. The house murmurs to itself; you listen to the quiet chorus of whirs, grunts and moans. Next to you is a pristine pile of presents. The paper crackles a little, as if quivering with anticipation. You breathe in the smell of pine.

The house begins to stir. You hear doors open, running water, run-ning feet. The veil is torn away. But as the day whirls around you, you hold on to the memory of Half Past Christmas, the hour when you let yourself believe.