Tag Archives: Poetry



Hardcore.

cummin

‘Electric Picnic’

By All-Ireland slam poetry champion John Cummins.

John will be appearing this weekend….at the picnic.

Kalle writes:

“With the Electric Picnic just around the proverbial rainy corner, I wanted to shine a light on one of the other areas at the festival that often gets ignored in favour of the big name acts (who already have plenty of hype and publicity behind them in fairness). For anyone interested in some witty, wacky, wise wordplay, then look no further than our brownbread mixtape show on The Word stage in Mindfield (Sat & Sun @ 5pm).
This year we will have our usual mix of Goons style radio sketches, as well as the reigning All Ireland Slam Poetry Champion, John Cummins, as well as lyrical legend Pearse McGloughlin on the bill. The stage itself, run by the shamanic Marty Mulligan, always features a brilliant array of spoken word and hip-hop artists. Worth a gander when you feel like unplugging from the madness…”

The Brownbread Mixtape – Two Shows at Electric Picnic 2014! (BrownbreadMixTape)

CCI16082014CCI16082014_00122012-12-02+17.43.49Alvy Carragher (above), Hobbits (top) and Gollum

The Trials and Tribulations of Being a Hobbit Magnet

The kind of men who usually line up to date me,
look like something that crawled out of the shire,

As far as Middle Earth goes, there’s actually plenty,
of men in the Fellowship I’d happily admire.

I’d give up on poetry and follow them to Mordor,
but those aren’t the sort that come knocking on my door.

No those aren’t the sort that climb down my chimney,
I get ginger-beards with pot-bellies that remind me of Gimli.

It gets awkward when they ask for a date,
because they remind me of this hobbit I hate…

Who took ‘Hell No’ to mean ‘Hell Yes’, because his hearing was damaged,
and he thought it was fate, because we’re both vertically challenged.

See short men think my height is an open-invitation,
I’ll map the hairs on their feet and end their frustration.

They sometimes salivate in the front row,
because perhaps they’re sleeping or hoping to grow…

Or they just don’t have girls on their side of the Shire,
so now I’m on stage they think I’m for hire.

And hobbits are resilient, they don’t understand never,
they think it’s my way of being witty and clever.

So there’s no point in telling a hobbit no,
they’ve a tendency to never let these things go…

But they’re not as bad as the guy that looks like Gollum,
who looked in my eyes all regal and solemn,

and told me not to worry because he’s broken too,
and I walked away because that’s nothing new.

Then there’s the men that try to act mysterious,
going hot and cold to get me delirious…

I guess in their heads they are channelling Aragorn,
but that ship has sailed and those shoes are worn.

The worst is a guy that reminds me of Gandalf,
one of those drama-kings that don’t do anything by half.

He read me his poems by the light of the moon,
with what I assume was dementia, thinking I’d swoon.

I wanted to tell him he was as old as my granddad,
but I’m not the kind of girl that makes geriatrics feel bad.

My problem isn’t that they’re short, bald, dying or fat,
it’s that I’m on stage to be listened to, not looked at.

By Alvy Carragher

Alvy will be performing Trials and Tribulations’ and other works at the Electric Picnic.

Fully illustrated version of the poem here.

Previously: One Night Stands That Don’t Sound Like One Night Stands

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Heavy Load by Padraig Power, age 11, from Tipperary.

Meadhb Smith writes:

“Padraig was the winner of the primary senior category of the Trocaire and Poetry Ireland Poetry competition 2013. His poem compares a school child’s struggle to carry a school bag with the struggle of a girl in Africa to carry a heavy load of water. We posted the poem [link below] as part of our Lenten campaign/Trocaire box, which this year is about the global water crisis.”

Eleven.

Trocaire (Facebook)

grogan's

Anonymous

By John Moynes

First we admit that we are powerless over literature, that our lives have become meaningless.

Then we came to believe that only a power greater than ourselves could restore us to clarity.

And so we decided to turn ourselves over to the care of an editor, as we understand them.

We made a searching and fearless inventory of our vocabulary.

We admitted to our editor, to our ourselves and to another poet the exact nature of our typos.

We prepared our poems for submission.

We humbly asked our editor to remove our clichés.

We made lists of all persons we had harmed.

We wrote verses of apology to our victims.

We continued to draft, redraft and start to write again.

We sought through reading and reciting to improve our conscious contact with Heaney, Joyce and Yeats as we understand them.

Having had a literary awakening as the result of these steps, we went to Grogan’s, and told everybody.

Pic: DublinStreets