Some crap poems

Here’s some poetry I wrote during a moment of boredom.  I don’t think Seamus Heaney’s Nobel prize-winning reputation will be too badly affected, nor I supect will WB Yeats be turning in his much-visited Sligo grave in the shadow of Benbulben, but here goes.  I might give Radovan Karadzic a run for his money though.  Alternative medicine proably pays more than poetry anyway.  Just think of all those prison guards and judges in the Hague taking oil of echinaea for their bad backs or going through acupuncture and aromatherapy to cure that sprained ankle.  Many will no doubt think it serbs him right.

Cue eerie, deathly silence punctuated by the swoosh of tumble weeds in the whistling wind and the distant clanging of a funeral bell…I’ll get my coat.

Rhyme without Reason

Marcel Marceau liked to mime

I write poems that don’t rhyme

But this one does

Some of the time

But not many words rhyme with rhyme

And…in fact I can’t think of any at the moment

Some words are common, some sublime

If you can’t get the dollar

Go for the dime

Why have lemon

When you can have lime

Parsley, sage, rosemary or thyme

 If you can’t serve time

Don’t do the crime

The mountain’s there

For people to…


This poem’s unclean

It’s all dirt and…


This poem is so…

Nearly over

It is now.

(Thank fuck)


The Crap Poem

This poem is crap, it has no rhythm

The poet’s here but you’re not with him

It has no reason to even exist

When I wrote it I was a bit…


Presidential Candidate in coke-fuelled three-in-a-bed S & M bondage sex romp with actress and bishop…………………….allegedly

If you’re not a regular reader and came across this blog by chance after a hopeful Google search, I’m sorry to disappoint you. It’s not quite as juicy a story as you might have expected.

If you’re a regular reader – don’t worry! The Dreaming Arm has not gone down the senstionalist tabloid route. It’s simply a social experiment to see what kind of response an eye-catching headline like this can attract. Since I moved this blog to WordPress a few months ago, my most viewed post so far by a long way has been “Separating the wheat from the chav”. No doubt many curious “googlers” will stumble across this blog by chance when they type various combinations of words contained in the above headline – and will be sorely disappointed, no doubt.

So, a clever social experiment to fathom the habits of the mysterious denizens of cyberspace – or simply a struggling blogger desperate to get more hits on his site? As they say in Spain, and other Spanish speaking countries across South and Central America “¿Quien sabe?”

Oh, and if there are any FBI agents planning to come knocking on my door after reading the above headline – please note I didn’t say which presidential candidate, nor did I say which country’s presidential candidate it was. There are elections going on in other countries you know. And for the benefit of libel lawyers I did add “allegedly” at the end.

Quite literally on a wing and a prayer

I watched a TV program last week about a man called Duddy from Derry who acted as an intermediary between the British government and the IRA with the help of a mysterious spook from the intelligence service known only as Robert, negotiations which eventually led to the signing of the Good Friday Agreement. Like most of Peter Taylor’s investigations it was all very interesting, but I won’t comment so much on the content of the documentary. There are other institutions which could do a better job – like Bugger O’Foole with Rick Kielty or whatever he calls himself, where contributors can discuss what a shower of sectarian bigots the GAA/Northern Ireland soccer team (delete as appropriate) are. But what caught my imagination was the final scene. The man called Duddy who in the previous scene had broken down with emotion was now seen on a remote hilltop looking out over a breathtaking landscape – probably somewhere in Donegal – with the wind in his hair and the dark silhouette of a large bird soaring overhead. The camera didn’t pan in close enough for me to indentify the bird, but it looked like a golden eagle, a bird which became extinct in Ireland after relentless persecution many moons ago, but is now making a comeback after a successful breeding programme in the Glenveagh National Park. I could get all pretentious now and say how the return of this majestic bird was a symbol of peace and stability on the island – but I won’t, as it would sound rather tacky. What I will say is that the return of the eagle, the red kite, the buzzard, the peregrine falcon and other such formerly rare raptors to the skies of these Hiberno-Britannic isles is a welcome sight. Just last weekend, while out rambling in the Chilterns I observed a spectacular aerial tussle between a kite (the bird, not the wind-assisted stringed contraption) and a buzzard, something which will linger in the memory for times to come.