Tag: Billy O’Hanluain

  • Nobody told me there’d be days like these

    Lockdown measures remind me of the prescription of anti-depressants and other psychiatric medicines. They are both harsh, and both are administered in response to a moment of crisis; both often have severe side effects, which in time often obscure the initial malady that required their prescription.

    Anti-depressants can be beneficial in stabilizing a patient and alleviating the most distressing symptoms of whatever underlying trauma caused them to present to a doctor in the first place. The logic of medication should be that once a certain stability has been achieved, a less medicinal and more holistic approach should be available to the patient including intensive psycho-therapy, talking therapy and most crucially for any patient, being properly listened to.

    This, unfortunately, is what so rarely happens with cases of depression. The initial period of chemically enabled stability is seen as progress, and the primary causes of trauma remain unacknowledged, or only partially addressed.

    While the trauma remains essentially untreated, the patient will find himself having his doses upped and reduced, his prescription swapped and changed, leading to him suffering a range of side effects which take centre stage in the narrative of his condition. We become transfixed by the shadow but not the object that casts it.

    It is not very different to what we are now experiencing with Covid-19 and our second lockdown. Lockdown is the strongest non-pharmaceutical intervention available. It is the equivalent of ECT bolted through every nerve end of our society. One doesn’t have to look hard to see its devastating side effects.

    Like our patient, who hoped that his medically induced stability might create an environment benign and supportive enough to allow him properly to address what lay at the root of his problem. Our first and very lengthy period of lockdown should have been used to confront and mend some of the systemic flaws in our health system.

    For decades we have had a two-tier system obscenely tilted in favour of those with private medical insurance. Almost 700,000 people were waiting on a hospital appointment as of the end of May.

    We have also out-sourced the care of our most vulnerable to privately run ‘Care Homes’ that are mostly staffed by poorly paid workers. The final years of so many of our parents’ lives, and in time our own, is a for-profit-business. There’s great money to be made in dying.

    I am sure that I am not alone in feeling like a child eavesdropping on a parental row – leaning over the bannister upstairs to hear what’s being shouted in the kitchen below – when it comes to the bickering and blaming between NPHET and the government.

    It’s a reckless side show of hopeless administration and even worse leadership. There have been failures in testing, track and trace, and screening at ports and airports. It has just been reported that the UCD lab is to suspend all Covid-19 testing over two weekends due to staffing issues.

    A mere 23 ICU beds have been added since the pandemic began, despite Ireland having the second lowest number per capita in the European Union when we entered the crisis.

    Fix what is broken and we might have a better tool for confronting the virus.

    Now we are patronized with talk about ‘behaving well,’ and maybe being able to enjoy Christmas. We were encouraged to come out and clap overworked medical staff rather than see them receive an immediate increase in salary, something which the government lost no time in awarding themselves, just as hundreds of thousands adjusted to living on €350 or less a week.

    Covid-19 has held an unflinching lens to the structural inequalities in our country. Those who can, work from home, their salaries largely unaffected. Mainstream radio and print media run nauseating life style features about how much money people are saving, while another grubbier realty is far closer to the truth, that hundreds of thousands of workers are down many thousands of euros since March 13th.

    We are a great country for cake sales and 5k sponsored fun runs, but not so good at drawing a line in the proverbial sand and saying enough is enough. We acquiesce too much, and are now complicit in our predicament.

    Did anyone else find an eerie symmetry – a dark poetry – to how on the very day we went into a second lockdown, our government voted to seal the Tuam Mother and Bay Home files for thirty years?

    As we lock down now once again, we seem to be burying our past, perpetuating the shame, punishing again those who suffered in denying them light and justice. We live in the strangest and most disturbing times.

    Nobody told me there’d be days like these.

  • Poems for Holy Week

    Poetry editor Edward Clarke selects poems from Paul Curran, Billy O Hanluain, Haley Hodges Schmid, Ned Denny and his own work to mark Holy Week.

     

    A corona Sonnet

    With no less haste than the crisis deserves,

    All faces one mask of consternation,

    We’ve learnt, through conversing in spikes and curves,

    This virus respects no race or nation.

    Virgil could not have foreseen the Tiber

    Would fill so fast with the fallen of Rome,

    Hospitals built with sinew and fibre,

    Children in hiding, on their own, at home.

    His toll’s still rising, but Death, if he could,

    Would make no attempt to keep numbers down;

    Warm April predicates wearing no hood,

    His scythe keenly sharpened shines like his crown.

    Unfasten quick this dead pathogen’s trick

    Lest lists of the late outnumber the quick. 

    April 4th, 2020

    Paul Curran was born in Stratford-upon-Avon in 1975. He holds a degree in English Language and Literature from the University of Oxford and a Masters Degree from the Royal Central School of Speech & Drama. He has worked widely as a professional actor. His Only Sonnet loosely follows the pattern of the seasons, comprised of 100+ ‘alternative’ sonnets; Repeat Fees and its 80 sonnets and longer poems was published in July 2017.

     

    Stock Pile On Hope

    Walk down the bare,
    trembling aisles of your
    self. Everything dispensible
    is now after its Best Before.
    Pass by the Two for One indulgences
    of fear and doubt. Shelves stripped
    of the superfluous. The tattered packaging
    of novelties that amused us
    fade behind their
    spent Use By dates. Remembered now
    as infatuations bought to distract us.
    Is it time to close shop?
    Turn out the lights?
    Time for the din and dirge of shutters?
    We are open twenty four hours
    and we must never close.
    No matter the Feast Day.
    The Plague or The Hour.
    Turn toward that aisle within,
    so often passed in the hurry
    of what seemed to matter
    there you will find the plenty that
    always was and will be.
    Load your cart, fill your bags,
    weigh your trolley down.
    Stock pile on hope!

    Billy O Hanluain works as a language teacher in Dublin. His work has appeared in The Village and The Passage Between. He frequently reads at open mic nights across the city and has contributed to RTE’S Arts Tonight and Arena. He is a DJ with a special passion for Jazz. He lives in Kimmage, Dublin.

    The Ape in the Meme

    Like those who crouch in a bird-catcher’s hide,
    _             He has put up and part-designed
    A shiny means of destruction online,
    Whose checkout page is set and open wide
    _             As all blind graves must look for business.
    And so he means to capture browsers and listeners
    _                            Like birds in a wicker cage:
    That ape who ate his stockpile in the meme,
    _                                           Or famous adage,
    Who licks his unclean lips and can’t be seen.

    He has become fat and sleek, yeah, he’s smoothed
    _             Out all anxieties we had
    About his bad business: he prospers at
    The expense of all of us who are sweet-toothed.
    _             A devastating and wondrous thing
    Is committed in our land and we all sing
    _                            Blindly its praises. No prophet
    Even prophesises and almost every poet,
    _                                           To no one’s profit,
    Tells tales of a life, but not as you’d know it.

    What will be the end of it? Just now,
    _             At the limits of the eye, just off
    The shore of the ear, that ancient boundary of
    The world, the world can’t pass, no matter how
    _             Hard it smashes its waves into it,
    Or coaxes endlessly: just there, I intuit
    _                            You are rowed out with your answer,
    And stand before the multitude on a sea
    _                                           Of radiant stanzas
    For those with eyes to hear and ears to see.

     

    Edward Clarke’s latest collection of poems, A Book of Psalms, has just been published by Paraclete Press. He is poetry editor of Cassandra Voices.

     

    ‘See now the bewildered Christ’

    See now the bewildered Christ
    In the empty streets of Jerusalem;
    The surefooted clip clop of donkey and colt
    Accentuated by this brimming vacancy,
    By this our iron-held breath.
    We are inside reading the news;
    We are stacked in buildings, racked
    With urban exodus and suddenly beset
    By the fragrance of country miles.
    Need bares her teeth at need—
    No hosanna can emerge, no palm
    Softens the anxious cobblestones.
    Christ passes unhailed through our midst
    With eyes downcast for love.

     

    Haley Hodges Schmid came from her native America to England in 2017 to pursue introductory theological study at the University of Oxford’s Wycliffe Hall. A musician by training, she is drawn to the intersection of theology and the arts and eager to explore themes like redemption, joy, and sacredness in her writing

     

    Iron Age

    When jail shines like a blue marble in space
    and masks of fear eat into the face
    and new strains of deceit are going around
    and the dead demand to be more tightly bound
    and they scramble nine jets at the sight of a dove
    and drive in the nails yet call it love
    and cameras watch live Eden’s knoll
    and separation is the protocol
    and the long war wears the look of peace
    and Medusa stares from a million TVs
    and the cure is seeded with wasp-eyed death
    and all I can trust is my own wise breath
    and misinformation’s the name for the Word
    and they tell the biggest lies this chained world’s heard
    and commit the greatest fraud hell’s ever seen
    and say the withered tree is green

    when a dragon is about to be crowned
    and streets are empty save for the drowned
    and the wolf has the lamb’s best interest at heart
    and to stay alive you stay apart
    and an hourly dose of dread sets the tone
    and the sun itself’s been turned to stone
    and the hungry ghost of the moon descends
    and the axle of the heavens bends
    and the stars disappear through chinks in a rock
    and the hands go haywire on every clock
    and a black horse rides upon manback
    and you still think you’re not under attack
    and they turn the key to “keep us safe” from the Lord
    and at certain times we all applaud
    and death is getting desperate and iron old

    a bird will sing dawn wield your gold

     

    Ned Dennys collection Unearthly Toys was awarded the 2019 Seamus Heaney Prize. B (After Dante), a version of the Divine Comedy, will be published by Carcanet this autumn.