Irish Bones*
© By Mark Langton
* UNDER CONSTRUCTION (still styling text, so fonts and formats will vary)
TO TOMMY
CAST OF CHARACTERS
JAMES JOYCE, a barman. No relation to the other one. Owner and proprietor of J. JOYCE’S, a small pub at the central crossroads of Clough, a rural coal mining and farming community in Southwest Ireland, County of Kilkenny. Tall, gruff, 60-ish, with heavy eyebrows and a nearly unintelligible “culchie” (countryman’s) dialect, with a vocabulary beyond his schooling (and the realm of possibility). And yet, there ya have it, now.
TOMMY O’NEILL, a ghost. Equal parts parish priest, shaman and European hippie, circa 1972. Nearly Biblical in appearance, with a full, red beard, long, red hair and deeply-etched features. He is wearing a large overcoat, bright green American sneakers and a red-and-white striped scarf, carries a large staff festooned with all manner of flotsam and totems, a hangman’s noose hangs loosely around his neck and, beneath it, a tattered priest’s collar. He has an air of mischief about him that is at once charming and unsettling, as he is given to fleeting rages, flights of fancy, wanton dancing and unexpected bursts into song.
ANNE, a ghost. Once a ‘laddish’ young girl who grew into an astonishing local beauty, she alternates between rough-‘n’-tumble tomboy to dewey-eyed ingénue. She is somewhat confused by her circumstances at the moment, as she finds herself to be a dead girl at the bottom of a well.
THE AMERICAN, a newspaper reporter who has come to Ireland to investigate the death of his childhood friend, Tommy, the priest. His clothes look thrown at him, his face is the texture of Harris Tweed, and he, too, alternates between light whimsy and dark broods. He does not show anger or grief easily, which is a little inconvenient at the moment, for at present he’s made up of equal parts of each.
THE BOYS (chorus), the habitués of Joyce’s. Gentleman farmers, who don’t raise nuttin’ but their hats.
CONTENTS
I. THE BARMAN
II. THE GHOST
III. THE GIRL
IV. THE REEL
V. THE WELL
VI. THE CONFESSION
VII. THE SERMON
VIII. THE BLOOD
IX. THE BODY
X. THE BELL
XI. THE WIND
I.
THE BARMAN
THE BARMAN, aka JIMMY JOYCE, is seen standing behind the bar in silhouette and frozen in tableau. A few of the BOYS are spread around the mostly darkened Joyce’s. TOMMY enters. He is wearing a long overcoat, bright green American sneakers and carries a large, ornately-festooned staff. He is softly humming and occasionally hopping on one foot to an internal rhythm and song, and is, for the most part, oblivious to his surroundings. It becomes clear that TOMMY hears and sees marvels that only TOMMY can hear or see. He notices the audience and brightens up, places his index finger to his lips to indicate a secret, then quickly tours the set of Joyce’s, engaging in all manner of bits of business and mischief: switches hats on frozen actors, puts two straws up another man’s nose and then his own, briefly humping the man’s leg like a rutting walrus; takes JIMMY’s rag and pulls it through JIMMY’s ears like a magic trick, and so on…. Finally he settles down, sits downstage in front of the audience, as the set of Joyce’s dims to dark again. We hear the sound of birds, a chapel bell in the distance and a woman’s voice singing, “She Moved Through The Fair.” Tommy scratches his head, collects his thoughts and -- in counterpoint to the song -- begins to speak.
TOMMY:
In a corner of a prism,
in the giggle of a loon,
in a momentary schism,
in the shadow of the moon,
in a whirling of a dervish,
in the frenzy of a dance,
in a tussle of a skirmish,
in the twilight of a trance,
in a wiggle of a tickle,
in the bubble of a beer,
in a little tiny prickle,
in the trickle of a tear,
in a promise of forever,
in the second of a glance,
in a vow that I would never,
there was this one,
short-lived,
romance…
{The lights come up on JOYCE’S. JIM is standing behind the bar facing us, polishing a glass. He puts down the glass, strikes a wooden match and lights a cigarette with practiced flair, never breaking his gaze with the audience. He exhales slowly, spits out a piece of tobacco, and begins.}
I.
JIMMY:
At the cross o’ Clough,
near Castlecomer,
not too far from the Dublin Road,
there stands a noble little bar
where, on the odd occasion,
the local boys will hold
a sort of … ad hoc
midnight mass, do ya see.
In which a solemn little lesson
is frequently repeated.
And then it is repeated.
The story and its lesson.
O, repeatedly repeated
and revealed.
(JIM raps the bar twice, drinks
and smiles.)
Oh, God make it shtop.
There’s no sweet rollin’
in th’ grass --
not any more, do ya see.
There’s no one kissin’ in
your sister’s parlor,
no sound o’ laughter
floatin’ ‘cross the evenin’,
no happy boyos gettin’ drunk
and singin’ in the neighbor’s field.
No. These days?
(JIM pauses to smoke, appears to swallow it,
holds it in his lungs for what seems like a long time – until he finally
exhales, again, slowly. After a pause, he begins.)
Before first frost
takes autumn’s dare,
the smallest altar boy
grows only cold.
Dead roosters crow.
And packs of black crows fly
like … like foockin’ omens.
Them happy nuns are after lookin’
terrible grim up there on Moneen Row,
even the younger ones
just stand and stare,
their eyes as old
as the silent, brooding,
unrepentant
Irish sky.
Now, on certain nights,
when Cantwell’s closes,
just after Kat’leen Cantwell shuts her gate,
and all the boys who duck in my place
start to settle down and listen to the
river as it tries to drown
the only other sound in town,
the sound the fookin’ wind will make
when it comes rattlin’ the churchyard gate,
to go howlin’ through the tower,
and right before it rings the bell, well….
That’s the hour your man
Tommy rises. Goes his
quiet way
up to this very hearth,
stands before its glowin’ grate,
to sing a song
to bring a shiver
into every
private hell.
My name is Jim,
and I’m a barman.
Some say I’m too lucky and slow.
But this is my place,
so I say, fook ‘em,
and my place is Joyce’s,
that’s right, it’s called Jim Joyce’s,
that’s what I said,
as so am I,
as so am I Jim Joyce’s,
and I’ll f-f-f-foockin’ be
Jim Joyce’s – f-f-f-f-aithfully --
until one or both of us
is dead, and you know…
sure, I didn’t know there was
anut’er one until
your father told me
ten year ago.
Mine is the only local man’s local --
unless you count her up the road.
Ho, with her plank and two barrels
and muther in back --
shtill . . . I shuppose Kat’leen’s
is not a bad place to go.
See, that’s the t’ing about Clough --
wherever ye are,
you’ll never go wantin’
for good conversation,
for there’s always
an abundance o’ that,
and there’s always a scandal,
and the best piece o’ that
is it’s always concernin’
somebody ya know!
Aye, I knew Tommy.
And I believe that
he knew me.
Ah, sure, we were known
to lift a pint or two.
On the rarest of occasions,
maybe t’ree.
He was a terrible man
for the girls,
like meself ….
but not half as
good-lookin’ as me .
(To no one in particular.)
Oh, God make it shtop.
Ah, be t’ holy man,
Tommy was wild,
a man without foe,
a man without fear,
and though I still can’t conceive
of a life or a world
that doesn’t have
sweet Tommy in it,
sure I haven’t seen Tommy ‘Nail --
not alive, anyway.
I imagine it’s been
only a year.
We mined the ‘Comer ore together,
do ya see, fought shoulder
to shoulder -- and,
at times, toe to toe --
but I’ll tell any man
that I loved that man,
and that he was the
best man that
I’ll ever know.
Sure, I … mean to say what I
mean to say….
May God have his
way wit’ him
and the rest o’ all that,
it’s just that -- oh, I don’t know.
Sometimes he’s just…
right there, y’know?
And then other times --
and usually not long after --
he just really is ... not,
y’know?
T’at’s the only-only t’ing.
I just miss him sometimes
is all, I suppose.
Sometimes I just miss
Tommy, you know?
‘How’d ye know I was coomin’?!’
I’d call out when I’d find him
waitin’ for me with his tackle and pole.
‘I am The ‘Nail-O!’
that’s what Tommy’d always say,
he’d say, ‘Ah sure, I knew ye
from before before!
Oh, God I know
your heart and soul.’
Funny, how I still always
see him like that.
Waitin’ for me at the
end of me road.
In fact, for years
I took comfort
in the misguided notion
of a day well after
the squawkin’ of women
and babbies be done,
and whether we’d be
widower, pauper,
cuckhold or cripple
(or otherwise betrayed),
I just always t’ought
Tommy’d be here ,
to finish our run. ;
Let ‘em all go away,
it made no matter,
for I was so sure
that no matter who left,
that it’d be Tommy that stayed.
I don’t know why
I’m tellin’ ya all this,
I don’t usually say what I feel.
But , ya see, it’s every day
that I’ve mourned,
and will mourn, sweet Tommy.
Sweet Thomas Brendan Patrick Joseph
Daniel John … Fitzgerald Kennedy
Peter Alloysius O’Neill.
(JIMMY continues)
Friendship is a funny t’ing.
It tests men in the strangest ways.
It can flourish in the dead of winter,
and wither deep in spring.
Golden boys on golden days
will swear to things that sometimes hinder
other pledges they swore they’d never
truly hold each other to forever;
behind their backs,
they cross their fingers,
cross their hearts and hope to die
before too many promises
or golden days go by.
So, ya better sit down.
For I’ve a poem to recite.
I’ve a prayer you can whisper
whenever ye kneel.
I’ve got a tale to tell,
and I’ll tell it tonight,
that even a shannachie
would conceal.
Now, some might tell ya
that at the very least
it’s only a fable
fishwives tell,
about the girl,
a lonely priest,
two broken vows
and a chapel bell.
II.
THE GHOST
II.
JIMMY:
Some say it’s Annie haunts him still --
who are, themselves, still haunted by the t’ing
and so compelled to tell the tale.
Some speak of them when they feel brave,
who dare to speak of the two at’all.
The beery boys of Cloneen fill
their glasses with a bitter ale,
and will swear by every mother’s grave
that it was Father Tom they
saw and heard, all right --
we all could hear him,
clear as a bell,
each time he comes to call.
(We don’t see TOMMY, but we can hear him.)
And Tommy whispered,
Waaaaake the waaaaaaaaaaaaterrrrrr.
Whistled low, the way he would
whenever Annie tried to hide
by climbing down
her mother’s well,
And Tommy whispered,
Wake the daaaaaaaughterrrrrrr…!
Raaaaaaaaaise the child!
And if I could,
I’d tell you all
about the bride
what binds me to
this curs-ed bell!
(JIMMY slams his hand on the bar)
JIMMY:
Well, now … THAT was a bit disturbin’ !
To say the very least.
Well, I mean t’ say!
When you’re a matured
and finished sinner,
and you’re drinkin’ in a public house,
the only thing worse
than hearin’ the voice of a ghost
is hearin’ the voice of a ghost
of a priest!
BUT most of us were
pretty sure that
it was only Tommy, after all,
so none of us were really too
inclined to run away.
As a matter of fact,
didn’t Scanlan call back,
“Right then, Tom!
Work away, boy!
Let’s hear what ya
have to say!”
And Tommy whispered,
(from outside, getting closer)
O,
my dear
I miss
the moonlight.
Now,
my love
it leaves
too soon.
O, dear,
I differ
with
the mornin’.
it’s now
I miss
our merry
moon.
O, my love,
you rise
too
early,
can’t you see
it’s not
quite
day?
O, my
darlin’ ,
won’t you
tarry?
Can’t you
take your
leave --
away?
O, impatient
night,
stay
longer.
Tell the
mornin’
star,
be gone.
O, hold the
hurried
sun
from risin’ !
O, sweet
twilight!
Tell the
dawn!
And now,
my love,
a rising
shadow,
it comes
upon us
much
too soon.
I wonder
if I’m
mad, O,
darlin’,
will you
leave me
here,
alone,
where
the mornin’
meets
the moon???
JIMMY:
Then suddenly a silhouette
was standin’ at my door.
It started shamblin’
toward the hearth,
draggin’ its carcass
across the floor,
but when it stepped
into the glow,
sure, it was Tommy,
don’t you know.
And no more
was Tommy
O’Neill
no more.
And I swear by all
the holy men,
if you looked deep into
his eyes -- sure, it could
give ya quite a scare --
for among the shadows
I t’ought I saw
young Annie
hidin’ there.
Now, we’re all from
Kilkenny, here,
we’re bold and
rugged men,
but let it be told
that our blood ran cold
when Tommy started
to shpeak again:
TOMMY:
.
Cooooooooooooold,
and all
the colors of cold;
mineral, shell
and burning blue.
The sky
is in
a fire-blue,
and the wind
keeps ringin’
ringin’
and ringin’,
the wind keeps
ringin’
the
fire bell.
I am caught
into
a chill
as high,
as absolute,
as stellar sky,
as a winter hawk
with a starling’s eye,
airless moon
and powdered peak,
icicle snap
and glacier creak.
I said
coooooooooold.
Abstraction
of cold.
Abstract,
impersonal,
metaphysical,
pure,
this dazzling art
derides me!
How can warmth
dare to exist?
Exist,
exult,
endure??
I hide behind
icicles, double-glass,
huddle, hoard,
hold out, hold on,
hold on,
hold on,
hold on…
{The BOYS are all staring, slack-jawed, in most cases, drunk. Tommy, in a loud voice, to startle:}
Wake up, lads! (then, under his breath)
You’re embarrassin’ me….
For I am the one
Father Thomas Brendan Patrick Joseph…
Daniel ….John… Fitzgerald Kennedy…
Peter Alloysius O’Neill, by God --
Tommy O’Neill to most,
Father O’Neill to many,
Tommy ‘Nail to the rest
and, well – as far as I’m concerned --
I am The Nail-O.
[TOMMY does a brief soft shoe finish. Raising one eyebrow, he adds:]
…bye the bye.
And that goes for me,
and so am I.
[Another soft shoe. Baddadda boom-ta-boom-ta-boom.]
(T0MMY shrugs .)
Sometimes I amaaaaaaaze meself…
which always leaves me
somewhat daaaaaaaazed.
For I’m not really meself
whenever I amaaaaaaze meself,
so I wonder:
Who is amaaaaaaaazed?
(Shifting his voice to another, higher pitch.)
I started to shpeak
and didn’t know
what to speak about
and yet I started to speak
so I’m speakin’ about
startin’ to speak
and I’m not sure
if I’ve found
my way
in, or out!
(a little soft shoe)
O, God, make it shtop.
I am an
only child,
do ya see.
And so
it follows
that I am
a rather
lonely twin.
For I am
the self-same
wraith
what follows
wherever I go.
I am the gnome,
the dwarf
that perches
near my ear --
the one who
whispers,
‘willy you will!
nilly you won’t!
some boys do
and some boys don’t!’
I am a cat.
(I’m probably Siamese.)
I am both sides
of every issue.
An open door
that’s double-locked.
I am the lover
who’s found another,
at least two times --
twice cursed,
half-cocked.
I am the
second chance
for two hearts
to turn
quickly chilly --
or razzle-dazzle,
willy-nilly.
( I spend my time
with whom I please).
I deeply
mourn
my recent
passing.
I am
beside
myself
with grief.
I am legion.
We are massing.
(I am the whisper
in the leaf).
I am the little sister
the older brother
who steps aside
for yet another
so she can whisper,
‘willy! nilly!
SHTOP wit’ t’at!
Now, both o’ you
are actin’ silly!’
(Some say only
one eye sees.)
(Tommy winks.)
I am two pieces
of a mirror,
the thumb that always
flips a coin,
I am the promise,
the one that’s broken,
the one that I will always keep
for nights when
willy breaks a heart,
and nilly holds
the other part
(up to what
the mirror sees.)
I am the orphan
what nursed his mother;
I am the knife
what cut that cord.
I am the teacher,
the clumsy lover,
I am the stone.
I am the sword.
I am the answer
to my own puzzle,
I am the fortune
you can’t afford.
I am the preacher,
also the muzzle,
I am the deevil! .
I am the LORD…!
I am the judge
who’d love to hang her,
I am the secret
you’ll never tell,
I am a double
doppleganger,
(I am the rope!
I am the bell! )
I know the road
to your salvation,
for I have gone
the way of sin.
I am a man
without a nation,
I am the giggle!
I am the grin!
I am the
final supper.
The perfect host.
The father,
the son,
the holy ghost;
I am the blood.
I am the body.
I am the seeker,
and the grail.
I have been good,
and I’ve been naughty!
I am the cross,
I am the nail,
I am the cross,
I am the nail,
I am the nail,
I am the nail,
I am the’ Nail…
I am the NAIL…
(cue fiddle)
I AM THE NAIIIILLLLOoooooooooooo!
I AM THE ‘NAIL-OOOOOOOOoooooooooooooooooo!!
I AM THE ‘NAAAAiLLLOOOOOOOOOoooooooooooooooo!!!!!!
III.
THE GIRL
III.
SCENE: The bottom of a well.
ANNE:
[ANNE stands in darkness, partially lit with a small blue spot. Slowly, she
opens her eyes and begins to speak.]
What I do remember,
I don’t care to.
So I don’t care
to remember
the rest.
My name is Anne,
I know that much.
Age of twenty-two,
I t’ink – or was it
twenty-three? --
and the only
other thing
I know for sure
is I’m not exactly
at me best.
They say I only
comes oop to here,
but I comes oop,
if you know what I mean,
and swingin’, if that’s what’s
called for, see?
And swingin’ a dead cat,
if that’s what
needs might be.
I can still out-hurl
any Kilkenny Kat,
or any Langton from
Cloneen at that,
so put that in your pipe
and smoke it, boys,
and what do ye
think of me hat?
I never really count
the days,
these days,
as much as watch them,
carefully.
For lately I’ve been
terrible weary,
and my sight’s not
what it was.
My bed is too far
from my window --
I no longer
feel the breeze.
I hate my pillow
where it is
and do my best
to gather leaves.
Though I confuse
my summers, autumns,
though I no longer smell the sea,
I can tell when winter’s done.
Spring is never
lost on me.
I never really know who’s there,
So I play dead, old dutiful me!
for all my boys
so need to weep,
my darlin’ boy,
his tears and rest.
O, how I wish they wouldn’t worry,
O how to tell them not to mourn,
O, how I wish I knew
which tears were so forlorn,
still soockle at my breast!?
Come gather ‘round me,
children, maidens,
O, I’ll be along,
he’ll see.
Restless maidens!
Have some fun!
Spring is never
lost on me!
I’m never quite sure of the morning,
but I know when it is night.
It’s only when you’re very still
that stars come pay you company
(that’s what me mother said).
I must admit, I am relieved
to see a tad more moonlight
on my pillow,
for every one of
my old suitors
stands at the foot
of my new bed.
You see? The moon has not forgotten!
Nor has my girlish memory.
My lovers line up one by one!
Spring is never
lost on me.
Was it me feet?
or me memory
that slipped?
Me hand
or me heart
that made a fist
and gripped?
I don’t know,
I can’t remember
the least, and most
of what there was --
I’ve even forgotten what a
memory’s for
(haven’t I said this already?),
O, but I’ll never forget
what a memory does.
(cue music)
You see, it never serves me very well
when memory serves up a stew
that’s not the story time may tell,
but just a dim and hazy view.
When memory serves up a stew,
it’s not the faces I recall,
but just a dim and hazy view
from heaven’s gate and garden wall.
It’s not the faces I recall
of love, the lingering of hearts that fell
from heaven’s gate and garden wall.
When I must think, I cannot tell
of love. The lingering of hearts that fell,
fall into dreams, go skipping past.
When I must think, I cannot tell
which heart came first, what love left last.
Fall into dreams! Go skipping! Past
loves curse my heart today.
Which heart came first? What love left last?
I forget who went away.
Love’s curse! My heart today,
my eyes tomorrow, will never really see.
I forget who went away,
and who teases my poor memory.
My eyes tomorrow will never really see
that’s not the story. Time may tell.
And who teases my poor memory?
You see? It never serves me very well.
(Anne falls to quiet, lifting her face to a whiter light.
After a pause, she speaks.)
Tommy?
The time has come
to tell you, dear,
of all the dragons I
once swore that I’d hold
from you, for you, buried in my
heart and locked within
my frightened keep.
Even in this shallow water,
the serpents I once
said I fear,
the ogre that would
turn me old,
the death I thought
so full of monsters? I
find is merely death,
is only dragon sleep.
I know you tiptoed
through the cave,
and that you were scorched
as you crept through --
though you were brave,
so shockin’ brave!
no shield could ever
hope to save
us from the flames --
save you
from waking me,
or me from
waking you.
And though I fell
to forever here,
forever down
this well,
For you,
my love,
my heart
falls still.
Sure, it was
for you
I fell.
And though
my heart
was once a shrew,
a cold and
jealous liar,
now my heart
is lying still --
lies smoldering
in dragon fire.
And in this cavern
where I burn,
and breathe this
dragon’s breath?
As in life
I died for you?
(whispers)
I’ll live for you
in death.
IV.
THE REEL
IV.
JIM:
None of us was too surprised, you know,
when Tommy chose to wear the collar.
He’s his mad granny’s, after all,
didn’t we used-to-used-to say.
And when he come home from London,
with the beard and that haircoot,
wasn’t I always after sayin’, ‘Have ya
seen Tommy ‘Nail? And is he not lookin’
more and more like Our Lord every day?!’
Oh, I suppose Tom could be a pious man --
and usually with pious men
that’s all ya need to know, you know?
Ya na’ have to say no more.
But Tommy ‘Nail was an odd sort of feller.
The man had God in ‘im,
there was never any doubt o’ that,
but still -- and this, by his own account, mind --
Tommy ‘Nail could be the
shon of the deevil himself, begore.
Aye, Father Tom was always more
a holy man than parish priest,
‘she-man,’ or ‘sheayman, ’
or whatever it was he used to call it --
and, mind, what a man does in private,
on his own time, sure,
da-da-dat’s his own affair….
But when Tommy got his
mo-jo-mimbo-what-ever-ya-call-it, goin’, boy,
the world became a more vivid place
when it was Father Tom describin’ it.
He had a gift for takin’ you on journeys
and for makin’ you believe
you’d really been there.
All right, so it was a bit of a shock
to see him in the collar,
but never really a surprise --
but then nut’in’ ever is in Clough
(and if you don’t believe me,
just look in our eyes);
see, we may all be crazy,
but there’s none of us that’s fools --
and that’s another t’ing about this place:
We all know what to expect, do you see,
because everyone here
is aware of the rules.
When poor Dim Mary was raped in a barn
and later found herself with child,
wasn’t it your man Tom who slapped that girl
the length of the cross o’ Clough, bejaysus,
damning her there before us all --
and for what? Just for bein’
simple and wild.
It was not that he’d turned cruel, do you see,
or was somehow unaffected --
(sure, afterwards, Himself was harder on
himself than he ever was on her) –
it’s just that, well…
he was the priest,
don’t you know.
Those were the rules.
It was what the rest
of us expected.
JIMMY
(providing both voices)
[Fast:]
SoOOOOOOOO, Jimmy!
So how’s de
missus goin’ on,
said he,
well, she won’t kick
the boocket on the fly, says me,
and what a marvelous relief
all o’ that must be – for you, says he,
sez you, says me,
aye, say I, why,
what say you?
Welllllllllllllllll….
I suppose
if it’s all
left up to me,
I suppose that
I say aye (said me).
(cue fiddle)
All of a sudden, Tommy
jumped from his chair.
Trumlin! T’row me
your fiddle! he cried,
and didn’t he start playin'
like mad on that yoke --
but, sure, he must have
t’rown him an invisible fiddle,
because …well, I mean to say!
Sure, you could hear
the music fine as you like,
but the fiddle itself --
I swear by the sweet
blessed mother o’ Jaysus –
[JIM looks in both directions,
and lowers his voice]
. . . it just wasn’t fookin’ there.
And Tommy cried,
[faster]
TOMMY:
The fiddle’s gone
stark- ravin’ MAD!
So quickly, boyo,
grab a girl
who knows the secret
in the dance
and doesn’t mind
a naughty whirl!
Come dance a
secret melody
that only Trumlin’s
fiddle knows,
the words are riddles! ladies!
bring your fiddles!
Fling a ROSE...!”
JIM:
Tommy took his merry bow
and beat his fiddle
like a child.
The singers cheered
when Tommy hit
a note that drove
the dancers wild;
there's was somethin'
in the melody
that made you want
to dance along,
that made you sing,
and shout out loud,
that there's just somethin'
about the song!
As good as you will ever feel,
you’ll feel when you feel Tommy’s Reel.
O’course, only Tommy knew
the way to really dance
this tune, this wicked waltz,
this invitation to romance ;
Pick up your feet! he cried,
Lift up your heart!
Forget the words! Make up your own!
Let no one be afraid to shout!
just sing it out! let it be known
that girls confess, and skirts reveal
their hidden selves to Tommy’s Reel.
When the rest of us were
out of breath,
that’s when Tommy
really started,
Tommy fiddled,
shadows danced --
a tune to distract
the brokenhearted,
A terrifying frenzy
did away with all our fears,
standing there, alone,
Tommy played
a fine duet.
Ah, the harmony,
the sweetness of it,
brought rugged men
to tears.
Not one among us
can conceal
our hidden hearts
from Tommy’s Reel.
I AM THE ‘NAAAAAAILOOOOO,
Tom suddenly cried,
as he lept to his feet,
and ran outside,
lifted his arms
and opened them wide!
I YAM THE NAILLLLLOOOOOOOO!!!!!
TOMMY (dancing):
O, I’M a typical vic’
of a Kilkenny man,
I haven’t a clue,
but I have a PLAN!
Nice ta meetcha! Gotta go!
For I’m the ‘NAILO don’t you know!
I AM THE NAAAAAIIIIILOOOOO!!!!
I AM THE NAIIIILLLLLOOO!!!!!
IN every cell, and bone
and follicle,
I am Tommy,
the diabolical
NAAAAAAAAAIIIIILLLLOOOOO!!!!
I AM THE NAAAAAAAAAILLLOOOOO!!!!
O, I
dance, I weave,
I frolic, I wiggle,
just about anyt’ing
makes me giggle,
your misfortune
makes me cry,
let’s face it,
I’m a hecka of a GUUUYYYY….!!
because
I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I…
AM
THE NAAAAAILLLLOOOOOOOOOO!!!
I AM THE NAAAAAIIIIILLLLOOOOOOOOO!!!
And that goes for me!!
And so am I!!!”
(Tommy bows twice.)
BLACKOUT
V.
THE WELL
V.
ANNE:
TOMMMMMMMMMMYYYY!
Tommy ‘Naaaaaaaaaaaaaaasil…!!
All my love lies waiting here
among the ruins, in my sleep.
My lonely mornings call him near,
the nighttime brings my heart to deep.
Among the ruins, in my sleep,
I swim the caves, I swim them blind,
the nighttime brings my heart to deep
and darkened dawns these mornings find.
I swim the caves, I swim them blind
through the restless evenings, empty halls
and darkened dawns. These mornings find
me quiet – just until the evening falls.
Through restless evenings, empty halls
No words can ever hope to keep
me quiet just until the evening falls,
I start talking in my sleep.
No words can ever hope to keep
The melody without the song,
I start talking in my sleep
when love has made me wait too long.
The melody without the song
my aching heart tries to explain.
When love has made me wait too long,
My nightmares mumble, dreams complain.
My aching heart tries to explain.
My lonely mornings call him near.
My nightmares mumble. Dreams complain.
All my love lies waiting here.
(ANNE begins to slowly dance)
Those times I feel that life’s a dance,
a frenzied, short and bright display,
a sort of fear woos that romance.
So sudden bright, so soon away.
A frenzied, short and bright display,
with sadness, in its grand disguise,
so sudden bright! so soon away!
all there before my frightened eyes.
With sadness, in its grand disguise,
misguided by a twisted path,
all there before my frightened eyes,
I danced into an aftermath.
Misguided by a twisted path
those times I though my life a crime,
I danced into an aftermath,
still fearing the effects of time.
Those times I thought my life a crime,
I then hoped for a sudden light,
still fearing the effects of time
I now find comfort in the night.
I then hoped for a sudden light,
and now it’s getting dark inside my mind,
I now find comfort in the night,
I now find comfort with the blind.
And now it’s getting dark. Inside my mind,
a kind of fear woos that romance.
(I now find comfort with the blind
those times I feel that life’s a dance.)
(ANNE stops dancing)
Forgive me, Tom, I know that I
should never ever speak of this –
but . . . lately, my mind wanders!
Though I know we both agreed
to let the issue die
its death , and all of my mis-
givings be laid to rest and done,
still, there are those times
I just don’t know.
I fear we made a grave mistake.
I find I mourn what was not wanted,
and though I’d never question you,
along our road, this missing link
is like a pebble in my shoe.
Forgive me, dear, but I am haunted,
Sometimes I think that we were blind,
I’m sorry, I can’t help but think.
He’s there so clearly in my mind.
O, Tom!
Just as I know I love you,
I just know his hair was red,
(begins to weep)
the eyes, a shockin’ blue.
VI.
THE CONFESSION
VI.
JIMMY:
Now I know that I’ve not told you
all the details, not just yet.
Later you will better see
how it is sometimes better, often best,
to start with fragments of a song
when you’re workin’ with
this kind of complicated melody.
However,
if you require barren facts,
the bare bones, if you will,
then I will do
me very best
to tell you in the very way
that Father Tom
confided it to me.
If ya must know, said he….
TOMMY:
It was after mass,
on a Sunday that December
when Annie knelt before me
and let spill her raven hair,
confessed to me
that she’d surrender --
and not just to the
will of God, ya know,
but to me every secret,
lonely prayer.
Didn’t she giggle
as she took me in,
and swear to me
she’d never tell.
Didn’t she laugh, and say,
‘O, father,
if this were sin,
sure, then I’d . . .I’d hang meself
from your fookin’ bell….!”
And then, when I put on my other suit?
Bejaysus if she didn’t
become … less enthusiastic.
Ah, but when I wore that collar, boy,
that’s when she confessed
to all she knew!
We had no secrets, after all, when
all was bedded down and done,
except, perhaps, the kind of secrets
kissin’ cousins’ kisses keep (all
flesh and blood
and naughty fruit!)
Jimmy, her eyes were
so shockin’ blue and deep
I thought I’d never stop my fall.
Or ever, ever fall to sleep.
(Cue music)
Her gait was such that angels dreamed
of someday dancing to her tune.
Her voice, so sweet, the thrushes beamed
Behold her eyes! Never mind the moon.
Of someday dancing to her tune
sweet children jumped and sang in praise,
behold her eyes! never mind the moon!
the girls went green, boys counted days.
Sweet children jumped and sang in praise
of skin as soft as lilac-down,
the girls went green, boys counted days,
trees turned new leaves, old women frowned.
Of skin as soft as lilac-down
young minstrels sing , their voices build,
trees turn new leaves, old women frown
at all the hearts my true love filled.
Young minstrels sing, their voices build,
in halting tones, they sing in awe
at all the hearts my true love filled,
she must be false, defies some law.
In halting tones, they sang in awe,
the babies cooed and fairies preened,
she must be false! defies some law!
Her cheeks flushed red, their eyes burned green.
Of someday dancing to her tune
the babies cooed and fairies preened.
Behold her eyes! Never mind the moon!
Her gait was such the angels dreamed.
We’d walk along the
bo’reens of Cloneen,
and fill our heads
with giddy wishes.
I’d close my eyes
and hold my breath
and whisper, ‘please say no,’
She’d pick out
two perfect daffodils
and t’row them to
the yellow fishes;
she told me she was
scared to death,
then whispered, ‘never go.’
Water did
what water does
when lovers stop
to rest or drink.
The calm it gave
we tucked away
to save for mornings
we might think
our love was not
as once it was.
Deadly t’ings
were in that day.
Sometimes things that die,
die because they should.
Especially when
you know
to let ‘em live
would only mean
they’d never
come to
any good.
This love I borrowed,
was stolen from me,
and now it will not lend !
Not even a hand
a foockin’ hand
except, perhaps, to tease
the skinny moon
that’s slowly
bein’ put to death,
on nights like this,
when nights begin --
begin, but never end.
O, curse this love!
(It does not please.)
Ignore this heart!
(Here, catch my breath!)
Forget these words!
What’s done is done.
An absent hand
cannot be won.
The rings of Saturn,
when laid bare,
would never fit
just any finger --
so goes the moon
no longer there.
It’s only dust,
like us.
Dust and light
that tries
to linger.
So what’s left here
that I can pawn?
I ask ya, where’s
love’s gain?
As you can see,
our merry moon is gone.
(TOMMY sighs)
So many nights remain.
JIMMY:
At this, the lads of
Clough fell still
and watched the fire
change his face,
Tommy’s spectre
started to fill
their hearts with Annie’s
ghostly grace.
So they just sat
and watched the embers die,
and listened to his song.
Then, softly,
like a lullabye,
the boys began
to sing along:
(CHORUS)
She walked
across crisp
chill of mornin’,
skies gave way
to passing whims,
Sighs gave way,
without a warnin’
with kisses floatin’
on the wind,
softly on the wind.
TOMMY:
My heart is like
an ugly duckling,
swaddled in
a bloody sheet,
a baby rat,
a drowning pup,
what gurgles in
its tiny rage;
my heart is like
an evil suckling,
teethin’ on a
withered teat,
rattlin’ its
dribble cup
across its hollow,
heavin’ cage . . .!
[TOM AND THE BOYS]
She
took my hand
and kissed me, yawning,
bid me lightly
to arise,
walked me out
into the dawning
looking to my eyes,
my eyes,
for somethin’ in my eyes.
TOMMY;
My heart
is like
a restless sailor
who longs to go back
to the sea,
my heart
is like
a foolish jailor
who’s locked himself
with his
own key,
Don’t ask me
if I loved her;
would ya charge me
my own fee?
And don’t ask
for whom
the fookin’ bell tolls,
‘cause this one
tolls for ME, boys…!
[TOMMY AND CHORUS]
She stole away
the stolen kisses,
caught a wind
that smelled of rain
whirled away
a world of wishes,
‘til only the winter
wind remained,
only the wind remained,
whirled away
a world of wishes,
‘til only the
wind remained.
TOMMY:
A hundred
of her faces
dance and flicker
in me eyes.
She still puts me
through the paces,
disfigures
my disguise.
I listen for
her heartbeat,
but all I hear
are broken chimes,
and even when
our world was sweet,
my love died
a t’ousand times.
[Chorus]
She said that it
was merely
justice, derring-
do or die.
[TOMMY]
I said I saw
that clearly --
in the corner
of her eye;
[Chorus]
Didn’t Anne look sweet and
pretty
as she confessed
to all your crimes?
[Tom]
Aye, but when ya
sent her to the city,
my love died
a thousand times.
[Chorus]
It was like
a clumsy minuet,
or waltzing on
tip-toe,
[Tommy]
It was like I took
a soocker’s bet
when we would
do-si-do…
[ALL]
She’d do a
lazy pirouette
whenever a moon
began to climb,
[Tommy]
…and now I’m dancing
to forget,
oh, my love dies
a thousand times!
[ALL]
IN the ticking
of the tower,
in the echo
of the well,
[Tommy]
Sure, I wake up
on the hour!
At the tolling
of the bell!
[ALL]
Stolen kisses
notwithstanding,
open secrets,
empty rhymes,
[All]
when love
is too demanding,
love dies
a thousand times,
love dies
a thousand times,
love dies
a thousand times….”
[FADE}
VII.
THE SERMON
VII.
JIM:
Now, I’d been watching him
sitting there,
tracing the whirl
of his world in the air,
his fingers moving
slowly about his head.
as if to sum it up --
but, clearly, it was
deep confusion
holdin’ sway.
He counted off
his faith, his flock,
his folly and his rot,
the child that grew
where it should not
(and then, o’ course,
there was the
small matter of
his bein’ fookin’ dead!)
He weaved his hands
or somethin’, as if
to give it order.
And then,
just as easily,
he cast it all away.
He’d tutored the girl,
behind closed doors, you see,
spinning her marvels
with pencils and books;
he taught her all
the secret ways
that kingdoms rise
and angels soar;
sure, they’d jump and duck
and lunge and fly
like a ballerina
and a matador.
He took all their
prayers and promises
and poured them all
into a bottle;
all they’d been
had been decanted, flung
to sea and washed ashore.
He sent her off
in such a way
he could be truly sure
he would never, ever
see her again.
Or torment her
any more.
(TOMMY enters and takes up the tale)
TOMMY:
Everything thing I say these days
comes out soundin’ like a sermon.
Though, if ya think that this is just a sermon,
well then ya better get out of the way.
I suppose the t’ings I stand for now
are gettin’ harder to determine,
but what is very clear to me, is this --
this, that I have to say:
The heart, the blood, the meat
of this uncertain call-to-arms
has often brought me to attention,
so that I may bring attention
to the almost always fatal charms
of likewise God-forsaking sinners
who sing out the very same alarms
as when I sang for my own
supper bell -- cursing,
even as I pulled the rope,
my useless, feeble
(empty) arms,
that night I sang all my
tangled rhymes of reason
until both my t’roat
and heart were raw,
in defense of a love that
never could abide by any season --
not to mention rhyme or reason.
Or any other law.
Beware the man
who tries to justify
the ragin’ of his storm
by shoutin’ vainly
in its wind
about a dream
he claims he fought
so valiantly to keep alive,
but, truth to tell --
barely could
keep warm.
The words we use
to speak of t’ings like this
they sound paltry to me, now --
paltry and abrupt.
Sometimes words
are every bit
as hollow as intentions,
y’ know?
Useless.
Unless you use
the time to shape them,
strip them
of false glamour;
use them
to soothe
(or, better still,
disrupt!)
Too often I’d indulge meself
in all that bright and vulgar clamor,
in all those gaudy terms
that priests and poets use,
which only serve to interrupt
the stillness
of the private wild,
where words are whispers,
coo’s and kisses –
private t’ings,
that bring us closer
to private worlds
(that words corrupt!)
I can’t stay still!!
I can’t ignore the fear
I fear when evening crows
and I know Anne is out there
playin’ with that
part of twilight
every damned and
dead man knows
will only reap
more troubled sleep,
as he seeks out
his reason’s rose,
and holds very tight
to a sleepless night,
and to a moon
that only
beckons those
who really read
the words of dead men,
who tried to dream
before they dozed.
I’ve come back, do ya see,
to collect in full.
all of the tithings I am due. . .
The worm has turned,
or hadn’t you noticed?
It’s time for me
to confess to you!
Didn't I stand fast when
all of ye came back to me with all
the sordid ruttings of your conscience?
When all you really wanted was
a place to go to bat your eyes
and moan and keen and whine?
Well, it’s my turn now.
and I’ve got the fiddle,
so what are ye going to do?
Aye, it’s my turn now,
so answer me a riddle:
Where
the foock
were you?
Where the fook were you
when Anne went down to the well
to make her final wish?!
And where were all the rest of ya,
when I came to you with mine?
And answer me this:
How could turn
your backs on her?
Given her your scorn,
when she didn’t even ask for pity?
And then, after you sent her well away,
and she come back to you ,defeated,
broken and defeated
by the filth of Dublin City,
how could you have turn your backs again?
Sure, was she not one of your own?
And who was it said they did it for me?
For MY name’s sake?! For foockin’ foock’s sake…!!
RIGHT, now, listen to me
very closely, you -- all o’ya:
My name is Father Thomas Alloysius
James Etcetera O’Neill,
my granny was a shanachie,
so don’t you ever, ever, EVER
try to fookin’ bullshit ME, boy …!
I’ll rip out your organs
and build ya a monster.
I’ll build him a foockin wife;
I’ll make her enjoy
the worst day of your liiiiiiife.
O, I once was blind, but now I see
the dark and deep in treachery!
I know exactly where to fix the blame
and it does not comfort me.
For just as I am under no illusions
as to what drove me to MY last supper bell,
likewise, I know all about
the narrow minds and waggin’ tongues
that brought my Anne the evenin’ news,
that made my Annie decide to choose
to take the quickest route to hell!!!
I didn’t even realize,
‘til after my last breath,
‘twas not for guilt we
lost our innocence;
‘twas never guilt,
but SHAME,
your own useless, useless,
virulant shame,
t’was your own shame
and not our guilt
that sentenced both
of us to death.
[Fast:]
O, there are times I want to whisper
not to mention fookin’ scream,
there are times I’d like to go
right for the t’roat of all the times
that all I ever thought ye did for me
was foockin’ waste my time.
Even Judas wept at tricky kisses,
Brutus must have weighed the knife,
Or sunk his teeth into his hand.
How dare ya seek redemption
with the lies your tellin’ in confession,
and the often all-consuming
foockin’ litany of heartaches
that can only serve to conjure up
a Biblefull of blame?
How dare ya draw on anecdotes
of fathers’sistersmotherslov--,
Christ, the way ya murdered
all her midnights!
How dare you even
speak her name!?
Anne once tried to tell me
that we’re all just walkin’ fences,
that what you really have to do
is either burn the wings or fly,
she grabbed me and she whispered,
‘While you’re waiting for an angel,
don’t forget you’re not the only one
who’s trying not to cry,’
I probably lost her when she grabbed me
much too tight for me to listen,
and choked me ‘til I looked into
the corner of her eye,
‘Don’t forget to wake the children!’
was what she spat into my bottle,
‘don’t forget to startle all the little
bastards where they lie!
Tom, ye know that there’s no angel,
Christ, you know there’s no redemption,
Shite, you have to know by now
that there are only fishwives here --
gossips who will only come
to mock us in the morning,
who will mock us in the cold and burning
midnight of the evening of the
dawning of the day
that they’ll just sit
and watch us die…!’
VIII.
THE BLOOD
VIII.
JIM:
Tom put down his glass,
and rose for the door,
his tears all shed,
his hands all wrung.
He stepped away from the bar,
and fell to his knees,
and then
he sighed,
and moaned,
and keened,
and sung:
Hand me
no bedding!
This is blood
I am shedding!
I still have
my youth!
I still have a
daughter!
And we shall
still dance
on the day
of her wedding!
Straight from
the innocence,
into the
slaughter!
JIMMY:
Tommy stood there, very still,
as the air around him
turned dark red --
like he’d just gone
to night from day,
Then, slowly, Tommy
raised his head.
For he
had this
to say:
TOMMY:
There’ll not be
another
merry moon,
he said.
I’ve no more
interest
in the sullen dawn.
Some great love
may come
your way soon.
And
then
it will
be gone.
For that
promise
breaks,
ya see.
That
fruit
spoils.
This
heart
ache s,
ya see
and
THIS
BLOOD
BOILS…!
`
JIM: (faster)
Tommy kicked aside his chair
and then he tore away his collar,
stared deep and slowly into me,
then glanced up at my clock.
Then he ran outside again
and, O, he then commenced to holler,
hollerin’ in the wind that nearly
swept away his frock.
TOMMY:
DO YOU THINK THERE’S
EVEN ONE DEAD SINNER
WHO’S HAPPY WITH HIS WAGE?!
he cried.
WHO DOES NOT DEMAND
TO SEE THE FOREMAN?
WHO CLAIMS HE’D RATHER
ROT THAN AGE?!!
Do you ya think there’s
even one dead man
who does not long to take
his fookin’ gray and mottled heart
and place it in an old tin cup
so he may drag it all across
the ribs of his hollow,
HEAVIN’ cage?!
Do ye think that just
because we’re dead
the rest of ye
can merely
turn the PAGE?????
WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE
THE DRIED, BLACK HEART
OF A FOOCKIN’
DEAD MAN’S RAGE?!!!!?
JIM:
Tommy whirled himself into a circle,
started spinning full around,
he drove his staff into the earth
and there it shook and cracked the ground…
…but at the very same time,
he was frozen there in space!
Like a…like a…still photo in a motion blur…
…but still dancin’ there in place…!
And then all of a sudden
the rest of us noticed,
it wasn’t the fire
that was changin’
his face . . .
sure the
fire itself…
…had taken its place!
We all held still,
and looked away
from the blaze,
as frightened men will
when they think
that they’re seein’
the last of all of the
rest of their days.
Then suddenly,
all went still again,
just as suddenly as the
storm began.
His tiny frame,
so small and weary,
his eyes so loving, sad,
and water blue,
for just for a moment there
he looked for a moment there,
like he did when he was very young --
like a normal, livin’,
lovin’, breathin,’
sinnin’ son of man.
IX.
THE BODY
IX.
(TOMMY steps in and addresses the audience)
You know…I’ve often wondered
if it was it God or Man
who took these everyday temptations
and turned ‘em into
some sort of sordid, mortal sin?
Sure, it must have
been the work of God.
For he’s always so … original.
Though I suspect that even He
came close with this one,
you know --
ta doin’ Himself in.
Was I the humble parrish priest
or did I play the royal fool
when all my dizzy, derring-do
would turn me from
the very t’ings
that turned my heart
from turning cruel?
When demons in me
start to rise,
my fickle tyrants tickle true!
So when a love began to sing?
I only listened in disguise.
Now, I know that there’s part of me,
that’s certain of a perfect scheme
that lives within love’s own design,
and deep within love’s mystery.
Yet there’s another part, just as certain of
some horror living in the dream,
and it was there I drew
my dark, unholy line.
And it was there I spent
my days in folly
and nights in melancholy,
until all that was left
was only my desire.
My desire to only
murder love.
Just how long does
folly keep a man
from turning from
the errant schemes
that make an honest
man deny the truth
in every perfect plan?
How long does folly hold a man
a hostage to his folly,
and to all the t’ings
he would have tried
that took the fall --
after the pride --
and all the rest
he locks inside
that folly
made him hide?
How long must I bear witness
to the burden of my folly?
How much longer
must it be a burden
I must bear alone?
How much longer
must I wander
in the fields
of waste and squander?
In the shadows
and the corridors
of pentinence
and squalor?
How long
does folly feast
upon an
errant priest?!
Christ,
how long
is any man
expected to atone????
(TOMMY turns to the BOYS)
Drink up, lads!
And drink to forget --
for princesses and
pirate ships
and mermaids
are no more.
My childhood dreams
have all been shattered,
from guardian angels,
to God almighty,
to Peter fookin’ Pan.
Sure, even Captain Hook
could not escape
the tickin’ of the clock.
(Perhaps you will recall
that inconvenient
second hand?)
Aye, when your man Pan
was showin’ off up there,
perched up on his fookin’
fancy English windowsills,
to urge his little, noisy flock
of limey fops to fly,
didn’t Wendy, John
and Michael leap
as if they’d never,
never land?
(cue music)
Listen up, lads:
The churchyard’s
full of Peter Pans,
and double-stacked
with lonely priests,
long-lost boys
who’ve lost their swagger,
and now they never
will grow old.
Their shadows are
in need of mendin’;
they never say
their prayers at night.
They dropped their shields
and sheathed their daggers,
And did what they were told.
The fields are dark
with broken hearts,
in hideaways and
wishing wells,
they disappear
through secret doorways
to somewhere dark and cold.
The skies are filled
with Wendy-birds,
with bedtime tales, and
snakes and snails,
and lots of lullabyes to sing.
Ah, but, mark my words,
these broken birds
soon fall to earth
on single wing.
For, with little use
for reason,
and even less
for rhyme,
long-lost boys
will always
take their aim
at shooting stars.
If only just
to pass the time.
I’ll tell ye all a
little secret lads:
Real ghosts? Only
haunt each other.
And mostly they just
haunt themselves.
Can't ya hear her
giggle in the echoes?
Shhhhh! Listen closely!
Listen! Can't you tell?
She’s gigglin’
like that, ya see,
because she knows
she’s got hers
back at me --
damned me now forever
to walk this
oddly mortal hell.
For, you see,
the day I flung her
from my pulpit?
When she confessed to all?
All our secrets?
All the secrets of
how she and father fell?
Well,
they say
that day
I did not
take it
very well.
For on
that day,
HO, they say
they found me
singin',
they say
they found me
ringin,
O, they found me
ringin’ and ringin
and ringin’
and ringin.
They say
they found me
swingin’,
from my own
chapel bell.
(cue music)
Ah, but lads,
if I could only
find that girl tonight,
and hold her
in my arms again?
And once, just once,
kiss her in the way I used to,?
The way I used to kiss
that girl goodnight?
Well, I’d be swingin’
from the rafters all right.
Sure, I’d be swingin’ from
the chandeliers…!
And ya know what else?
Lads, I’d build us a bed
out of trees and stars
and all the scattered
broken parts
of all the shattered
broken hearts
that roam these fields
at night, alone,
in search of
each other’s bones.
Nothin’ forbidden.
Nothin’ a test.
Just a place
for us to
lie down,
you know?
And finally,
finally,
finally,
rest.
X.
THE WIND
X.
THE AMERICAN:
Melissa was the quiet one.
She barely winced when she was told.
Willie was too young, and never
could understand his brother’s demons,
let alone his demon dance.
Sara was the eldest, and more
distant than the rest,
but somehow Tommy
always found his way
into a private part of Sara’s heart.
Tommy’s mother loved her beaming boy
the way that thrushes love the morning.
His father's heart was hard, but fair --
though he often seemed to favor
Tommy’s chances, Tommy’s dreams.
Sara said they shared a demon.
You could see it when they danced.
VOICES IN THE DARK:
(Mother mentioned mornings make
melissa much more melancholy;
sara sleeps so sadly, so silent
sister’s sorrow seems;
willie, when we wake, will wander,
wistfully, where women weep;
demon dance dies dark and dreadful,
deeply drowning daddy’s dreams..)
THE AMERICAN:
Melissa loved her brother Tom
more than her younger brother ever will;
Willie didn’t mind; for he better loved
his better brother too. Sarah turned to mirrors,
always staring, turning, painting layer
after layer on her face, asking her father,
“Do I look all right? Do I look all right?”
His mother chose to shut herself
away in Tom’s old room,
while his Father’s heart
stayed dark, distracted --
unwilling to accept the weight of it,
so sure was he his eldest son
would simply follow.
Follow when he calls..
(VOICES:)
(Father’s phantom follows faster,
fears forgotten, fanning flames
by bringing beaming boys bare bones,
by bleeding brother’s barren bed.
sometimes siblings somehow smile,
sometimes sisters sadly spin,
demon dance dies dark, declaring,
look! daddy’s dancing! Shhhhh! Tommy’s dead.)
THE AMERICAN:
There is a well
beside a lake
that stands alone
near Heartbreak Hill,
where they say Anne
would always bring her wishes
(is that an ashtray? thanks),
whenever she might want
to sort things out,
or trace the fraying thread.
They say she always was
the first to wake,
for when the lake
was very still,
the mists would rise,
and this favorite haunt
would call to her,
summon Anne
to raise her dead.
Some say strangers should beware
of some poor bastard’s crazy daughter
who claims she’s lost a ring of pearl
she says she paid for, dearly, with her tears.
Of course, most will
say there’s nothing there
except for shadows in the water;
No one’s actually seen the girl,
or gone near the well for years.
At Annie’s well there are no girls
to pay attention to the warning.
There’s no one left to even bother.
No more daughters left to drown.
But sometimes, in the misty swirls
and murky dark of early morning?
It’s almost like you can hear the father
beckoning that daughter down.
When Jimmy finished with his tale that night,
He looked hard at me, as if to see
if there was anything I wished to add, or say.
I could have given him a list
of all the things that he had missed,
the parts of the song that he got wrong,
all the songs he didn’t sing.
In fact I was tempted to say nothing,
and merely walk away.
But, it wasn’t Jimmy’s fault,
and I didn’t have the heart
to just leave him there ,
with that look on his face
that could scare up the dead.
So, although I felt no real obligation,
I found I did have a piece to say.
And, to the best of my recollection,
this is what I said:
I know this place. I know it still.
Beneath this tree, this sun will cast
a sparkle rather than a shade,
too clearly I can see the hill
where, when I’d visit as a child, I never passed
the green and gold in every perfect blade,
the ease familiar fields provide --
when boys are told to play outside.
An old house, when it’s rotted through,
should teach a child about decay
but in this place I felt I knew
that somehow things
just found their way.
Now what peace am I to find
when, even here, I have
no peace of mind?
I know that many voices here
will claim that shadows only disappear,
that memories are but discarded wishes
at the bottom of a well.
Well, I’ve come to place a wager with
the shadows that would bring me here,
to stake a grave against the lies
that I’ve heard fools and fishwives tell,
Yes, it’s true, the last time
I saw Tom alive,
I was startled by
a sudden rage
that he’d let slip,
then locked away ,
then pardoned –
only to cage again.
That year, as we
turned that page,
there was somethin’
written in his face
I’d always try to read.
I must have been distracted.
I must have lost my place.
Something wounded Tom that year,
that he kept double-locked inside,
a murmur in his heart,
that would murmur things
to Tom, then hide,
an ill wind of whispers,
that was always
at his side,
and the things
it whispered
killed him.
Long before he died
I think the saddest sound I’ve ever heard
and saddest sight I’ve seen
was the sound of the men
beside me on deck
as our boat pulled away
from the docks of Dun Laohaire,
singing songs of farewell
to their mothers and the green ,
and the sight of Tommy
as he ran alongside,
‘til he got to the end
of the longest pier,
leaping and waving
his odd little heart out,
as I watched him get smaller
and smaller and smaller,
until I saw Tommy disappear.
I know that one day,
you’ll come back to this place,
Tom said to me on that
day at Dun Laohaire,
even when I can
come back here no more;
So if you do, boyo,
then just promise me this –
for your heart’s still strong,
and mine has grown weary --
that you’ll come here to the water,
stand your ground at the shore.
Ask me no questions,
I’ll explain it no more.
Just come here to the water.
Stand your ground at the shore
You see, boyo, ,
most men are a lot like
like this little green island.
And for most, there’s one woman
who teases his shore.
Life is a ship, with
no real destination.
And love? ... Well,
this is just what I think:
Sometimes love
is an innocent child,
that goes out into the world
and turns into a hoor.
Joyce’s is called something
else these days,
the lads all met
their various ends.
They say Jimmy died doing
what Jimmy did best --
raisin’ a glass
to absent friends.
Some men grieve
by seeking vengeance.
Others content to merely mourn.
I’m the kind of man who,
when my fears are fears confirmed,
my grief grows wild –
it becomes a wild and fearsome thing,
it takes me roughly by the hand
and will not rest until it’s shown
exactly where they found
the curtain torn,
it will not rest – my mind
will never let me rest.
Oh God make it stop.
Or at least help me understand.
Friendship is a funny t’ing.
It tests men in the strangest ways.
It can flourish in the dead of winter,
and wither deep in spring.
Golden boys on golden days
will swear to things that often hinder
pledges that they swore they’d never
truly hold each other to forever;
behind their backs, they cross their fingers,
cross their hearts and hope to die
before too many golden days
or golden boys get by.
Gossips speak
in guarded tones,
about a well of bones
they finally found,
Two stones stand by
like chaperones
where Tommy danced
above the ground,
And now
they’re hangin’ ornaments
around the
chapel square,
before they take
their sacraments,
there still are girls
who brush their hair,
lovers are still
accused of treason,
a charge that
none of them deny,
the fields are black
and without season.
Scarecrows often
wander by.
When it’s a wind
that rings the bell,
a deadly quiet
choir sings.
The parrish bows
its head to hell.
The women sigh.
The tower rings.
Even when the brides
and grooms
stand at the altar,
they’re really standing guard.
They guard a wind
that teases tombs
as it whistles through
the chapel yard.
October 8, 2007
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