THE BOYS (chorus): The denizens of Joyce’s. Gentlemen farmers all; who, by their own account, “don’t raise nuttin’ but our hats
CONTENTS
THE BARMAN
THE GHOST
THE GIRL
THE TOAST
THE REEL
THE WELL
THE CONFESSION
THE SERMON
THE BLOOD
THE BODY
THE BELL
FOREWORD
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 the vow that I would never,
in the second of a glance,
in the promise of forever,
there was this one,
short-lived,
romance . . .
I.
THE BARMAN
SCENE
[The lights come up on JOYCE’S pub. JIMMY is standing behind the bar facing the audience, polishing a glass. He puts down the glass, strikes a wooden match and lights a Carrolls cigarette with yellowed fingers and practiced flair -- never breaking his gaze with the audience. He exhales slowly, spits out a piece of invisible tobacco, and begins.]
I.
JIMMY:
At the cross o’ Clough,
near Castlecomer,
sure, not too far
from the Dublin Road,
there stands a nooooble little bar,
where, on the odd occasion,
the local boys do 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.)
O,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 of laughter
floatin’ ‘cross the evenin’,
no happy boyos gettin’ drunk
and singin’ in a neighbor’s field.
No. These days?
(JIMMY pauses to smoke, swallows it, and doesn’t exhale for what seems like an alarming length of time. Deep in thought, he finally sighs and stubs out his cigarette. After a couple of beats, JIMMY lights another, and 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 Moneenroe,
now 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 a winter wind will make
when it comes rattlin’ the churchyard gate --
then goes howlin’ through the tower,
and then 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 and poses,
there 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 I say, fook them all,
The long, the short and the tall.
‘cause this is my place, anyway,
And it is called Joyce’s --
aye, 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 foockin’ be
Jim Joyce’s, faithfully,
until one or both
of us is dead
(and you know --
sure, I didn’t know there was
anut’er one ‘til
your man told me
a 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…Still, 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?
It’s always concernin’
somebody ya know!
Aye, I knew Tommy.
(Considers this.)
And like no other,
he knew me.
Ah, sure, we were known
to lift a pint or two.
Well, more than two.
On the rarest of occasions, maybe t’ree.
Oh, God, he was a terrible man
for the girls, like meself --
but not half as
good-lookin’as me.
(To no one in particular.)
Will it ever 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 …
except maybe once.
I believe 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 … 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 … (sighs)
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 only-only t’ing.
My t’houghts turn to him
now and again, I suppose.
Sometimes I just miss the
ould bastard, y’know?.
“HOW’D YA KNOW I WAS COMIN’…?!”
I’d call out when I’d find him
waitin’ for me with his tackle and pole.
“I am the Naaaaail-O!!”
Tha’ts what Tommy’d
always say, he’d say,
“Ah, sure, I knew ye
from before before!
O, GOD I know your
heart and soul…!”
Funny, 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 long after
the squawkin’ of women
and babbies be done,
whether we’d be
widower, pauper,
cuckhold or cripple
(or otherwise betrayed),
sure, 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’ 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 t’ings that crack and splinter,
solemn vows they knew they’d never
hold each other to forever.
Behind their backs, they cross their fingers,
cross their hearts, and hope to die
before too many promises
and golden days get by.
Right. 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,
at the very least,
It’s a fable
fishwives tell.
About a girl,
a lonely priest,
two broken vows
and a chapel bell.
II.
THE GHOST
II.
JIMMY:
Some say it’s Annie
what haunts him still,
them that are still
haunted by the t’ing,
and thus 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 heard him,
clear as a bell,
the night he come to call.
And Tommy whispers,
TOMMY:
(We hear his voice outside.)
Waaaaaaaaake the waaaaaater…….!
Whistles low, the way he would
whenever Annie tried to hide
by climbing down
her mother’s well,
And Tommy whispers,
WAAAAAAAKE THE DAUUUUUUGHTER…!
Raaaaaaaaaise the child!
And if I could
I’d tell you all
about the bride
what binds me to
that curs-ed bell!
JIMMY:
(JIMMY slams his hand on the bar with a BANG.)
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 t’ing 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
this was 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,
TOMMY:
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 ya 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 am
mad, O
darlin’,
will you
leave me
here,
alone,
where
the mornin’
meets the
moon???
JIMMY:
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,
(JIMMY shrugs)
ah, 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
hiding 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:
.
Cold.
Cold, and all
the colors of cold,
mineral, shell
and burning blue,
the SKY
s in
a fire-blue,
AND the wind
keeps ringin’
and ringin’
and ringin’,
O! 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
over airless moon and
powdered peak,
where icicles-snap and
glaciers creeeeak ….!
Oh, God I said cold.
Abstraction of cold!
Abstract,
impersonal,
metaphysical,
pure,
its 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!
(sobs)
TOM:
(The BOYS are all staring, slack-jawed, drunk. TOMMY lifts his from his hands, and smiles.)
Boo.
(chuckles)
Ah, snap out of it lads!
Bejesasus, don’cha know me?
God, aye, I am the one, dearly departed
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:]
… by the by.
And that
goes for me,
and so am I.
[Another soft shoe. Baddadda boom-ta-boom-ta-boom. Then shifts his voice to another, higher pitch.)
O, I started to shpeak
and I didn’t know
what to speak about
and yet I started to speak
so I’m speakin’ about
startin’ to speak
and I don’t know
if I’ve found
my way
in, or out!
(a little soft shoe)
O, God, make it shtop.
(TOMMY starts to get comfortable, and looks like a man
with a great deal to say.)
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
who 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 somebody’s mother,
so she can whisper,
‘Willy! Nilly!
SHTOP wit’ t’at!
Now, both o’ you
are actin’ silly!’
(TOMMY whispers)
(Some say only
one eye sees.)
I am two pieces
of a mirror,
the thumb that always
flips the 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 ardent lover,
I am the stone.
I am the sword.
I am the answer
to my own puzzle,
I am the fortune
ya 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 doouble
doppelganger,
(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!
(Louder)
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 cross
I am the nail,
(cue fiddle)
I am the’ nail…
I am the NAIL…
I AM THE NAaaaaaaaaL-O!
I AM THE ‘NAAAAAAIL-OOOOOOO!!
I AM THE ‘NAAAAILLLOOOOOOOOOooooooo!!!!!!
III.
THE GIRL
III.
(SCENE: The bottom of a well.)
ANNE:
[ANNE stands in darkness, partially lit with a blue pencil 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 is it
twenty-three?
And the only
other t’ing
I know for sure
is I’m not exactly
At me best.
They say I only
comes up 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
t’ink 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 can hardly
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 my poor babies
need to weep,
my darlins’ need
their 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?
Who still suckles
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,
O, 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 pilla’,
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.
(Anne pauses to frown.)
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 will tell,
but just the dim and hazy view.
When memory serves up a stew,
it’s not the faces I recall,
but just the dim and hazy view
from heaven’s gate and garden wall.
It’s not the faces I recall
o’ love, the lingering of hearts that fell
from heaven’s gate and garden wall.
When I must think, I cannot tell
o’ 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 will 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.)
[cue MUSIC}
Tom, 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 feared,
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,
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 TOAST
IV.
JIMMY:
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? 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 a journey,
and for makin’ you believe
you were there.
All right, so it was a bit of a shock
to see him in the collar, mind,
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,
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 :
[After a pause.]
(JIMMY providing both voices)
[Fast:]
“SOOOOOOOO, Jimmy:
How’s de missus
goin’ on?” says 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).”
[PAUSE]
“So I gather you’ve had a rough patch
of fine weather,” he offered.
“Aye, says I. (Pause) Digger Dan says
no one’ll die in THIS weat’er.
(JIMMY shakes his head sadly)
Poor bastard,” says I.
“Aye, it is sad,” says Tom.
“I mean to say…who
woulda t’hought
grave diggin’d be
a seasonal occupation.”
(Both men shake their heads in dismay).
“ Poor bastard, “ says I. “Well, we must
pray for a fierce winter,
so that Dan may be warm.”
“Ah, Jimmy, yer a generous man,” says Tom.
“with a heart like a Beef Wellington.”
“Oh, shut up…” says I.
“Oh, God, I won’t,” says he.
(PAUSE)
TOMMY:
“So…Jimmy… will ya be needin’ any help… with … the t’ing?”
JIMMY:
“No, no, t’anks, Tom. First I have to find where I put the t’ing for …uh…y’ know…the other t’ing.
TOMMY:
“Aye, well, THAT’S a relief… For I had no intention of helpin’ ya at’all … “
JIMMY:
“And you’ll excuse me if I don’t faint dead away from the surprise.”
[Both men laugh warmly, then fall to quiet.]
“So. Tom. How ye goin’ on, at’all,” says I, finally;
it was an innocent enough question –
and one that I lived long enough to regret.
“Now theeeeeeere’s an interesting
turn of a phrase,”
said Tom, brightening up, with his
sideways grin and
an eyebrow raised …
TOMMY:
“…How am I ‘goin’ on,’ is it?
Well, since you asked me
straight away like that,
I would have to reply.
if a man needed to know…
I suppose he could say…
that at the end of the day…
[TOMMY shrugs]
…I remain.”
“And are you no longer
a drinkin’ man?” says I,
for, after all,
a man has to make a livin’ --
and, besides, I
was not too comfortable with
any possible discussion
pertaining to human remaaains.
(Jimmy whispers, cupping his mouth)
Especially since, all the while,
I had been discreetly
wipin’ from the bar
wee bits of Tom’s own stray decay…
(Nods solemnly)
A tender gesture, I t’ought,
Almost… loving, in its own way.
“No longer a drinkin’ man?”
Tom repeated, startled.
“You know, much here has changed, Jim
-- but, sure, let’s not get hysterical.
Surely, you must be overwrought.
Besides, as you know,
I only drink but
twice a day:
(Both TOMMY and JIMMY chime in together)
When I am t’irsty
and when I am not!“
At this, I slammed
me hand upon the bar
with fierce resolve,
you know, the way I do,
sometimes, to wake it oop,
or whenever a new
man comes in --
or whenever the hell
I feel like it, you know.
Because it’s my bar.
Do ya see.
As I always like to say,
It’s your fault, but it’s my bar.
“So, you’ll have a Harp
lager, then,” says I --
“--I’ll have two Harps, please,” says he,
polite as you like.
“I’ll have two harps
and a violin.”
[Pause]
There was a pause.
Some of the lads
were lookin’
perplexed,
except for Tommy
and me, do y’ see,
who knew
precisely what
was comin’
next.
“So?” says he,
I shook my head.
“No,” says I,
“and not for a long, long time. “
“Ah, well -- more’s the pity,
and twice the relief,” says he.
“After all, she’d probably be
a little long in the tooth, by now,
if you know what I mean…”
Tom laughed -- it stuck in his t’roat.
“…why, she’d be as long
in the tooth as me!”
Well, now. This might sound
a little odd to you,
but the more Tommy kept laughin’ away,
the more I took exception to this.
After all, I had overlooked
the wee bits of affluvium on me bar.
For, by all appearances, set against the bleak
moral landscape of County Kilkenny --
well-meanin’ though we may be --
I could not help but notice
a measure of disrespect for
Anne in what Tom said.
‘Cause all t’ings bein’ equal --
which they’re not --
I couldn’t help but feel that --
well….That not even the dead
should speak ill of the dead.
Especially when they’re dead!
“You know, Tom,” says I,
That’s Anne you’re talkin’ about.
“Now, you’re in my bar --
and that’s your fault --
and you may be a priest,
and you may be a dead man,
but you’re still a
fookin’ odd man to me.”
As we looked ‘round the bar
at all the noddin’ heads,
I could see this was
a sentiment
upon which
all of us,
(Himself included),
could happily agree.
(Tom clears his throat and lifts his glass)
TOMMY:
Bear with me,
Gentlemen,
JIMMY
Tom said,
TOMMY:
for I’ve not come
to keep me head.
Indulge me, give me
time to t’ink,
for this is not
just any drink.
I am hoisting
Joyce’s gorgeous beer
to speak a name
for all to hear.
Jim, wake up that
Snoring, drunken lout,
if he won’t drink,
then t’row him out!
Drink afterwards
to whom ye choose,
but, lads, tonight
I bring some news.
It’s time perhaps,
to shed a tear
(Professor, please --
another beer).
Here’s the third
of many, boys,
refrain that song!
delay that noise!
Sure, I mean to be
a horse’s ass.
and I demand that
each man
raise his glass.
(TOM clears his throat and taps on his glass)
The time
has come
to pause, to sigh,
to raise a glass
to t’ings gone by.
I drink to death,
I drink to life,
to me sacred vow,
and me secret wife.
Aye, here’s to me
and Annie’s vow.
To perfect t’ings.
Reminders how.
To Annie, who
once said to me,
you have to hold
love carefully.
Here’s to ya, Annie.
You were right.
And here’s to the both
of us, then, m’ dear,
both dead
a year
tonight.
V.
THE REEL
V.
JIMMY:
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
and the dance
and doesn’t mind
a naught 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 fookin’ 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 could ever feel,
felt better when Tom played that 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,
and quite alone,
Tommy played
a fine duet.
Ah, the harmony,
the sweetness of it,
brought rugged men
to tears.
Not one among us
could conceal
our hidden hearts
from Tommy’s Reel.
(T0MMY stops, and shrugs .)
TOMMY
You know… sometimes I amaaaaaaaze meself,
which always leaves me
somewhat daaaaaaaazed.
For I’m not really meself
When I amaaaaaaze meself,
so I wonder:
Who is amaaaaaaaazed?
I AM THE ‘NAAAAAAILOOOOO…!!
JIMMY
…Tom suddenly cried,
as he lept to his feet,
and ran outside,
lifted his arms
and opened them wide!
I AM 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
VI.
THE WELL
VI.
ANNE:
TOMMMMMMMMMMYYYY!
Tommy ‘Naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaail!!
(No answer. Anne sighs, collects herself,
and begins, slowly.)
All my love lies waiting here
among the ruins, in my sleep.
My lonely mornings call you 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, until the evening falls.
And I start talking in my sleep.
No words can ever hope to keep
a melody without the song,
and I start talking in my sleep
when love has made me wait too long.
A 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 you near.
My nightmares mumble. Dreams complain.
All my love lies waiting here.
(ANNE begins slowly to 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 the aftermath --
misguided by a twisted path,
those times I thought my life a crime.
I danced into the 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!
And though I know we both agreed
to let the issue die
its death , and all of my mis-
givings laid to rest and done,
there still are times
I just don’t know.
I’m left with none.
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!
I know, as I know I love you,
his hair was red.
(begins to weep)
And the eyes
were shockin’ blue.
VII.
THE CONFESSION
VII.
JIMMY:
Now, I know that I’ve not told you
all the details, not just yet.
Later you will better see
That 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 my very best
to tell you in the very way
that Father Tom
confided it to me.
TOMMY:
If ya must know….
It was after mass,
on a Sunday
in December,
that Anne first
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, I’d
hang meself
from your
fookin’ bell….!’
And, then, when I put
on me other suit?
Bejaysus, if she didn’t
become … less enthusiastic.
Ah, but when I put on
that collar, boy,
that’s when she’d confess
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!)
(Tommy shrugs.)
Jimmy, her eyes were
so shockin’ blue and deep
O God I t’ought I’d never
stop my fall.
Or ever, ever
fall to sleep.
(Cue music)
Her gait was such the angels dreamed
of someday dancing to her tune.
Her voice, so sweet, the t’rushes 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, the voices build,
trees turn new leaves, old women frown
at all the hearts my true love filled.
Young minstrels sing, the voices build,
in halting tones, they’d sing in awe
at all the hearts my true love filled,
She must be false. Defies some law.
In halting tones, they’d sing 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’d say that she was
scared to death,
and whisper,
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 --
I t’ink some 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 fookin’ hand --
except, perhaps, to tease
the pale and skinny moon
that we already teased 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?
You see? The merry
moon is gone.
(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,
until, softly,
like a lullabye,
the lads began
to sing along:
[The following is chanted, in near-whispers, by all (except for TOMM, who speaks in full voice) in round after round of call-and-response. Here, each of the BOYS pulls out a snapshot of his own sweetheart, and, for the most part, are lost in their own reveries, looking from their photos to a fixed point in the sky.]
(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:
[dancing a grotesque jig]
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
t’rough 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?
TOMMY:
Aye,
but when ya
sent her to the city,
my love died
a t’ousand 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…
CHORUS:
She’d do a
lazy pirouette
whenever a moon
began to climb,
TOMMY:
…and now I’m dancin’,
to forget, O,
my love dies
a t’ousand 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,
when love
is too demanding,
love dies
a thousand times,
love dies
a thousand times,
love dies
a thousand times….
(FADE TO BLACK)
VIII.
THE SERMON
VIII.
JIMMY:
Now, I’d been watching
him sitting there,
tracin’ 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 that
small matter of
his bein’ fookin’ dead…!)
He weaved his hands,
to give it order.
And then,
just as easily,
he cast it all away.
Y’see, he’d tutored the girl,
behind closed doors,
spinning her marvels
with pencils and books;
he taught her all
the secrets of
how 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 she was 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:
You know… everyt’ing thing I say these days
comes out soundin’ like a sermon.
Though, if ya think that this is a sermon,
well then ya better get out of the way.
I suppose the t’ings we stand for now
are harder to determine,
but what’s 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-forsaken singers
who sing out the very same alarms
as when I sang for my supper
bell -- cursing, even
as I pulled the rope,
my useless, feeble
(empty) arms,
that night I sang out all my
tangled rhymes of reason,
until both me t’roat
and heart were raw,
in defense of a love that
never could abide
by any season --
not to mention
rhyme or reason.
(You know the
Kind of love I mean.
The love that knows no law.)
Beware the man
who tries to justify
the ragin’ of his storm
by shouting vainly
in its wind,
about a dream
he swears he once
fought valiantly to keep alive,
but, truth to tell,
barely kept it warm.
The words we use
to speak of t’ings like this
seem paltry to me, now --
paltry, and abrupt.
Sometimes words
are every bit as hollow
as intentions, you know?
Useless…!
Unless you use
the time to shape them,
strip them
of false glamour;
and then 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 evenin’ 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 we seek out
our reason’s rose,
and hold very tight
to sleepless nights
and to a moon
that only beckons those
who listen to
the songs of men
who tried to dream
before they dozed.
(TOMMY leaps up onto the bar and
addresses the BOYS directly.)
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 come 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 foock were all o’ you
when Anne went to the well
to make her final foockin’ wish?!
And where were all the rest of ya,
when I come to you with mine?
And answer me another:
How could you 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 turn your backs again?
Sure…was she not one of your own?
And who was it said that 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 Brendan
Daniel Joseph John Fitzgerald
Alloysius 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 fookin wife;
And I will see that she enjoys
the worst day of your fookin’ liiiiiiife….!
I once was blind, but now I see
the dark and deep in treachery!
I know exactly who to see
about what does not comfort me.
For just as I am under no illusions
as to what drove me to MY 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!
Sure, I didn’t even realize,
until after my last breath,
‘twas not for guilt we
lost our innocence --
twas never guilt,
but shame. 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!
Judas wept at tricky kisses,
Brutus must have weighed the knife,
or sunk his teeth into his hand.
How dare ya seek redemption
when you lie in your confession,
with your often all-consuming
foockin’ litany of heartaches
that can only serve to conjure up
a Bible-full of blame?
How dare ya draw on anecdotes
of fathers’sistersmotherslov--,
Christ, the way
ya slaughtered
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 waitin’ for an angel,
don’t forget you’re not the only one
who’s trying not to cry,’
I 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 will sit
and watch us die…!’
IX.
THE BLOOD
IX.
JIMMY:
Tom put down his glass,
and rose for the door,
his tears all shed,
his hands all wrung;
stepped away from the bar,
and fell to his knees,
and sighed,
and moaned,
and keened,
and sung,
TOMMY:
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:
Then the light around us
turned dark red --
like we’d gone
to night from day.
Then, slowly, Tommy
raised his head.
For Tom had
This to say:
TOMMY:
There’ll not be
another merry moon!
he said.
I’ve no more
interest in
the sullen dawn!
A great love
may come
your way soon!
And then
it will
be gone!
That
promise
breaks,
y’see
That
fruit
spoils.
This
hearts
aches ,
y’see..
and
this
BLOOD
BOILS…!
`
JIMMY: (faster)
Tommy kicked aside his chair
and then he tore away his collar.
He looked slowly, deeply, into me,
Then glanced up at my clock.
And then he ran outside again
and, O, he then commenced to holler,
howling in the very wind
that come to sweep away his frock.
TOMMY:
SO 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?!
DID ye think that just
because we’re dead
THAT ye
can merely
turn the PAGE?????
WOULD YA LIKE TO SEE
THE DRIED, BLACK HEART
OF A FOOCKIN’
DEAD MAN’S RAGE?!!!!?
JIMMY:
Tommy whirled himself into a circle,
started spinning full around,
drove his staff into the earth
and there it shook and cracked the ground…
…but at the very same instant,
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 . . .
no, sure the
fire itself…
had taken its place!
We all held still,
looked into
the blaze,
as frightened men will
when they think
that they’re seein’
the last of all of the
rest of their days.
Then all of a sudden,
he fell to calm again,
sure, just as sudden
as the storm began.
His tiny frame
so small and weary,
his eyes so loving, sad,
and water blue,
he looked just for a moment,
sure, the very same
as when we both were young
when both of us were very young:
Just a normal, breathin,’
livin’ heathen,
and sinnin’
son of man.
X.
THE BODY
X.
TOMMY:
(TOMMY enters, and turns to the audience)
You knowwww… I’ve often wondered,
was it God or Man who took
these everyday temptations
and then turned ‘em into mortal sins?
Sure, it must have
been the work of God --
for he’s always so,
you know… original.
Though I suspect that
even He came close
with this one,
you know,
t’ doin’ Himself in.
Was I the humble parish priest
or did I play the royal fool
when all my dizzy, derring-do
would turn me from the very t’ings
that turn my heart from turning cruel?
When demons in me begin to rise,
my fickle tyrants tickle true!
So when a love begins to sing?
I only listen in disguise.
Now, I know that there’s part of me
that’s certain of some perfect scheme
that lives within love’s own design
and deep within its mystery.
But I am also certain of
a horror living in the dream,
and it was there I chose
to draw a 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 can folly
hold a man a hostage
to his folly, and to
all the t’ings he
might have tried
that took the fall,
after the pride,
and all the t’ings
he locks inside
that folly made
him hide?
How long must he bear witness
to the burden of this folly?
How much longer
must it be a burden
he must bear alone?
How much longer
must we wander
in the fields
of waste and squander?
In the shadows
and the corridors
of penitence
and squalor?
Just how long
does folly feast?
Upon an
errant priest?!
Christ, how long
is any man
expected to atone????
(TOMMY turns to the BOYS)
Ah, Drink up, lads!
And drink to forget --
for princesses and
pirate ships
and mermaids
are no more!
All your childhood
dreams are 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 upon his
fancy English window sills,
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)
The churchyard’s
filled with Peter Pans,
and double-stacked
with lonely priests,
long-lost boys
who lost their swagger,
and never will grow old,
their shadows are
in need of mendin’,
the never say
their prayers at night,
they’ve dropped their shields
and sheathed their daggers,
and do what they are told.
The fields are dark
with broken hearts,
in hide-aways and
wishin’ wells,
that 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
will 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 shootin’ 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.
Shhhh! Can't ya hear her
in the echoes?
Listen ! Can't you tell?
She’s gigglin’
like that, ya see,
because she 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?
And 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’!
They found me ringin’ and
ringin’ and ringin’ and ringin,
they say they
found me
swingin’
from my own
chapel bell.
(cue music)
Still, if I could
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?
Sure, I’d be swingin’
from your rafters all right.
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 out o’ 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,
y’ know?
The two of us.
And finally,
finally,
finally,
rest.
XI.
THE WIND
XI.
JIMMY:
Melissa was the quiet one.
She barely winced when she was told.
Young Willie was too young, and never
really understood his brother’s demons,
let alone his demon dance.
Sara was the eldest, after Tom,
and more distant than the rest,
but somehow Tommy always seemed to find a way
into a private part of Sara’s heart.
His mother loved her beaming boy
the way that t’rushes love the morning;
his father’s heart was hard, but fair --
though never seemed to favor
Tommy’s chances, Tommy’s schemes.
But then he, too, had been a
first born son – and first born sons
of first born sons are cursed with many dreams.
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)
JIMMY
Melissa always seemed to love
the ones who gave her worry,
Willie couldn’t help
but better love his brother too.
Sarah turned to mirrors,
staring, turning, painting
layers on her face, saying, “Father?
Do I look all right? Do I look all right?”
mother chose to shut herself
away in his old room,
His father’s heart stayed dark, distracted,
could not accept the weight of it,
so sure was he the family tree
would come after when he called.
(VOICES:)
(Father’s phantom
follows faster,
fear forgotten,
fanning flames
by bringing
beery 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….!)
(JIMMY pauses to light a cigarette, and
leans in closer to the audience)
JIMMY:
Here,
I will try to
draw you a map:
You see where I
Point my finger?
You
are
here.
Now, draw a perfect line
To any point you choose.
Begin.
Begin below my eyes,
along the hollow
of my cheek,
across the bone,
around my t’roat,
no, deeper, through the
forest, past the shadows,
aye, beyond the shadows
(deeper still),
past the leaning shadows
of the aviary trees.
There, you'll find a stump
(ignore it),
you'll pass a cave
(do not go in),
you'll reach a fork,
and when you find it,
spin three times
and tell a lie.
You'll see a well,
don't stop for wishes!
for there you'll come
upon a clearing,
you’ll come upon
a shinin’ field,
a large, white stone
beside a fountain,
where I have
carved its name.
You,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 come here
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.
And there is a well,
beside a lake,
which stands alone
near Tourtane Hill,
where Anne would
often bring her wishes,
whenever she wished
to sort them out,
or trace a fraying thread.
She always was
the first to wake,
for when the lake
was very still,
mists would rise
and call to her
(bejaysus you’d t’ink
the place was haunted!).
Summoned Anne
to raise her dead.
Some say strangers should beware
of some poor bastard’s crazy daughter
who claims she dropped a ring of pearl
she paid for, dearly, with her tears;
others say there’s nothing there,
except for shadows in the water;
sure, no one’s really 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,
fewer daughters left to drown;
but sometimes, in the misty swirls
and murky dark of early morning,
you can almost hear the father
beckoning the daughter down.
I know that many voices here
will say that shadows disappear,
that memories are discarded wishes
like pennies down a well.
Well, I’ve come to place a wager with
the shadows that would bring me here,
and stake a grave against the lie
that fools and tinkers tell.
Aye, the last time I saw Tom alive,
I, too, was startled by a rage
he would let slip, then lock away,
then pardon – just to cage again.
That year, as we turned that page,
there was something written in his face
that even I could never read –
but then I’m easily distracted.
I must have lost my place.
Something wounded Tom that year,
that he kept double-locked inside,
a tiny murmur in his heart,
that would murmur t’ings
to Tom, then hide,
an ill wind of whispers
that was always at his side,
and I think the whispers
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
as we sang our farewells
to our mothers and the green,
and the sight of poor Tommy
as he ran alongside,
out to the end of the longest pier,
leapin’ and wavin’
his odd little heart out,
as I watched him get smaller
and smaller and smaller,
until I saw him disappear.
(JIMMY continues)
Well, Joyce’s is called
somethin’ else these days;
that, too, is gone,
along wit’ th’ rest,
who’ve gone to meet
their various ends.
They say I died doin’
what I did best ---
seems I keeled over
raisin’ a glass.
In a toast to
absent friends.
[cue music]
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 t’ings that crack and splinter
solemn vows they knew they’d never
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 boys get by.
Some men grieve
by seekin’ vengeance.
Others are content
to merely mourn.
I’m the kind of man who,
when my fears
are fears confirmed,
my grief grows wild --
it takes me roughly by the hand,
it will not rest until it’s shown
precisely where they found
the curtain closed, and torn,
and thus I am unsatisfied.
And grieve alone,
as Tommy died -- alone.
And I’ve yet to make my peace with that.
JIMMY (continues)
If you should visit sweet Cloneen,
then still yourself along her road.
Come listen to her nearby stream
fill up your heart. Set down your load.
If you could see what I have seen,
you’d know the reasons that I sing,
you’d learn the words of every song,
if you should visit sweet Cloneen.
You’d know the t’ousand shades of green,
you’d see the way her waters gleam,
you’d watch her river move along
then still yourself along her road
a quiet path, a soft bo’reen
will guide you to this gentle road,
some silly song will fill your head,
fill up your heart, set down your load.
If you could see what I have seen,
you’d know the t’ousand shades of green,
with heather pillows for your dream,
A quiet path. A soft bo’reen.
Gossips speak
in guarded tones
about a well o’ bones
they finally found,
Two stones stand by
like chaperones
where Tom once 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 parish bows
its head to hell.
The women sigh.
The tower rings.
Even when young
brides and grooms
are at the altar,
standin’ guard,
shadows fall.
A wind resumes.
You can hear it whistle
t’rough the chapel yard.
ML
January 1, 2010
TOMMY O’NEILL
1949 – 2004
