The wheel on my bicycle broke today
I fell off into the road.
You are only as good as your last day.
Travelling north, a truck loses control
Cutting a convertible in two
A cancer the size of a fist
Shows up in a brain
The roof falls in while a family watch tv
The universe is full of wonder
Unexpected beauty
And unexpected terror
To the boy in the cinema
Who cheered and waved every time
The hero had a victory on screen
That was great
Seeing you so excited
Made me feel like
I was 12 again.
Sarah worked in the laundry,
She worked hard
Her hands red, and back sore
She wore the uniform, a blue dress
Twice divorced, kids in the Catholic school
She never had enough money, even with the Sunday shift.
Henry drove and unloaded the trucks
A lady’s man, he took to Sarah
And pursued her, winning her eventually.
Henry never could value things correctly
And his days of breaking and lying were far from over.
Sarah had a recurring dream
Where she was on holiday
In a beach resort where she was swimming in the sea,
Her foot caught in rocks, the ocean rising
She could not breathe, and choking she would wake.
Henry saw her do this twice
And eating breakfast with her kids in the last morning
He sneered at the daughter and asked her what she wanted to do in life
The daughter looked down at the table and did not speak.
Henry set his eye to find new pastures.
Sarah pushed the load into the dryer
And wondered where things went wrong
And that surely they would improve.
Steam rose from the top of the vent
And out a window into the cold day
This war is a class war
Because he could not find a girl to love
Or a friend to greet,
Because his father left after one night in his mother,
He took a gun to school
shot at those he thought were happier
those once happy teens
dying in the halls, screaming with terror.
The boy with the gun had nothing to lose
So what could be done to stop him?
Because he saw his father lose job after job
And turn to drink
Because his father hit him
As he was hit by his father before.
Because the time the police stopped him on his way home
And he was already angry.
He pulled away and struggled and was shot.
No hero, bad enough to knock you over and rob you
But the hungry need a place at the table.
The prisons stand as warnings
Like bells in the night
Like fires licking out of windows
Each iPhone sold, each interest dollar paid
Tips the scales once more toward
That flood, which cuts down each man and woman
Regardless of wealth or colour.
I, who you thought drowned by God in the great flood
Have returned.
There was no room for me at the Caesars table
But there was room for me in his army
And it was there I learned to cut with knife and sword.
In the forest I see the collar on the hind
That reads ‘harm me not, for I am Caesar’s.’
But I, having seen Caesar cut down, cared no more for any life.
They put me to the guillotine as well
The blade took off my head, but I lived on.
I saw those who watched the executions
In their turn executed,
Now, in my age, I stand on the street of your city.
I see the gun in the hand of the man
I see the children kept from school
I see the woman with the bloody wound.
This war is not one of religion or race
It is as it has always been what it is now.
A class war.
Where one has too much
And many have too few
No number of guns can keep that door closed.
Check out my new novel Anvil Soul
A star fell in the field behind our house
But it fell silently,
Only lighting up the sky for an instant.
I was lucky to have been watching the night
And see the flash come.
I went to see our son
Asleep in his bed
He slept softly, gently, unaware of the universe.
His mother sits reading by a window.
When she was young, she fell in love with a statue of Jesus
In Saint Patricks
She took me to see the church, and I looked at the statue
Jesus stood, thin, melancholy, beautiful.
She told me the story of how she would come and pray
Because she loved his face.
She looks up and smiles at me
And the world spins as if I am drunk in a dream.
I walk out into the night field
And look for the star.
I find a glow in the woods, but as I go there, the light flickers and disappears
Like a fairy, fleeing mortal interference.
I stay a while by the pond, listening to the frogs sing.
The stars, less one, burning and secure in the blue-black sky,
Reflect in the water.
Anvil Soul is available now, have a look
She has a dream in her eyes
And heaven in her lips.
Treat her gently
So her love will grow.
The window, wide open
Allows the breeze to wander in,
Lifting the white curtains and reminding me of childhood.
She has a pair of jade chopsticks on the dresser.
Her books line the windowsill
And fill her bookcase.
The time has come to go,
Rain falls gently in the street
Turning the world black and shiny.
When it rains
Go to your window
And watch the drops rush down the pane,
They race and join, until they disappear.
Breath on the glass, my love,
And see the world mist.
Your sweet breath, your sweet touch,
Hides the world and I can rest.
There’s a guy I know,
And he sits around all day getting mad,
Or he works at some store or wherever he can get a job
And then he goes out at night running.
He looks for fights; he looks for trouble.
He’s crazy, and he’s angry
He’s never been in a stable relationship.
He starts dating girls; then he starts to agonize about their past boyfriends
Or over thoughts that he’s not good enough for them
Or they’re not good enough for him,
And he starts to break them down and drive them away.
I tell him he has low self-esteem
I tell him not to worry about the things he worries about
But it only gives him more things to twist over.
He tucks a knife into his running shorts
And then he’s off into the night, running all year around,
In summer heat or winter rain,
He goes for hours.
Sometimes he comes back and you can see he’s been fighting.
Some car driven across a driveway, and they don’t give way to him
Or some teenager yelling something at him out the window of a car
While it’s parked at a red light,
Or someone won’t get out of his way.
Most of them regret doing it when he loses it,
Sometimes he finds guys just as angry as himself.
One day, he’ll stab someone
And he’ll go to jail.
I wonder: what’s he got to lose anyway?
A refrigerator full of beer
And some poetry books.
That’s all he has.
He writes poetry sometimes too
Like me.
His writing is good, but that’s not enough.
He’s a mad dog, tearing at his own fur.
In New York City
She stands on the corner, in her raincoat,
Its pattern reflects in the street light and glistens with raindrops.
Her hair is pushed behind her ears
And she tilts her head down toward the street a little.
There is a golden puddle in the mountains, the water in that puddle
Is fresh and pure
There is a puddle on the street turning brown
And it is kicked by feet moving along in the crowd.
She stood on that mountain, in green summer grass
And I remember how she smiled as the sun sat upon the clouds and filled the valley with gold.
The sun has set on the street now
And my little room above the bodega is emptied of light.
Organ music plays down the hall
Someone is crying in a room nearby.
As I look out the window, the rain falls heavier still
And that woman moves slightly. In the electric light of the street.
She looks up; the light catches her eyes
I see that it is a stranger.
That woman, who spent that summer on the mountain with me six months ago,
I see her in bars, on buses, in theatres all the time,
even though she is not
In New York City.
I wrote The Bomber because I wanted to see the world through the eyes of a man, returned from war, and facing the horrors of returning home to normal life. I read the New York times article today (http://mobile.nytimes.com/2014/12/26/books/human-costs-of-the-forever-wars-enough-to-fill-a-bookshelf.html), and it struck me that my book is different for many reasons. Firstly, I have never been to war. I thought about it a lot in high school; I thought that I would do well in the Army, that it would be my sort of thing. I thought I could be a good officer. I based this on my interest in Napoleon Bonaparte and Arthur Wellesley, The first Duke of Wellington. I came to realise that the sort of people who succeed in the Army are probably the guys who do well on the football team. I was more interested in history and English. I do not think I am a great leader either. It did not take long to decide against joining the army. I also considered the Navy and at 34 still think I would like to go to sea and sail around for a while.
Secondly, my book looks at the workings of Joseph Starling and his descent into madness and ultimate recovery. The mindset of my main character is similar to one who has to descend into the underworld to save his lover, but ultimately loses her just before returning to Earth. It is a madness of throwing yourself into a system that will crush you because it does not even know you are there. The other books are more concerned with actual places and people; mine is set in a world of madness that could be anywhere. It is not clear cut, heroes and terrorists are as confused as they are in real life.
Finally, I feel The Bomber is successful because it deals with human issues in a human way. It is not because Joseph was a soldier that makes him interesting, he is interesting because he suffers. Just like anyone suffers. How many people do you have to meet before you find someone you actually like? What guarantees does life give you anyway? You could die alone, you might get cancer, your child could become addicted to drugs. Life is cruel and uncaring, but it is also beautiful and loving. Look at the sunset or the way the clouds sit still in the blue sky on a Spring day, The Bomber is a book that examines what it is to be human, faced with madness and fighting not to become mad as well. If Joseph loses his mind, the simple beauty all around him will disappear as well.
Choose books that challenge you. I love being recommended books by people who feel their lives have been changed because of them. I wrote The Bomber because the story changed my life.
As the leaves turned yellow and Autumn tread among the trees
We drove black roads to see the colours of life.
The girl with me
Urged me to run down animals we saw in our way.
I laughed thinking it was a joke
But she was serious
No good came of that drive.
Later, standing alone at the bar, deep in the heart of the city
In came loud mouth Joe, laughing and wearing a coat he stole from the second-hand store.
He came up beside me, holding a letter like a fox might hold an egg.
He sits down on a stool, hard,
But lays the letter down soft
And points at it, inviting me to read.
It’s from a lawyer
Joe leans across and runs a dirty finger over a line
“You do not owe her any money.”
I know what it’s about, the eighteen-year-old girl he made pregnant
The girl I knew well.
“What’s this about?” I ask him
“I don’t owe her any money?” he yells
Slapping the paper, forgetting himself.
“It’s your baby; you must owe her something.”
“Can’t you see what is written in the letter? I don’t owe her.”
I stopped speaking to him, and watched him drink.
A young girl came across and sat next to him.
“Buy you a drink?” he asks.
She laughs, leaning across, her hand brushing down his leg.
He takes the letter and shoves it into his pocket.
Into the street, I step down out of the hot bar
Steam rises out of a grate; water shines like oil in the gutter.
I walk home in the dark, under the huge concrete overpass I stop and look one way
Along the dark road and then the other, toward a lighted pedestrian underpass
And I wonder what became of her,
What becomes of anyone?
David G O'Sullivan 