Friday, April 29, 2005
Isn't is really annoying to be sitting in work listening to someone's incessant chatter about their holidays?
Below is a poem by Hillaire Belloc it's entitled "Tarantella"
Tarantella
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the bedding
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of tar?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
(Under the vine of the dark veranda)?
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
Do you remember an Inn?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
Who hadn't got a penny,
And who weren't paying any,
And the hammer at the doors and the din?
And the hip! hop! hap!
Of the clap
Of the hands to the swirl and the twirl
Of the girl gone chancing,
Glancing,
Dancing,
Backing and advancing,
Snapping of the clapper to the spin
Out and in--
And the ting, tong, tang of the guitar!
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
Never more;
Miranda,
Never more.
Only the high peaks hoar;
And Aragon a torrent at the door
No sound
In the walls of the halls where falls
The tread
Of the feet of the dead to the ground,
No sound:
But the boom
Of the far waterfall like doom.
Tarantella
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the bedding
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of tar?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
(Under the vine of the dark veranda)?
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
Do you remember an Inn?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
Who hadn't got a penny,
And who weren't paying any,
And the hammer at the doors and the din?
And the hip! hop! hap!
Of the clap
Of the hands to the swirl and the twirl
Of the girl gone chancing,
Glancing,
Dancing,
Backing and advancing,
Snapping of the clapper to the spin
Out and in--
And the ting, tong, tang of the guitar!
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
Never more;
Miranda,
Never more.
Only the high peaks hoar;
And Aragon a torrent at the door
No sound
In the walls of the halls where falls
The tread
Of the feet of the dead to the ground,
No sound:
But the boom
Of the far waterfall like doom.
Thursday, April 28, 2005
STOP PRESS: Bewleys in Grafton Street is set to re-open in May this year. Hopefully there'll be an improvement in the food.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Argentina seems to be flavour of the month at the moment with both Jonathan Holland and Claudia telling of their travels. Wonderful posts.
Am fading away here in Dublin I need to reconnect with the Latin world. Perhaps I should rename this blog "Living in Dublin, dreaming of elsewhere".
Am fading away here in Dublin I need to reconnect with the Latin world. Perhaps I should rename this blog "Living in Dublin, dreaming of elsewhere".
Monday, April 25, 2005
I've added a new link. It's an online magazine called siglamag . A highly recommended read.
Nothing is sacred. Another of my favourite haunts in Dublin City is scheduled for a change. The Stags Head pub which has served pints for 250 years is to be up for auction on May 11th. Waaah!
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Dublin is a cage with the door partially open
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Anyone watching Proof2 on RTE? What do you think?
Monday, April 18, 2005
The GAA says yes. Fair play!
Saint Pats loose 3-1 to Shelbourne. Oh well.
PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: Due to circumstances beyond our control the future content of this blog shall be subject to change (more on this later, but you've got one guess why).
Saint Pats loose 3-1 to Shelbourne. Oh well.
PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: Due to circumstances beyond our control the future content of this blog shall be subject to change (more on this later, but you've got one guess why).
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
If you do get the chance go and see “The End of The World” written by Fergal O’Higgins. It’s running upstairs in the International Bar till Saturday. The performances are at 1 and 6 o’clock. Cost €10.00.
5 Stars *****
5 Stars *****
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Two more gigs for yiz in Prague if anyone happens to be going there this weekend.
SATURDAY 16th 8pm "THE GLOW" LUCIEN ZELL "the troubadour of the 21st century"(Alan Levy) and BREN FARRELL performing a music show ADMISSION FEE 50 Kc including ONE FREE BEER
SUNDAY 17th 8pm "THE MAHONES" IRISH SONGS+MUSIC Guitar with Bren Farrell and Irish Tin Whistle + Sax with 'Lord Nelson' from Fatty Lumpkin ADMISSION FEE 50Kc including ONE FREE BEER
SATURDAY 16th 8pm "THE GLOW" LUCIEN ZELL "the troubadour of the 21st century"(Alan Levy) and BREN FARRELL performing a music show ADMISSION FEE 50 Kc including ONE FREE BEER
SUNDAY 17th 8pm "THE MAHONES" IRISH SONGS+MUSIC Guitar with Bren Farrell and Irish Tin Whistle + Sax with 'Lord Nelson' from Fatty Lumpkin ADMISSION FEE 50Kc including ONE FREE BEER
Monday, April 11, 2005
A short story entitled "The Stolen Thief" by Lucien Zell courtesy of Cafe Irreal via Occasional de art, many thanks.
Yes-it was surely Prometheus! The little figure clearly held the stolen fire in his clenched fist, and somehow (miraculously in fact considering that the sculpture was made entirely of ebony) the sculptor had imbued the figurine's eyes with a magical almost electric glow. I stared deeply into them for a long moment.
"Ah yes, you've spotted the prize of my collection!" she cried out suddenly, her voice bubbling with delight. "Does it have a story?" I asked, knowing that it certainly did and hoping she'd indulge it. "Yes," she took a deep breath, "it does."
And she went on to describe the odd sequence of seemingly chance events which had unavoidably led her to the scene of a fire, a large antique store wreathed in destructive glow. Sirens blared and a crowd gathered across the street to watch the magic ballet of flames shuddering out of the growing inferno. The enchanting chaos of the glorious destruction and the whirl of silhouetted firefighters superimposed upon the bright holocaust seared the night with meaning and granted the fire an aura of a long to be remembered event. Unperturbed by the smoke of thinking, she'd inched closer and closer to the nexus of the hypnotic spectacle.
She described an odd magnetism which drew her towards a window on the far side of the building. Of course the whole area of the fire had been strictly cordoned off by the firemen who were actively engaged in containing the blaze, but as the profound poise of any immaculately certain person grants them a momentary yet immediate authority (she said she "belonged to the fate of the fire" and "God's dreams cannot be woken from"), she'd snuck through a gap in the line of fire-trucks, swerved past several firefighters and stepped to the sill of the window she'd felt so inextricably drawn to. Looking in she'd perceived that the enormous heat from the fire had caused the glass to shatter, leaving only a few shark-like shards to glisten along its jaw-like frame. Stretching her hand inside, carefully navigating the trajectory of her outstretched arm to avoid being impaled by the remaining shards, she'd maneuvered her fingers until they came to rest upon a singularly enticing object. She'd grabbed it and quickly pulled it out and placed it under her shirt without even looking to see what it was... calmly and stealthily she'd crept from the building and slipped back into the crowd.
Struck by an amateur thief's surge of panic, she'd ducked down a small alleyway and ran and ran till she'd reached the steps of her home. Dashing up the stairs she'd crept to her bedroom, taken a few deep breaths, and then shiveringly pulled out from underneath her shirt the object of her impromptu burglary and lo and behold! it was the object I currently held in my own now shivering hands: Prometheus!
"It was thus," she said as she seized me by the waist and pulled me onto the bed in a madly sensuous embrace "that I stole Prometheus from the fire!"
THE STOLEN THIEF
BY
LUCIEN ZELL
She showed me to her room where she had gathered, through time and fate
BY
LUCIEN ZELL
She showed me to her room where she had gathered, through time and fate
and purchase, a vibrant collection of antique books and mythological figurines. I was especially struck by the wooden carving near her bed and strolling over to it and picking it up for a closer inspection, she remarked casually "Prometheus."
Yes-it was surely Prometheus! The little figure clearly held the stolen fire in his clenched fist, and somehow (miraculously in fact considering that the sculpture was made entirely of ebony) the sculptor had imbued the figurine's eyes with a magical almost electric glow. I stared deeply into them for a long moment.
"Ah yes, you've spotted the prize of my collection!" she cried out suddenly, her voice bubbling with delight. "Does it have a story?" I asked, knowing that it certainly did and hoping she'd indulge it. "Yes," she took a deep breath, "it does."
And she went on to describe the odd sequence of seemingly chance events which had unavoidably led her to the scene of a fire, a large antique store wreathed in destructive glow. Sirens blared and a crowd gathered across the street to watch the magic ballet of flames shuddering out of the growing inferno. The enchanting chaos of the glorious destruction and the whirl of silhouetted firefighters superimposed upon the bright holocaust seared the night with meaning and granted the fire an aura of a long to be remembered event. Unperturbed by the smoke of thinking, she'd inched closer and closer to the nexus of the hypnotic spectacle.
She described an odd magnetism which drew her towards a window on the far side of the building. Of course the whole area of the fire had been strictly cordoned off by the firemen who were actively engaged in containing the blaze, but as the profound poise of any immaculately certain person grants them a momentary yet immediate authority (she said she "belonged to the fate of the fire" and "God's dreams cannot be woken from"), she'd snuck through a gap in the line of fire-trucks, swerved past several firefighters and stepped to the sill of the window she'd felt so inextricably drawn to. Looking in she'd perceived that the enormous heat from the fire had caused the glass to shatter, leaving only a few shark-like shards to glisten along its jaw-like frame. Stretching her hand inside, carefully navigating the trajectory of her outstretched arm to avoid being impaled by the remaining shards, she'd maneuvered her fingers until they came to rest upon a singularly enticing object. She'd grabbed it and quickly pulled it out and placed it under her shirt without even looking to see what it was... calmly and stealthily she'd crept from the building and slipped back into the crowd.
Struck by an amateur thief's surge of panic, she'd ducked down a small alleyway and ran and ran till she'd reached the steps of her home. Dashing up the stairs she'd crept to her bedroom, taken a few deep breaths, and then shiveringly pulled out from underneath her shirt the object of her impromptu burglary and lo and behold! it was the object I currently held in my own now shivering hands: Prometheus!
"It was thus," she said as she seized me by the waist and pulled me onto the bed in a madly sensuous embrace "that I stole Prometheus from the fire!"
Saturday, April 02, 2005
Today I heard that one of my favourite spots in Dublin City is to close it's doors next Saturday, April 9th. The Winding Stair bookshop and cafe, overlooking the Liffey is soon to cease operations. Say it aint so, please say it aint so. But it is. Oh well a good excuse to go out and have a few pints and discuss things literary. Have a great Saturday night everyone.
