This rather long poem(s) is inspired by the great Irish poet, Paul Durcan.

He seems to go into a trance when reciting his stuff
but he's a hypnotic and remarkable poet who has his own unique take on life.

Seamus Heaney seems to garner all the poetic honours for Ireland, but Durcan is also in a class of his own.

The name Acorne is borrowed from the Canadian poet, Milton Acorn(e).

BUDDY ACORNE



Well, I finally got to see the famous Buddy Acorne,
and, I must say, he had the audience hypnotized by his antics.
Buddy's certainly a man who's in love with the opposite sex,
but it irked me the way he went on and on
like some weird erotomaniac. I felt like shouting out
- Stop treating women as objects!

I sneaked a tape-recorder into the reading,
so I can let you hear what Buddy has to say
about his goddess, Danu:

I met a woman on the road to Dunfanaghy.
She was dressed in a cloak of feathers
And she had ropes of glossy red hair.
Her skin was pale and freckled
And she said she was the goddess, Danu,
And that she was staying at The Millhouse.

Here we go, I thought to myself, Goddess Danu
is probably sitting on an energy centre.
Does she take Visa, Mastercard or American Express?
What price enlightenment? Danu turned out to be a poet -
Danu was her pen name. She knew all about the Blue Lotus,
a plant used in ancient Egyptian temple practices.
There's a New Age born every Millennium, I guess.

Buddy's 'Chair Woman' poem
was actually about a man in love with a chair,
seen at an Art Nouveau exhibition in London;
rippling limbs, arching back, polished seat,
Persian cat armrests.

Granted she was mahogany, but even so, we're talking fetishism here:

If the Chairwoman had a voice, my friend,
Every word she spoke, you'd ask her to repeat it,
Just to hear the creamy vowels, the silken syllables -
Cherie! she'd murmur, Please be seated!
Untie the ribbons around my wrists!
And the cushioned head rest, the only fabric
Between you and her, would fall to the floor.

In her swan's down feathers, she was the toast of Paris.
The artist took good care of her,
And you will, too.

The well upholstered cannot know the joy
Of living with bare wood, with mahogany,
An Art Nouveau wonder, and she's yours, my friend.
All you have to do, touch wood,
Is listen, and be kind to her cats.



'Richmond Girl' was an account
of a young man sleeping rough on Richmond Hill,
in an alcove in the terraced gardens,
next to the ornamental pond. And what do you think
Was in the pond? A beautiful stone maiden,
Carrying a vase on her head:


Motionless
In a pearl-round pool,
Caressed by lilies
And silent as a rule.

Heavy arms
Holding vase on head,
Body made of stone
And water for a bed.

Lass of Richmond Hill
I'm drawn to the water,
To leave the garden alcove
And surface like an otter.

Greet you with a bark
And have you be
Lighter than the lark
That sits in the tree.


This poem was pure pastiche,
but Buddy has an incantatory approach
that makes even nonsense sound like first-water wisdom.

Eyes dilated in the headlight of passion,
he seemed to suggest that every pot has its lid,
that every woman has her counterpart in the male world,
a partner that complements her, if only for a little while.
As a confirmed singleton, I resented the implication
that a woman is only complete
when she has a man in her life,
but he didn't dwell too long on marital bliss
Or the union of divine souls.

To be objective, Buddy did confess that if he was guilty
of treating women as objects he himself was merely
the subject of his darling. So,
there was a woman in the background!
Some poor girl driven to distraction
by his poetic ravings, I'll bet.

Maybe, it's the 'Girl Reading in a Bookshop':

I'd like to go back and say something
To the blonde girl in the Barbour jacket.
Sitting on the floor reading John Donne,
She might have been in her own room.
I loomed over her like an inspector of poetry
While her earnest gaze searched my face.
Blue eyes, serious and searching;
I'll always have an image of her,
Reading there as if her life depended upon it.

Maybe not. After all, he's looking back here - forlornly.
Perhaps the bewitching colleen in 'Session' is the one:


I sat next to a flute player.
Near the end of the session
A drip
From the end of her flute
Landed on my hand.
It was like an electric shock -
A wake up call.
I had to catch a lift home
But she asked me before I left
If I'd be here through the Winter -

I'll be here through the Winter!


Yes, this could be Buddy Acorne's Winter Lady!


As I left the Ulster Museum,
I looked around the windswept street
and felt myself soar
for despite my harsh criticism of Buddy,
his reading had inspired me with a crazy kind of love.

Your affectionate friend, Emily