I did Stephen Jeffreys Scriptwriting Masterclass at RADA from March - May this year. It was wonderful and his expertise were hugely helpful. Stephen has written many masterpieces including the play and film, "The Libertine" and the new film coming out this September about Princess Diana.
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CurlinessI am a girl with a curl
In the middle of my forehead When I am good I am very very good But when I am bad I am horrid: I have no grace I don’t cheer & grin I have a wonky face Don’t have big white teeth Or hair that fits in I hunch & create Chaos in this man-made place I aint your cheer-leader Side-kick, the “Mrs” Or your damned kid feeder I am darkness Sent to crush Your plastic dreams Like a leader I am. - but not quite; I’m a curly wurly doll With black eyes You’ve had the keys too long! Crippled us, we can’t fly Hand them over with a song And a dance Mr Man Sometimes people say “don’t Make a song and a dance about it!” But do! Oh please do! And wobble yourself Topple yourself Your buildings and foundations Till they crack smack WHACK And from them up up UP I rise So get ready for me Little wee me like a daisy (in the cracked pavement) I am. Or am I? You don’t see me Coming cos I have a curl (Sweet little girl) In the middle of my forehead And when I am good I am very very good But when I am bad I am WOMAN the river curved
like his mother’s arm soothing his shakes and shivers protecting him from harm he sits by her side as her brooks babble softly he sighs almost shyly then crumpling like a can the tin soldier man lands on his back and meets his dad’s face in the lingering clouds frowning at him here, there, smiling, from the white puffed shrouds. the clouds mingle like lace and he sees a child plays, race through the white foam -like he used to do- in hazy summer days; loose and free when no Zeus was seeking him for a fee. clouds swirl over in the light breeze -God’s breath destroying this soldier’s bliss with ease- and the child falls to earth. Eyes open: this seedless ground where shrapnel grows, metal trees, sharp grass fields of blades cut his Soul shooting stars of pain his trembling chin knowing it can no longer feign- bleeding- needing- feeling- wanting more from Within- din din Explosion! water liquid oily sight his slight face pours wet white weeping willows crying high; “Why does this boy lie between this war and I?” Screaming purple sky and squealing squawks of wildlife fly swirling limbs flutter by like black pink butterflies waving bye bye gasping breathing spraying mouth of fountain blood, his writhing torso rocks to lullaby of soft gunfire & bodies slapping the mud bullet smashes cheekbone out through Temple flees- his jaw-drops, a brief moan- whipping lead busy as a bee! eyes popping mouth watering seeming smiling pupils screaming, “Why?” crumpling, falling gently, he sighs din din fin fin Ssssshhh…! ….and the rattle of the battle in the wind…. I find I live in a lunch-box
And all I smell is plastic air I breathe my breath; in, out, over & over ‘Till I’m near ready to pass out- fall over But I don’t I still stand Standing still Slouched Standing slouched still In this lunch-box I sweat & breathe Pawing the curved plastic wall With my foot looking for a grip To lift me up, out & stand straight No slouch! But there’s no grip, I slip, Bang my head, then, still Stand, slouch, with what will I can Can’t scratch that itch Growing, knowing, that the growing is Going nowhere, growing into nothing So, sweat & breathe in this Lunch-box, like a growing old sandwich You put me in the field of the long blue grass
And you stayed on the perimeter Guarding I could barely see you Only shards of you could I see Through the tall stalks of the field Breaking the picture of you into lines Here and there Fragments Like the sun through a fence Flickering as it's passed fast In a car staring out Longing for more Don't set just yet! I want to feel the touch Of your bent crooked soft hands! Of your feather soft white hair! Of your fragile soft frame holding- me! But it was blue in the moonlight. And I curled over And you Became a static blue statue I want to stay with you! Like the moon at night Always shining Lighting the way Just too far to lasso To pull closer to you Pastel blue love. But I saw the lavender! Lovely lavender seeped from your side Like a wound I picked the lavender Like corn from it's stalk And it glowed And lit my way- Still lights my way Carry it by my breast- My lavender Cross- Till it becomes me too And I shine like you Out of the blue Lavender! Lovely lavender Afraid we would not see your colours You stayed blue to us On the perimeter Guarding But looking with eyes of lavender Wrapping me up in your lavender gaze With your imaginary lavender kisses How I wish I could dance & smile And stay a while in your lovely Lavender eyes! I wonder,
I wonder- I pull asunder: My thought- One thought Before my eyes Divides! 2,3,4,5 Multiplies! They wander, They wander- Far out yonder: Whirring, Socialising Returning With ...thoughts! More thoughts? I thought I taught Those thoughts I had enough!!! Thought wrong. ugh. When I was walking down Manor Street in Stoneybatter, one evening, my eye caught the glimpse of a sun-ray crack an alleyway, ricochet from window to window flooding the street bright and
I Burst into a thousand pieces: Fiery bright tiny sparks of me flew this way and that Cars drove, horses clip-clopped, mams pushed prams, browny-red crooked buildings held each other up, hugging each other like old friends, bar-flies danced out of jazz joints, mentallers asked you to buy their lunch as the gold light touched them, softened them, baptized them, the light spilt like golden whiskey onto the cobbled streets and onto the decrepit walls of bashful drooping buildings- like an old spinster longing to be touched, a wonky tune injected with grace, the ‘Batter laughed and strutted like an aul one at your wedding- always dancing out of step and wheezing with glee and alco breath and a clip round your ear to warn you not to take it all so serious as she strode away on horse-back into the sunset- with her Tesco shopping- God shone His torch on the dirty nook and the ‘Batter smiled back a toothless grin and wiggled her saggy hips and did the conga in the warmth of the rays, rays like tendrils reaching touching caressing the dirty old street soothing the tired broken brown bricks that bent into barely-there houses homes shops bars bursting with mad yolks on too much gin and it was always grey brown red and dark blue in the ‘Batter except for the rays of gold that crept stealthily silently through the crazy-horse madness to whisper to the ‘Batter into her bent back ear that she was beautiful I’m still on the path exploding, bursting with light I cannot contain I can’t hold beauty! Beauty shatters my bones Gnashing, gnawing, snapping, clawing
White bristles & patches stained black mauve Sniffing, panting, barking, darting Tent ears, eyes old, stinking tongue, water nose Close to earth, towering tiny noble brat We can still hear the pitter pat Tap dancing nails Across the patio flat Shrill WOOF! Protector fierce Trembling growl, jowl dripping Down the lane echo Paws come tripping, tripping, tripping Dancing with the dolly Tear her to pieces Curious folly; Rolling in faeces. Broken Nature’s Law Unwombed mother Your miserable man-made dirty flaw Limbs stiff, whiskers grey Gorby sits on your head Mushed up food Far too much! Overfed! Bright sad eyes resign Dark knowing Spirit flies Seeming floating Car shrieking Breaking slow Snap Crunch Neck Whine Dog-wanting-death complicity This, the story of our Bold Fearless Mutt: "Whiskey" R.I.P. Whiskey O' Connell 1987 - 2001 ...Small dog, big attitude. |
AuthorMy name is Maureen O' Connell but everyone calls me "Mo". I'm an Irish actress. I write and make films also. I am the author of all poetry and creative writing on this blog and the copyright of which is owned by me- unless otherwise stated. I've just graduated with a BA from the 3 year Acting Course at RADA, London. Have a gander round the website at your leisure! Cheers, Mo Archives
February 2021
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