Dónall Dempsey

...has performed in piazzas and showers all over Europe to both human and non-human audiences. It is alien for him not to be in front of a bunch of knowing grins as words assault the ears of listeners. He loves the smell of the crowd and the heft and lightness and texture of words. He is in love with words and words…kinda like him every now and then. He has performed on telly with John Cooper Clarke and Paul Durcan. He has had two radio documentaries about his person and poems. He was Ireland’s first Poet in Residence in a Secondary School which gradually lead to his metamorphosis into a teacher. Before that he was a thinker( not a tailor ), a soldier  and a sailor of  the sea of imagination. He writes of love and lust and life and death …anything that matters. He likes to perform with Janice Windle as much as he can and can even do the Can-Can but only when drunk. Janice and Donall have morphed into the entity known as DO/NICE or JAN/ALL and are joined at the hip and lip for the utterance of speech that is both entertaining and pleasing to themselves and others.

HOW WE ALMOST DIDN�T SURVIVE OUR 2 MONTH ANNIVERSARY!

Nude(in Bude)

our bedroom
like a stage set

that we strut our stuff upon
imbued with super human passion

desire setting fire to our loins
our somewhat energetic lovemaking

sees us advance inch by
sexy inch down centre stage

each stroke moving the bed
(unknown to us)

until we collide head on
with the wardrobe.

We have roamed
halfway across the room.

What(we thought) would have happened
if

the wardrobe hadn�t halted
our passionate progress

or if we had missed it
by an inch

(we shuddered to think)
& just kept going

lost in the throes of advanced passion.

We would have (eventually)
smashed through the French windows

(not stopping for nothing)
out unto the veranda

before coming to a startled halt
in the middle of the garden

the guard dog barking furiously
at our invasion of his privacy.

We would have (had to) make love (all over again)
to get the bed back in

called a glazier (Quick! Yellow Pages!)
be content to just


cuddle & hope our hosts
hadn�t noticed anything untoward.

YOU AGAIN!

Your summer dress
comes to rest

upon the balcony

hung up on a thin wire hanger
(an exotic bird)

it cries for your body
weeps at being

parted from you
& your curves

a pool of tears collects at its hem

as longingly it dreams of
the touch of your skin

asleep now in the sun.

Later that evening
frightened by the approaching storm

it tries to escape the clamour of its hanger

almost flies off beyond the reach of my hands

run away to sea
seeking for further horizons.

I calm it tame its panic
fold it tenderly

carry it like a dreaming child
lay it to rest at the foot of the bed

where all night long it sleeps
at your feet

awaiting your footstep

the sunshine of being

you again.

DOIN’ FINE

 I…told you

that I love you

I…told you

what I was

going to

do to you

when I got you

all to myself.

I…told you

there was a loud

cackling on the line.

“I THINK YOU GOT

THE WRONG NUMBER LOVE

BUT

KEEP TALKING

Y’ARE DOIN’ FINE!”