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Unread 05-13-2010, 11:35 AM
Alex Pepple Alex Pepple is offline
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Default Jim Hayes

The Eratosphere podcast series brings you our resident funnyman, Jim Hayes. And even if you're not in a laughing mood, Jim does 'serious' too. Jim brings us a highly polished, professional quality recording taken from the CD release that goes with his book, The Bad Habbits of Little Boys.

Traveler, fisherman, inventor and writer, Jim Hayes has traveled the world from Tullaroan to Tahiti and most places in between. He has fished the rivers of his native Ireland, the Baltic inlets of Scandinavia and the trout streams of the American West.

He holds patents from backpacks to muck spreaders and is an award-winning poet with numerous prizes to his credit including the prestigious Espy Award for Light Verse in 2004.

He was Featured Poet in Light Quarterly, Chicago in 2005 and his poetry has appeared in many other print and online journals.

His first collection is The Bad Habits of Little Boys.


______________________________________________


Poem List:
  1. "Sole Custody"
  2. "Granicide"
  3. "Anti-Gravity"
  4. "Calling the bank from a Phone Booth"
  5. "The First Laugh"
  6. "The Auction"
  7. "Indian Wars"
  8. "The Old Priest Canon Corrigan"
  9. "The Merrow"
  10. "The Raggedy Bush"





JIM HAYES’ PODCAST POEMS:



Sole Custody

How could I know she would finally sue?
Now I am the one doesn’t know what to do.
She got our one sock and all of the kids,
leaving me nought but a life on the skids.

“We don’t have an attic, the bed is a pain,
the uppers are cracked and let in the rain,
the shoe’s over-crowded!” she said in her suit.
The judge sent me packing to buy her a boot.

But lately the children have all moved away;
she’s foot-loose now,—I’ve the mortgage to pay.
she’s seeing a night-owl (no rumour; just facts)
and spending her time in his Nike Air Max.

Each day when I pick up The Nursery Chimes,
I read of her exploits and all her good times,
while I’m down at the heel with my toes turning blue—
laments the Old Man Who Once Lived In a Shoe.


Granicide

Among our Granny’s flowering pots
were leopards, lions, and ocelots;
a cassowary, an alligator,
an elephant—that upped and ate her!

The cops that came investigating
missed the elephant’s masticating.
Accordingly, their suspicions fell
on Miss Livinia Pru-LaBelle,

A sweet, endearing, winsome wench.
They hauled her up before the bench,
“Not guilty miss?” inquired the judge.
“That’s what I said, and I shan’t budge!”

“Then off with her! The lying strumpet!”
the elephant began to trumpet.
But, from the body of the court
(responding to her brave retort)

up-spoke the grieving alligator;
“The elephant’s the perpetrator!”
The judge said “Half a mo’ while I
check out this jumbo’s alibi—

“Now, where were you while Gran was et?”
The elephant mumbled “I forget . . .”
They sent him down for granicide—
clearly, the elephant had lied.


Anti-Gravity.

Feline aerodynamics dictate
the behaviour of cats when falling;
no matter the height it’s always their fate
to land on their feet caterwauling.

The laws of buttered bread demand
it must always hit the ground
butter side first. The ways both land
give rise to a thing I have found—

a simple slice of buttered toast
strapped to the back of Macavity—
butter side up—allows me to boast
I’ve discovered antigravity.

The twisting of the buttered bread
cancels the spin of the cat,
and rather that falling you’ll find instead
they hover in front of your flat.

The buttered cat—I have done the sum—
released, will reach the height
where forces in equilibrium
cancel each other outright.

The twisting of cats and butter repulsion
can be finely tuned so that
to rise, remove some butter emulsion—
to fall, shave fur from the cat.

Ten million cats with buttered backs
a monorail over the nation
would give us all, no need for tax-
economical transportation.


Calling the bank from a Phone Booth

Your Honor, I called my bank,
it was really no big deal,
until a voice said; “Thank
you,” launching into a spiel,

(and the Nutcracker Suite)
“Press one for an interest rate,
two if you want to meet
with a mortgage associate,

three to close an account
four to arrange a loan,
five to know the amount
on deposit, and wait for a tone”.

I pressed when the tone abated,
(Still the Nutcracker Suite)
then heard when I’d patiently waited
“In order that we may complete

your business kindly press
(aargh- the Nutcracker Suite)
one, to give your address,
two if you wish a receipt,

three, if you wish to send”..
I jabbed at number one
before the voice could end,
my equanimity gone.

I clattered the phone with a shoe
when ”Press one” came again
with a list of options anew—
this time up to ten!

As the Nutcracker reached a peak
I pranced about on the tops
of toes my voice in a shriek.
Somebody called the cops.

I had one call at the station,
I rang my lawyer and heard;
“Press one if you’re on probation,
two if bail is deferred—

I screamed I’d murder the bastard
so they locked me into a cell,
and thinking my rage could be mastered,
allowed a new phone call as well.

I felt it deep in my waters,
in a flash of remarkable clarity,
I’d resort to Faith of our Fathers
and phone up Fr. McGarrity.

“Press one if ye gets into fights,
two if ye wish to atone,
three if ye need the last rites” . . .
At four I made bits of the phone.

I was held for a week without bail,
and ranted but no one could hear me,
the warders and cut-throats in jail,
feared for their lives to come near me.

Your Honor, I’m here on a writ,
I’m sorry for all I have done,
and pray from my heart you’ll acquit
a technology-challenged old nun.


The First Laugh

A fly, in a flash of inspiration,
wove a web, an exemplary act
which taught every animal in creation
that they had gifts they’d hitherto lacked.
So mice made honey and fish climbed hills
and elephants nested in sycamore trees
and every evening the whip-poor-wills
swam with cats in the depths of the seas.
Lions gambolled about in flocks,
the dawn chorale came from singing baboons,
chickens danced with a whistling fox
to the rhythm of meercats playing the spoons.
          In Eden all creatures acquired a new craft
          and one, for the first time ever, laughed.


The Auction

It’s mostly junk in the auction hall
save lot 15, hung on the wall,

an antique fly rod with a reel.
It is, at any price, a steal!

He takes it down and dares not speak,
a split cane Hardy! How unique!

He feels the balance, its spring and heft
and, swishing, casts it right and left.

The auction starts. Dismayed that plenty
of bidders are the cognoscenti,

he bids much higher than he ought
and wins—but with a nagging thought;

expensive rods that anglers swish
catch far more fishermen than fish.


Indian Wars

The Cree, the Sioux, the Cheyenne too, came over Daly’s Hill
and fell into an ambush that killed them all, until
they heard a voice commanding “Come home immediately!!”
Reluctantly, we all rose up and went in for our tea.

We fixed a battered wooden crate and scoured the ocean floor,
we scaled the heights of Everest and we fought like Archie Moore,
we “AAAEEEAAAA’d” Tarzan-like when Molly Cleere went by,
each one compelled to do so, though none as yet knew why.

With the blackest of dark secrets and the direst, deadly oaths,
we sanctified our brotherhood of pirates and cut-throats,
but Mickey Fitz got in a scrape and somehow grazed his knee;
his mother fair lit into us for wanton thuggery.

Daly’s hill is long since razed; the wigwams have moved on,
Molly lies in Liverpool and Fitz died in Saigon.
One by one we’re ambushed now, and each one fearfully
awaits the call commanding him; “Come home immediately


The Old Priest Canon Corrigan

The Old Priest Canon Corrigan was eighty years alive,
he’d been a priest for sixty years, a fisherman, sixty five;
we found him lying on the bank beside the Jockey’s Weir,
dead as the gleaming fish that lay beside his fishing gear.

Many a time we saw him make a double handed cast
and rise a fish and strike his fish and how he held it fast;
but nobody was with him and the day was almost done
when he struck the fish that stripped his line and baulked him in his run.

We saw the track along the bank where hunter followed prey,
and sensed we saw the straining rod—how skilfully he’d play
a fish—the grass was beaten down and trampled; we could see
the fish was playing the fisherman and neither would break free.

Perhaps they struggled through the night and each would not give in
until old wisdom told the fish the fisherman must win;
that salmon weighing thirty pounds the likes of which are few
or end beside a spent old priest laid out in morning dew.


The Merrow

     Beware The Nore where merrow dwell anon.

From out the Devil’s Bit a spring,
the river, deep and darkening,
wears limestone walls

down the Vale of Knockanaire;
then its tossing torrents tear
through Noreland Falls,

whence it flows, sans foil or let
until beneath Mount Juliet
it slows and stalls.

There nightly from a brooding pool,
wherein the pig-eyed Merrow rule,
a Merrow calls.

The men who hear the cry she makes,
human souls whom god forsakes,
the Merrow takes.

*Merrow, water demons, the males are ugly and warlike
the females beautiful and charming.



The Raggedy Bush

The Raggedy Bush stands lonely in Poulgower
arrayed in rags of motley age and hue:
a shrine to antique faith, druidic power
whose rites are here performed each day anew.
Tattered shreds on branch and twig entwine;
each scrap a prayer, a knotted reverence
to deities both vengeful and benign.
What do folk seek? Divine benevolence?
The Raggedy Bush roots deep into the souls
of all who come in supplication here
and flourishes on its exacted tolls
of avarice, credulity and fear.
Ringed by the Church and chapel, much alive
the Bush thrives—and our pagan gods survive.



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Unread 05-13-2010, 01:48 PM
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John Beaton John Beaton is online now
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What a treat! Having met Jim at his home in Kilkenny some years ago, I have been looking forward to this. It's worth listening to for his wonderful accent alone. But there's much more here than a fine brogue. Jim's sense of humour is quirky, all his own, and utterly charming, and the serious poems are accessible and rich with voice and character. Jim's poems are great works on the page, but the sound file adds a whole new level of enjoyment.

John
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Unread 05-14-2010, 06:43 AM
Tim Murphy Tim Murphy is offline
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What a splendid selection. I confess that I know them all, all the way back to Raggedy Bush, which I think featured in the first sonnet bakeoff. But it's much more fun to hear Jim read than simply behold these charmers on the page. Thank you, Jim.
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Unread 05-15-2010, 10:07 AM
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Ed Shacklee Ed Shacklee is offline
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This is wonderful stuff. I will be buying this book.

P.S. At the end of the day, I'll have to have this book, but $74.95 (as listed on Amazon.com) is a fairly hefty price tag. Is it all or nothing, then, or is it possible to buy the book itself without the audio CD?

P.P.S. Another predictable outcome in the eternal battle of budget vs. books -- I bought it, and I'm glad I did. Cheap at the price.

Last edited by Ed Shacklee; 05-27-2010 at 05:26 AM.
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Unread 05-15-2010, 10:18 AM
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Catherine Chandler Catherine Chandler is offline
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Another fine podcast! Nice to hear Jim's voice reading his work.
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Unread 05-21-2010, 09:56 AM
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Martin Rocek Martin Rocek is offline
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These are wonderful! Jim's comments and readings worth multiple hearings.
However, I ran into them quite by accident--perhaps there
should be announcement when new readings are added.

Martin
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Unread 05-21-2010, 02:01 PM
Roger Slater Roger Slater is offline
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Fabulous, Jim! I consider many of these to be classics, and it's a great selection of your work.

I've had the pleasure of hearing you read in person -- I think you said it was your first publlic reading ever, as I recall -- and I somehow didn't think I'd manage to hear you read again anytime soon, so this was a real treat. The biggest problem is that we can't go out for beers afterwards, which is a serious defect in the whole internet concept.

Actually, from what Alex says, I apparently had the chance to hear this any time I wanted with the CD that accompanied your book, which remains on a shelf in my office within arm's reach of my desk, but somehow I either misplaced the CD or just forgot that I had it all these years. I definitely need to track it down to put on my iPod. In the meantime, it's so nice to have these poems available on the internet just a click away.

Good job!
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