Biography of Martin O'Neill
Engineer, thinker, observer.
I get taken by surprise sometimes by a thought, a phrase or something someone says and my mind goes for a walk. Sometimes an object triggers a veritable gold rush of words that scatter and run around my head as I try to catch them. This is when I curse not having pen and paper at all times. It can also can be a problem when driving!
I love seeing and hearing new ways of expressing ideas. I love modern dance and sculpture by the likes of Rodin and Fellini. I have also enjoyed pottery and art to a limited degree - there are only so many hours in a day!
I don't try to develop an identifiable style or a modus operandi, I write what I feel at the time whether it is a polemic or a whimsy. I feel better for that than trying to fit myself into a strait-jacket of some genre or style of writing. I love the diversity of poets such as Roger McGough. I have found others here on this site.
I love reading other people's poems. We all have different ways of seeing and sometimes we all write a little gem. I love finding those. It's like finding a five pound note in an old suit pocket.
I also adore intelligent debate, just the sheer sparkiness of it, whether or not I agree with one side or the other or am a non-partisan observer, I find it thrilling sometimes to watch sharp minds spar. Like boxing but with intellect and no brain damage. I am currently enjoying the philosophical meanderings of A.C. Grayling and the blood and thunder of Rugby Union.
Martin O'Neill Poems
What Price Literacy?
An extraordinary time you have waited Quiet, in no kind of rush You must be pleased now that it's over Your time in the African bush
Half Past A Headache
Uncork the bottle and pour me a drink A long one A strong one I don't want to think
A Pillar Of The Community?
Three hundred and twenty years in the making. Lovers have met Battles been fought, won and lost And the afternoon heat
Seventeen And A Hundred Years Old
November rains wash the dreams down the drain And a rainbow lies bleeding in the street Where it gets splashed by car tyres to the edge And on to red shoes on a young girl's feet.
Here Be Tygers.
The wind circles round, laughing As she dances with it Trailing sparkles and spangles And giggles in the air.
Average blokes wonder what my secret is I'm not handsome or a brilliant scientist But when I start to tell them They say 'Swivel on this! '
A Basket Of Junes
I sit here Sifting my basket of Junes Birthdays and Sundays And picnics
Around The Square
A shopping shark shimmers In the city centre seize Picking off the bargains With a practised, fluid ease
A Right Old Boot.
She's an outbreak of gloom in the corner An affront occluded by pain She could moan all four legs off a donkey And persuade it to walk off again
Robert Frost Auto Recovery
I ponder the axle of my truck Invisible to the naked eye In depths of mud and water stuck And wait for the recovery truck
The barrister's wife was unfaithful With one of the Chambers' young lusties An abortion performed He remains uninformed
Alison is going to be late For her train connection Because Peter changed lane Instead of radio channel.
Vodka, the cheaper bottle from the corner shop in A clear bottle, you can see the wallpaper Through it on the other side of The world.
The Boy At The Back
Scrunched into a corner An emotional squall A tight knot of pain With his head on the wall
Dust motes float, trapped.
Suspended in the timeless amber
Of a sepia Wednesday.
The cheap carriage clock, tarnished
Tocks into the silent hum of the day.
A fly drones, settles.
Eileen rises from her chair
With more grace than of late, lightly