martinoregan | Martin O Regan

Fatherhood

Posted on February 19, 2012 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

My loves — Sweets for my sweet, sugar for my honey

Being a father was always something I’d dreamt about…in the deepest realms of a quirky notion. It never breached the surface of my conciousness, not on anything bar a romantic level. Someone to continue the family name and if not he, then at least to carry on the family genes! Is this what it is ultimately reduced to, some primordial urge to survive, exist, perhaps, postmortem/posthumously.

I would have, in my most cynical, single man days, surmised that all there was to babies was neurotic mothers and hapless fathers, the latter forever tormented because they could never understand what it’s REALLY LIKE!

Well, as for the torment there certainly is some of that to consider. Kicking back after a day’s work with a beer and football doesn’t quite wash with a sleep deprived mother – the father’s lack of sleep doesn’t matter – but really there’s little you can do (right) with a breastfeeding mother other than F-Off (out from under her feet).

Bem Rakpart

Posted on September 17, 2011 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

A finely scented pipe, by that I mean tobacco, ornate in its design

The drift of smoke, the owner’s look, all the ingredients for conspiracy/ intrigue.

With a sun set reflecting off the windows on the far-side the sunlight, in rebounds, trickles across to where I am, but then suddenly, perhaps a moment, a cloud or a passing minute, it’s gone.

I’m left instead in the veil of a bright bank walk evening, the benches are filling up.

The joggers are sweating, while the cyclists glide arrogantly by.

On the river a tour boat moves southwards, the snap happy tourists confined; perhaps not, perhaps they’re just weary,

And at Batthyany they’ll be ready to dock.

The cars down below, they stop and they flow,

now and then I gain a new neighbour

But high perched on this wall maybe they can’t see me at all,

Or maybe they just never notice.

Again I look up for ideas, inspiration is fading it seems

The treelined ‘rakpart’ calls me onwards…

and downwards to the city beneath.

Ah yes…the pubs where i would have frequented

the cellars, the smoke and the beers…

A tourist boat, another now passing distracts me,

A new life it seems.

I hear the squeak of an unoiled bicycle, the rubber on tarmac below,

a bird I heard earlier is silenced as the traffic’s beginning to grow.

The light while still present, soon fading,

a breeze at my back urges me on,

the river and sky now nearly one hue…

Ok, it is time and I’m gone!

July 2011

Posted on September 17, 2011 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

In Jim Cashman’s, Tara-val, Andi is shopping…

She stirs, she rubs her eyes; her nose it itches, maybe.

She snorts, and shuffles, and settles back.

She’s a babe in wraps, encased as she is within the atmosphere of this Irish, this Cork pub.

She sleeps while the atmosphere resonates. I wonder if she dreams in Cork, the Corkonian lure fluttering at the veils of her subconscious.

The notion that she is among people, their chattering, the clink and clatter of dishes, the voice of the barman querying, and here the words fall torrential on this page racing from back to front to meet a centre…

And still she sleeps.

Szeretlek!

Dublin 27 June 2011

Posted on September 17, 2011 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

Charles Stewart Guesthouse- Parnell Square East

Quaint by the way of age; nothing is too modern, yet everything is convenient, comfortable. The joining corridor between the two flights of stairs, succumbs to the idea of age with its ramp-under-carpet feel, but a room off to the right, with computer screen glare, reminds one that the spit and polish amounts to an up-to-date operation, where still the old touches- the receptionist, the tea in the rooms, and the breakfast awaiting the refreshed travellers- are paramount. Thank God we found this place- and thank this place for everything else.

http://www.charlesstewart.ie/

Shifting perspectives

Posted on September 17, 2011 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

Walking on a stop or two instead of standing, waiting for that bus, perhaps helped remove expletives from the run of these few preceding words. Sitting on the wall here on Varosmajor utca, 2 stops off Széll Kálmán tér, I’m in the early noon sunlight, somewhat protected by a thin, cotton ball film of cloud, and by the cooling which I’d expect of September.

However hot it is today, it seems to me perfection.

A fly ventures to land on my bag, I let it.

The constant rumble of traffic; music!

The notion of an approaching bus still leaves me hurried but my error allows me this one sentence more…at least.

A gentle breeze cools off my peripheries, though it’s now that I’d love a kilt, let some real aeration in.

A grandmother and grandchild spend this time conversing. They weren’t at that first stop.

People walk by, cycle past, move with the constant pulse of city life.

Sometimes, just barely, a moment like this enthralls, not the long protracted pen-stroke of a cafe pause, but the honest meanderings of a pensive, if meditative mind.

The bus arrives to break the last thought and as it rattles and squeaks along to its next port of call, doors slamming and banging, bells buzzing and fussing each time, I’m reminded of how easily it is to write when the object is not writing itself, but the mere restful state of observing.

An arrival, a beginning

Posted on September 11, 2011 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

Between choices I found myself again, having biting the bullet and letting emotion cloud my judgement. I had been wrong; I had reasoned incorrectly and because of this, now, here, I find myself, once more, sitting, wondering as to the consequence of my next move…

Coffee Break

Posted on September 10, 2011 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

Jesus! Listen to this dreariness. The chatter of the boys on the gatt, the Eva Cassidy-esque sounds over the speakers, the bar sounds: glasses; spoons; a sweeper-scooper; a coffee spoon stirring; and the constant hiss of silenced television, the different channels flickering. Outside the shadows of people fall in, cars fizz past on damp tarmac; the shadows grow from wood red to purple in here, out there there’s only grey. It falls from the heavens too. A pub, a pub like this, any pub, is not a place to be alone, not unless you’re armed with a pen, a chronic drinking habit, insanity or an abundance of optimism. I have 3 of those 4.

Amen!

The sound of cooking

Posted on July 31, 2011 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

Settled into the darkening corner of an evening-lit frontroom, laptop perched on slightly elevated legs, I sift through my thoughts wondering if there is anything worthy of print. While the telly casts out its sounds I’m reminded, but only vaguely, of many things. None of them hold sway and so I’m left to ponder over a blinking cursor. That’s it; I’m done.

Homesickness

Posted on June 23, 2011 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

Leaving Budapest for the summer, the buildings mock me. They stand resplendent in their morning veil as I glance back over my shoulder Buda-wards, not fearing to become a pillar of salt, merely to find hidden in the secrets of those spires and ornately tiled roofs, a sentiment, a love for this city.

Pest greets me as I cycle through it, the hustle and bustle, the noise, the traffic, the bars.

I know it’s early but whoever came up with that silly notion of it being too early to have a beer! The postman crosses swords with the all-night reveller in a kocsma, both on dawn patrol.

Soon I’ll be home, to Ireland, my first home, but having made this a clear second, the other places in which I’ve resided shuffle for attention. They’ll get it in moments of reminiscence, but for now I must contend with the idea that for two months, while alleviating homesickness, I may also become homesick.

Help?

Posted on June 20, 2011 by martinoregan • 0 Comments

Budapest. Still trying my best to gather enough ,what to some surely must seem trivial, information concerning the running of this here website. Trouble is I started with a blank canvas and didn’t realise I needed paints. Well, here I am armed with a rudimentary knowledge worthy of legend and so onwards into the new. Thanks to my brother Pete for the help…!!!

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