By Patrick McCurdie
The podcast currently has 46 episodes available.
I wrote this poem after the demolition of Denny's factory nearly two years ago close to where I grow up. The factory had been there for many years and had provided employment for many local people including myself when I briefly worked there part time while at school.
The factory acted as a de-facto peace wall in a divided town. Its large industrial footprint physically separating two disparate and often desperate communities. A no-mans land where both sides of the community could go to work together but comfortably stay away from each other after.
The demolition of the site has also created a gap and many new vistas emerged offering new perspectives on a changing town.
Join host Patrick McCurdie as he interviews his granny in this special final episode of The Authentic SOAP Podcast!
Music courtesy of Pixaby: Country Swing Band - Caffeine Creek Band
Guitar sound effect courtesy of Pixaby: friendlyguitarsound j008b
Arise
Is it that they arise again?
The Daffodils of the Earth,
or simply a seed misguided,
golden weed, of no worth.
Is it that they come and go?
Like lucid air in the lung,
or simply a static plant
whose music has been sung.
Is it that they mirror us?
A brief flourish in time,
or simply the organic order
queuing in the line.
Is it that they are eternal?
Timeless with no goodbye,
or simply seizing stems
as we watch them wilt and die.
Is it that we love their beauty?
Aesthetics from the heart,
or simply a small reminder
to place them in a crock.
Is it that they have some meaning?
Amber, spotted, dotted, gurus,
or simply biological
a mirage of the mind – a ruse.
Is it that they dig down deep?
To crumbly, slithery, chambers,
or simply a vigorous veneer
that makes us think, Who Cares?
Is it that they offer hope?
Of an impending promised land,
or simply that they make us smile
as we cup one round our hand.
Give Way
Down the undulating hill and a quick ski upwards
to nestle coarsely on the faded grass and gravel.
The pickle green fields visible in the near and long distance,
perched and prepping against the pole,
kneading its cool toughness, pitching the palm skywards.
The protrusion is shallow and wonky pressing blazed black letters
from the outside; clasping, embracing, enveloping.
A border of warning, an innocent injunction, a junction.
Strange symbol but familiar, so familiar, soothing
as it stands, faded, benign, just a sign, do not upset her.
Lifeless but living, inanimate but ingenious, objective but ordering.
The feint smell of slurry, deep in the hollow, provocative in the pit,
barely flinching. Just hinging – to the left, deflecting – the squally showers,
staying put, directing, conducting. The silent sentry, the burrowed box,
patrolling, doting, loving, giving, gesturing, gesturing, gesturing…
Portadown People’s Park
Gristly hedges morphing to modern stone walls, a new
Boundary, a peaceful partition, the innate chain of
Events. Changing structures, fresh psaltery paint; crisp turf
Set smoothly and heavily, slanting shallowly to the bendy
River. Its confines beyond the old and new frontier, a permanent
Reminder of past and future, of present and a new Earth.
Manicured lawns and fairways fuse with fenced ponds of
Ducks and tiny dinky birds. Struggling to fly, they rest on soil
Bored posts, staring to find their friends
And Foes who used to be plentiful, congregating
Deeply near the Arena pitch. The decent pitch, where sporting
Fantasy came true and where it was simple to defend.
Much easier than the slope behind the field and the black steel bench
Where the bastion was loose. With one wrong word, a
Rebuttal could follow, did follow, slinking in ignominy to the vesicle
of Sport. A trail of red water unwinding, a compassionate clue, as
Claret, clotted sap of Buckfast and Mundie’s floods the tonsils.
The party still in full swing, the grass still growing, all is still well
Until the legs become shattered by a trolley handle – a sunken relic in the
Ballybay River. The summer heatwave sheening and shining its m
Barley in the Eye
Crescent moon perched cosily in the corner obscuring light minutely. The click of a camera, a flash of Satori, the mind hopeful.
Gritty and gristly, the thud of baked wellies compressing the green barley. Uncompassionate but unaware, thought falls still; the red roof of the house on the prairie holding sway.
Tangy sap oozing from the lids, in time congealing and crusting. One eye orange, the other a distinctive light blue.
A fur coat to stem the frigid feel.
A sleigh slicing the channels, doggedly dodging the sleight, stumbling to ground strewn with mixers and concrete.
A hot press, thought falls still again, only interrupted by colours and parties. A welcome distraction, brewed barley awaiting, a tonic in sight!
Syringe Tip
Piercing point, steel shining, reflecting the heavy, heady light above.
Grooves and tracks, a smooth, silver surface curving benignly before the sharp diversionary hat of tears and fears appears.
A few millimetres either way. Clear, like a medical flute, whistling woodwind petering out early and solemnly.
The juice arrives funnelling to the estuary, breaking barriers, spewing to the sea, diffusing wide among the waves; blending to nothingness.
I take my hat off. Functional and eternal as it descends to the jagged box.
Barley in the Eye
Crescent moon perched cosily in the corner obscuring light minutely. The click of a camera, a flash of Satori, the mind hopeful.
Gritty and gristly, the thud of baked wellies compressing the green barley. Uncompassionate but unaware, thought falls still; the red roof of the house on the prairie holding sway.
Tangy sap oozing from the lids, in time congealing and crusting. One eye orange, the other a distinctive light blue.
A fur coat to stem the frigid feel.
A sleigh slicing the channels, doggedly dodging the sleight, stumbling to ground strewn with mixers and concrete.
A hot press, thought falls still again, only interrupted by colours and parties. A welcome distraction, brewed barley awaiting, a tonic in sight!
Syringe Tip
Piercing point, steel shining, reflecting the heavy, heady light above.
Grooves and tracks, a smooth, silver surface curving benignly before the sharp diversionary hat of tears and fears appears.
A few millimetres either way. Clear, like a medical flute, whistling woodwind petering out early and solemnly.
The juice arrives funnelling to the estuary, breaking barriers, spewing to the sea, diffusing wide among the waves; blending to nothingness.
I take my hat off. Functional and eternal as it descends to the jagged box.
In this episode, I explore worry and generalised anxiety disorder.
What is worry and how does it manifest?
How to recognise when worry becomes excessive and persistent enough to warrant a GAD label.
How health providers can help particularly with the use of CBT.
The host draws on his own experiences of CBT, meditation and spirituality in dealing with excessive anxiety and worry.
Monday Blues -
Sphagnum Recline -
The Bookies
Francie McGrory
Delicate fog gently grazes the landscape. Dreamlike and dancing. The flushed lilac sky impressively contrasts the Dromara Hills, like a shanty town in South America.
An old lady trots down Drumnasoo. Just a slip of a woman, vanishing in seconds. I try to recall her appearance but it was too opaque. Was she really crying? I am not so sure. I think she was flogging her free-range eggs with the mellow yellow yolks.
Back into town at the roundabout, I can see Francie McGrory. He is always chopping grass, tearing away at the shears. I hope he has time to nourish himself. That roundabout has the fastest growing grass in the country. He never leaves there, and always standing on the periphery; Strange man.
It is getting dark. The abrasive, winding aroma of burning coal is stinging my lungs. It looks like a Victorian postcard scene. All you need is a dozen top hats and oil lamps and hey presto! I should not be thinking like this. There is not a sinner around and I am sure that streetlight was shivering.
I drive swiftly down the loaning. The main thoroughfare to the big castle. I never understood why they called the big castle. It looks more like a bridge to me. They say an ancient Irish king lived there thousands of years ago. He must have fallen badly out of favour.
Before I arrive, I battle through a Waltzer of lights. My head is ponderous with the pulsing noises. I brake harshly, letting a court jester cross the road. He is freaking me out, the scallywag. I reckon he brought the king down.
Encircling, I head back up the lane. Everything is sedate like Saturday afternoon on a council estate. I need to check if Francie is still working. I drive upwards. He is still there. I park the car on a heavily weeded layby and walk to the roundabout.
As I approach benignly, miraculously, he is gone, not a trace. Thank goodness. That man needs his sleep badly. Come to think of it, so do I!
Patrick James McCurdie 2021
Join host Paddy McCurdie as he discusses breaking free from nicotine addiction.
An engaging episode with personal anecdotes and a focus on the psychological aspect of smoking, vaping and nicotine addiction.
I delve into the use of hypnosis as a powerful tool to weaken the link of nicotine addiction.
Key book to help host in giving up Nicotine - Allen Carr - Easy Way to Quit Vaping.
Diesel or Polo Mints
Tattered foil strewn wildly on cheap quasi-leather mats.
A chalky residue stains the fabric.
The window winds down effortlessly, revealing a rusted metal phallus,
resting awkwardly, on its snug, secure podium.
The soles of the feet step on to the murky pitch-black tarmac.
I grab the heavy nozzle, drawing it towards the car's watering hole,
an intercourse of machinery and energy.
The glugging commences, bringing a rare flash of presence.
Standing self-consciously, a workman with thickened black hands provides a welcome focal point.
He'd have been a much better man for the job!
The soothing glugging liquid noise quietens. The smell is pungent.
A toxic beauty scraping the nasal canal.
Footering in the tight jeans pocket, I retrieve a mint of Arctic freshness.
A timely temperance.
I return to the car for a chugging prayer, drowning out the incoherent country drawls around me.
The sinuses are clearing, like diminishing floodwater from a cavern.
Perhaps the recession has been too quick though, my temples hurt, like tender splints.
But I won't fooled by wrong awareness, it's not the diesel or polo mints.
The podcast currently has 46 episodes available.