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
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
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! '
Dust motes float, trapped. Suspended in the timeless amber Of a sepia Wednesday. The cheap carriage clock, tarnished
Half Past A Headache
Uncork the bottle and pour me a drink A long one A strong one I don't want to think
Fish Supper In Black And White
I feel I ought to explain that this is a Trigee poem, two short poems that can stand alone and may also be combined to form a third. I'm not sure of the origin of the style but it's fun to play with.
Picking an invisible hair from a lapel With a half smile. Leaving a hand behind a second longer. The blatant yet imperceptible nod
The Girl With The Pushchair
With a wistful smile She deftly tucks the blanket in, Whispering as she does so, 'There, sweetheart, there.'
The Boy At The Back
Scrunched into a corner An emotional squall A tight knot of pain With his head on the wall
I held a butterfly today Multi-faceted eyes Reflected the sky. Inscrutable, he plotted
Ding Dong Merrily Don'T Cry
Mothers hurry their children away from the ice-wild hidden-wind blades and the passing taxis avert their gaze from the stragglers at the neon foreshore.
I never knew you before Friday Then I knew you intimately, For, oh, ten minutes? You weren't saying much
The Queen Will See You Now
I step from the shore and glide On diamond turtle's backs To the magical Kingdom Isle Where the beautiful Queen
Just For You
This morning, eyes half closed
I felt a softness on my toes
A present from my cat, so sweet
Half a pigeon at my feet.