'I Oedipus': video by Trish McAdam; commissioned by Clonmel Junction Festival. Music © Roger Doyle; lyrics: Marina Carr. Sung by Morgan Crowley.
1. |
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I Oedipus
Son of my wife
Sister of my
Daughter
Brother of my sons
Oh my daughter
My lovely daughter
My lonely sister
Where will it end
Sit down beside me
By the Grove of the Furies
In the shade of cypress
And the all too human Olive branch
Let me dry
Your tears
With this Tainted hand
This gnarled
Incestuous hand That will ossify
Soon
In this strange
Haunted place
This no man’s land
On Citharon they Left me
Heels bound
A squalling babe
For the jackals
And the Lions
I still dream
Of those sounds
On the mountain
The streams Gushing
Lambs bleating
The old gay
Shepherds Mumbling in
Their sleep
The frozen Infant
Naked save
The silver
Bolt
Fastening his feet
Not even
A blanket
The hillside
Strewn
With gnawed bones
A knee
A ribcage
An ankle
Who’s shoulder
Was that
Who’s clavicle
And the babe
Waiting
Choking
Feet in ribbons
Smeared in shit
Urine
Mucus
Will she never come?
What have I done?
I’ve never known Such pain
A star shoots
If I survive this
I’ll survive
Anything
I’ll wreak
Such havoc
No rage
Like
The rage of
Infants
Babe of the
Crucified feet
The bolted heels
Curse them on the shooting stars
The tearing wind
Howling down
The mountainside
Citharon hear
My savage
Song
And the shepherd
Came
Doesn’t he always
With his sheepdog
Where would the
Gods be
Without the shepherd
And his sheep
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2. |
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3. |
When My Mother Died
02:20
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4. |
Recess 2
02:14
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5. |
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6. |
I Jocasta
11:47
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7. |
I Girl Yes You Girl
05:21
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I Girl
Yes
You Girl
Soon you’ll be one
Of the old things
Medieval bridges
Cobbled stones
Sepia postcards
Dray horses
Descendants will glance
With mild interest
Amusement
Imagine they dressed like
That
Look at those boots
The red hat
She wore a lot of
Lipstick
She wrote plays
Now out of print
That’s where you get
Your creative bent
The great great granddaughter
Will say
To her well loved
Son or
Daughter
When they want to be an actor
There is no defense
To Becoming
The past tense
A mouldy old
Photograph
Falling out of a
Spider webbed
Bookcase
A
Footnote
That will never capture
How she
Thought
Suffered
Lived
Worked
Loved
Or didn’t
That they wont remember
The perfume
The cigarettes
The coffee
That she read
Ten books at
A time
And often finished
Them
That she loved wine
For a long time
And silence
And listening
To the blues
And Mahler
And hated
Endings
That one afternoon
In a New York
Eatery
Alone
She felt eternal
That she had
Been there before
That ghost lovers
Wrestled her
On more than
Three occasions
Mundane
And spectacular
Dreams
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8. |
That Her Husband
03:24
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9. |
That She Sometimes
03:09
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That she sometimes
Ran ten K in the gym
And then had to
Tell everyone
That she had a
Wicked temper
But learned
To curb it
Mostly
That her favourite
Pastime
Was staring into
Space
That she looked
Out the window
Every morning
To see what colour
The sky was
And if grey
She often cancelled
The day
Though no one
Would have noticed
That her mother died
When she was seventeen
That this was a mixed
Blessing
Despite the freedom
That she was an orphan
And liked it that way
That she was usually wrong
About everything
That she was somehow
Against every grain
Despite her best
Intentions
And even her
Worst ones
That she was soft spoken
That she had to be miked
When she gave readings.
That she lived
Long ago
That terrible Century
That we’re not
Quite sure
Where she’s buried
Probably Offaly
Or Kerry.
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10. |
After Your Funeral
05:00
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11. |
My Father Your Husband
06:40
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My Father
Your husband
Your son
Chin trembling
The sightless
Eyes
The wine Spilling
On his
Clothes
The singer
In the
Hall
Her dirge
About a
Girl from
A mountain
Limbs of
The deer
Eyes of the
Doe
That sort of
Thing
I refused to
Wear
Mourning
One day I’ll wear Black
What would
It mean
After all this Time
Certainly not
Mourning
My Father
Oedipus
Angry at
His son’s
Tears
Now stop
He said
Not unkindly
Stop child
It’s unseemly
But Etoceles
He cried
And cried
On and
On
And
On
What did
He
Care
If you were
His grand Mother
Incestuous
Monster
Who couldn’t
Tell
Her own
From another
You were
His
Mother
And you
Were
Gone.
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12. |
Transhumant
10:06
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Transhumant
Great word
The old paths
Old style
Man and
Beast
Going from place
To place
Higher ground
Valleys
Plains
The Savannah
Tripping over
Tusks
And teeth
Rust
And newels
From the
Age of
Iron
Occasionally
The glint
Of some
Old burnished
Thing from
The age of Gold
When was that
Carcass of the
Whale
On Everest
Sleeping
Dinosaur Under saint
Paul’s
Couldn’t run
When the
Primevial
Forest
Burned into
Flame
A comet
So big
It went
Through the world
Came out the
Other side
Voila
The Moon
And the gorgeous
Paly- what’s its name
To have seen one of them
Those transhumants
Will we ever be
So innocent
Again
A lone
Neanderthal
Last of its
Kind
Sat by
His fire
It was
Snowing
Butterflies
When they
Came
Blood on their
Hands
Blood in their Gaze
Still he
Invited them in
He served up
The dinner
Like a good host
They served him
Up for
Breakfast
He never
Said a
Word
The beautiful
Neanderthal
Last of his
Species
The butterflies
Sang the
Dirge
Transhumant
Licked
His lips
Raped the
Babies till the
Snow passed.
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Roger Doyle Ireland
Roger Doyle – composer, keyboardist and producer of own music, in concert and in the studio. Likes to work on large projects and to collaborate with others. Works with a multiplicity of musical languages and evolving technologies.
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