Neon Hearts and the Angry Mob

By Wayne Power

Love in a time of lockdowns is among the themes emanating from this latest volume of poetry from Wayne Power – a worthy follow-up to his debut collection, Everyone’s a Star after Midnight, published in 2020.

Moreover, these poems go to the very essence of love, seeing it in terms of matters that concern both the heart and the mind. It is a love that is rooted in the communities to which we belong: those that we are born into and those that we seek out (often, in search of refuge, maybe).

Written in the author's inimitable, racy style – reflecting the spoken-word, performance art that is his craft – these stories offer snapshots of the light and shade of city life, recollections of lost nights, love, mental health, also addressing social and political themes. This is poetry at its unfiltered best, at times gritty but delivered with an unrivalled comedic edge, nourished by a sentiment steeped in fondness for where he is from, where he has been and where he hopes to go in life.

We cannot have the good without the bad, so take time to enjoy all that the world has to offer, see both sides, enjoy the things that existence reveals or has yet to tell us about ourselves and the human condition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Manuscript Publisher
• Release date: Mar 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005713409

Wayne Power

Wayne Power is a writer, poet and spoken word artist based in Waterford city.Having studied journalism in Colaiste Dhulaigh in Dublin, he won a Sean Dunne Young Writers Award in 2002 for Best Local Prose. In 2019, through the Modwords collective, he burst onto the spoken word scene at a rapid pace. He quickly became a regular face at Waterford’s various open mic nights, taking every opportunity to share his truths.Within a few months, he had curated two Speakers Corner spoken word and poetry events in collaboration with Central Arts and their annual Summer in the City programme. Shortly after, he went on to MC their monthly open mic nights.In April 2019, he launched the Sound Up podcast to highlight Waterford’s thriving music and arts scene. The Sound Up Sessions were launched in March 2020 in Katty Barry's – a night of music and spoken word alongside local singer-songwriters, Mark Walsh and Ciaran Delaney.He would write and star in his first short play, "Well Girl, Any News?", which played as part of Modwords Festival in the Theatre Royal, Waterford in July 2019.His poetry and writing are unfiltered, at times gritty, recalling lost nights, love, mental health and political themes coupled with a comedic edge, all of which celebrate the human condition. They are snapshots of the light and shade of city life, steeped in a fondness for where he is from, where he’s been and where he hopes to go.Wayne Power lives in Waterford and was proudly educated at Mount Sion, a school that produced one of the city’s finest wordsmiths in the late Sean Dunne.His debut collection, "Everyone's A Star After Midnight", is dedicated to the underdogs, the dreamers, the mental health warriors, the unrequited, the shoulders we cry on and the torch songs we let heal us. The friends who become family and the family who become everything.

Book preview

Part One:

Neon Hearts

Neon Hearts

We kissed

And I leaned my head on your shoulder;

None the wiser but, getting older.

A rush of blood to the head.

I wasn’t made to be loved,

When I don’t even love myself.

Shelf.

Woe ain’t me but low is me.

We kissed.

I pinned my heart on your sleeve,

Only to be spun another reprieve.

Torch songs lit up my darkest nights.

Shimmering kites on warm summer nights.

Neon hearts and bright lights.

Love’s gonna give me the last rites.

You were one of the most beautiful sights.

We kissed.

Best laid plans,

We spoke it into the air; your burning glare

And boy, did I stare, transfixed and translucent.

Now I don’t believe in angels anymore.

We never did ride off into the sunset.

The unrequited chorus and alcohol-tinged regret,

Arse over feet – why must it always be so bittersweet?

There’s a future beyond the Moon.

I’m forever singing the same old tune,

Dreaming of beautiful nights, held hands

Waltzing away under dancing kites.

We kissed.

Living for neon hearts and bright lights.

Whatever Happened to Saturday Night?

We lived for Saturday night

And a dancefloor that vibrated

In the middle of the Glen

And never said ‘when’ but ‘now’.

Spinning vinyl, packed urinal,

Seminars and epiphanies

With a stranger in the smoking area.

Feet like kippers, queuing for Skippers,

Whether it was rain, hail or sleet.

A gallon of pints and a chip

To ascend up Mount Patrick Street.

Finger licking through Ballybricken

In search of a chariot, as the ghosts of

Old Waterford threw me a glare.

Yungwans and their fellas sneaky piss against the

Wall behind Rellis, dreaming of a hangover roast

Walking past the Bullpost but, more than likely, I’ll

Only be able to stomach toast.

Long afternoons in Geoff’s,

Cursing another fucker; he’s not worth the phlegm.

Swapping opinions on our 2-for-20 in BPM.

Tattoo on your shoulder, a chip on mine.

9-5 on the Hasbro line. All that factory sun only without the shine.

Wasn’t the congregation that filled the Forum floor,

The crown in Shakedown, the most beautiful sight?

Crumpled and sweaty on the 3am steps outside.

Whatever happened to Saturday night?

The Dandelion Clown

‘Mother Ireland, Mother Ireland

come set your children free.’

The Dandelion Clown, the Diceman,

The High King, the legend of Thom McGinty.

The zen walk down Grafton Street where you

Once donned fishnet stockings and a g-string,

In stunned, shocked, modest Ireland.

Bloody visuals for Declan Flynn,

Beaten to an early grave in Fairview Park.

The race to purge the dreamers and the steamers:

Rebel queers in mascara tears.

A wink from the Diceman on a Saturday

Afternoon thoroughfare. A living visual

Who stripped on the steps of the Central Bank.

‘What’s another queer?’

Painted on placard as you stood outside the Dáil

And when HIV, the unspoken taboo, the one you

Broke with a sledgehammer in front of those

Clambered around their TVs in Catholic Ireland,

The trail was blazed, the legacy etched in stone

For who were you to atone for the sins

And stigmas we used to leave in the dark shadows?

They carried you the length of Grafton Street

As you departed for some kind of heaven, from a

Cemetery in Glasnevin.

‘Mother Ireland, Mother Ireland

Come set your children free.’

The Dandelion Clown, the Diceman

The High King, the legend of Thom McGinty.

Inner-City Waltz

Margie Heuston stands alone at the bus stop

On Manor Street,

Ranting about the prostitutes on Arbour Hill.

Have no pity for the