Plus the song, “The Wee Wee Man.”
See link below . . .
As a six year old child
In North Belfast, on the site of a rath
I awoke, to find a wee man
Half on and half off
In my imagination.
He didn’t call me a Prod or a Brit
For we all know that
That kind of stuff is just all shit.
Since then, since I was young
Dreams have come to me.
Waking dreams . . .
Images from nature, ancient and native
From here and across the sea
In the Americas.
Like a man on a beach
Where the river meets the sea.
Dreams, Dreams, come to me.
Dreams, Dreams, come to me.
What are these things?
These things I see?
What are these images and places?
For I feel displaced, this boy.
Why am I here? Did I choose here to be?
Here in this particular country
Where I’m often reminded
That I don’t really belong
Beyond the stockade.
A strong feeling of rejection
Within the womb of Ireland.
I cannot completely hear or see.
Why?
Yet, dreams, her dreams, still come to me.
Dreams, come to me still.
Let these dreams wash over me
Wash over me and you, together.
A little man, so old
So small, not tall.
Not tall, at all.
Ancient, from his fairy fort
Reaching out to a six year old boy.
Not understanding him, really
This wee wee man.
Rough skinned, rough small
And raison eyed.
Reaching out to me, without rejection.
Only curiosity, you see, for the invader.
Eager to introduce himself
To let me see beyond the fairy door
And what is more . . .
Dreams, these dreams, still, come to me.
Dreams, continue to arrive
To the wee boy, still alive and listening.
So what’s your problem?
And what are your dreams for us?
You and me?
Bring me some more of your company.
Free me from this welcome of a lock
With no key.
THE WEE MAN
AKA. Dangerous Banana
A northern Irish artist
RSH. The Wee Ashling .
By Randall Stephen Hall.
Plus the song, “The Wee Wee Man.”
See link below . . .
As a six year old child
In North Belfast, on the site of a rath
I awoke, to find a wee man
Half on and half off
In my imagination.
He didn’t call me a Prod or a Brit
For we all know that
That kind of stuff is just all shit.
Since then, since I was young
Dreams have come to me.
Waking dreams . . .
Images from nature, ancient and native
From here and across the sea
In the Americas.
Like a man on a beach
Where the river meets the sea.
Dreams, Dreams, come to me.
Dreams, Dreams, come to me.
What are these things?
These things I see?
What are these images and places?
For I feel displaced, this boy.
Why am I here? Did I choose here to be?
Here in this particular country
Where I’m often reminded
That I don’t really belong
Beyond the stockade.
A strong feeling of rejection
Within the womb of Ireland.
I cannot completely hear or see.
Why?
Yet, dreams, her dreams, still come to me.
Dreams, come to me still.
Let these dreams wash over me
Wash over me and you, together.
A little man, so old
So small, not tall.
Not tall, at all.
Ancient, from his fairy fort
Reaching out to a six year old boy.
Not understanding him, really
This wee wee man.
Rough skinned, rough small
And raison eyed.
Reaching out to me, without rejection.
Only curiosity, you see, for the invader.
Eager to introduce himself
To let me see beyond the fairy door
And what is more . . .
Dreams, these dreams, still, come to me.
Dreams, continue to arrive
To the wee boy, still alive and listening.
So what’s your problem?
And what are your dreams for us?
You and me?
Bring me some more of your company.
Free me from this welcome of a lock
With no key.
THE WEE MAN
AKA. Dangerous Banana
A northern Irish artist
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