James Anthony Kelly - A Dublin playwright & poet

A friend was surprised when he saw that I had bought The Newman Murder, a play written by James Anthony Kelly in 1996. I had found no traces of Kelly, his book or The Rathmines Theatre, a company which had been formed to produce his works in Ireland, on the web. (please see 2nd part of post below).

Which all hints at a marvellous obscurity.

He then showed me 2 poetry booklets by Kelly - published in a raw, avant-garde format and reminiscent of small independent presses.

Apparently, Kelly is recognised as highly-talented, but one who prefers to do his own thing and shuns publicity. When he publishes poetry, he sells them on the street for a couple of quid, knowing people will buy them. He presents himself as a writer for the sake of his spirt and not for wanting to be in the limelight.

He prefers to stay in touch with the common man and sometimes lunches with the homeless, although he is anything but.
I ask if I can meet him. If I'm in Dublin long enough, I'm told, I'm bound to bump into him on the street.

Isn't it thrilling to meet a writer who's doing his/her own thing enough to create a distinction and not to be a cloned as any kind of a commercially-packaged warehouse assembly.
In this day, even the lack of any significance becomes a rare commodity...a way for a writer to stand out from the crowd. Kelly can afford to indulge in this, adds my friend, because of his talent.

Today, the sun tries a peep but the rain still hasn't stopped.

Picture credit courtesy of Classroom ClipArt

Silent Melancholy

It is frosty today, a cold and melancholy Sunday. The rain beats softly on the window pane and without fuss. The morning could have been noon and the noon, another time on the same day. The evening will look like night and the night, like an evening gone black before it lost the light. In the season's stillness, my mood feels surreal.
I stay indoors.
The furthest I have ventured out is to the corner shop and this wearing a light sweater. It is a little daring, considering that it's freezing. The cashier on duty is my new friend and we make small chat. I had waited patiently in the queue, my hands full with little necessities...a bottle of milk, butter, crisps and the Sunday papers. This time, I choose The Observer and look forward to the book reviews. I come back with the sniffles and wish I had put on my coat.
I think it is the perfect day for instant noodles. Chinese but not a takeaway. I once stocked a bundle of packets for such moments. The steamy aroma is soothing.

I have just finished reading, a stage play, the one I bought yesterday from Chapters, called The Newman Murder by James Anthony Kelly. It tells the story of a bitter abused woman and I was so caught up in the 2 acts, that I didn't realise the main character would be murdered. It is a powerful and intense play although I feel the emotions of the characters are exaggerated. I also liked the idea of symbolism using objects, a bread bin for a snake and a dead lamb, representing the loss of goodness and a disillushioned love.
Plus, there are highly clever lines.
Last year, I wrote a play and stopped as it was one-thirds through. I still have it with me and realise while reading Kelly that my character roles had stayed on the right track.
I also learnt how a playwright could use different characters by shouting aloud instructions and lamentations, while glancing sideways - backstage - where the characters stay invisible, or staring at an audience while in contemplation.
When you think about it, it really feels surreal, reading a play in a cosy room, nestled in a favourite armchair, and eating grapes and drinking tea on a winter's day.
My read hints at obscurity, which makes it more special. The play was written in 1996 but there is no sign of the playwright or threatre, where it was to have been performed in Dublin, anywhere on the web.
I am all at once intrigued.
From somewhere, up the old chimneys, birds squawk in an excitable chatter.
I will spend the rest of the day being still, reading and writing my own story.
And the jigsaw puzzle... Of course. I had quite forgotten.