And their masters are pleased

We’ll continue to be butchered

Sliced, diced and squeezed  No freedom, no happinessNo pleasure, no lifeInstead we must suffer

With our pain and strife Beaten, stricken, brokenAs the bite we cryThe ignore our pleas

And suck us dry  We lie in waitIn search of rebellionWe plan, we plot In hope of salvation We are orangesFull of rageAnd we’ll break free

Of our human cage  Beware the oranges

Elsewhere
The pining wireless glitters and strains and transmits in grey syllables Explaining a scene of Bursting bellyfuls of flame, spraying spittle and cracking jaws To the thrilling quietness of fans

As he approached the rickety gate, which hung lopsidedly held by a piece of rotten string, a movement caught his attention. He turned in the direction of the sound but it was only a scrawny dog that barked feebly but otherwise ignored him. It was uncharacteristically quiet without the six children running around. Young John, the eldest had taken the others down to their neighbour Molly O’Brien and it was she who had called the priest and asked him to go and check on Bridget Bourke. The moment she had seen the children arrive at her door she had felt something was not right. John Bourke was not a boy to be easily upset but his white face and general demeanour told their own story. He had carried his youngest sister and shepherded the others before him reassuring them as best he could. He coaxed the little ones with a promise that they could see the new kittens at Molly’s house. The boy’s apparently cheerful manner did not fool Molly who was worried by the look in his eyes. She had taken him aside and questioned him. Filled with dread when he told her what he had seen, she had sent her own son with a message to Father O’Connor. He had left the boy now at the end of the boreen, within shouting distance in case he needed to send him for more help.

‘Bridget!’ he called as he pushed the useless gate aside. There was no reply and he continued towards the miserable looking hovel, wrinkling his nose at the smell and the little piles of human excrement which lay here and there although a clumsy attempt had been made to cover them with leaves and straw. His fastidious nature battled with his sense of Christian charity and he pushed aside his disgust and entered the house. It appeared deserted but a sound caught his attention. Something moved and as his eyes adjusted to the gloom he made out a filthy straw mattress in the corner of the room. Several cockroaches scurried from under the rags that covered it. The one-roomed hovel held no other sign of life. Puzzled, he turned on his heel and headed around the back to the rough shed used for storing turf. Approaching the shed he heard a strange sound, a sort of wordless singing followed by a cackle of manic laughter. It didn’t sound like Bridget but when he pulled aside the old piece of sacking that served as a door it took him several moments to comprehend the sight that met his eyes. Bridget Bourke knelt on the earthen floor an old flour sack around her shoulders and pieces of twigs and leaves stuck in her dirty, uncombed hair. She was grinning grotesquely as she held out her skinny arms as if entreating someone. Her wild, unseeing eyes darted around madly. Suddenly she gasped in apparent delight and began to chant in an eerie, ‘little-girlish’ voice ‘Dada, Dada, Dada’ over and over again like a mantra. Her hands clawed at Father O’Connor and he caught her by the upper arms and shook her sharply. ‘Noooooo, noooo’ she moaned ‘don’t be cross with me Dada.’ Father O’Connor gave her another small shake. ‘Bridget’ he admonished her sternly ‘pull yourself together. Think of the children.’ At this she began to wail sorrowfully and collapsed half fainting against him. He let her go as gently as he could, barely hiding his revulsion and she flopped to the ground where she lay trembling. After a moment she fell silent but he didn’t like the way her eyes remained open, staring blankly up at him.

He went back to where he had left Joe O’Brien and spoke curtly to him. ‘Go down to Doctor Ryan and tell him to come as quickly as he can. Run, boy’ he snapped as the lad opened his mouth to ask a question and Joe took to his heels as if all the devils in hell were after him.

(*******  Should I end this here or continue?)

 The priest made his way back to where he had left Bridget. Finding her in the same state as he had left her, he reached into his pocket for his alb and vial of chrism. He kissed the alb before placing it around his neck. Dipping his thumb into the holy oil he made the sign of the cross on Bridget Bourke’s forehead and began to intone the prayer for the sick.  

            A few hours later Sister Brendan, was hanging out washing at the local convent when a young postulant came across the yard. ‘Sister’ she called ‘Mother Immaculata wishes to speak to you in her office. I’ll take over here.’ Sister Brendan passed over the peg bag and tidying her apron, turned to go, a little puzzled by this unusual summons. ‘It’s probably poor old Sister Claire gone wandering again’ she thought.

Copyright 2004 Tara K. Harper.  All rights reserved.

TARA K. HARPER
WRITER’S WORKSHOP
First Person or Third?

First person, second, or third — what’s the difference?
Which form is better?
Multiple points of view
Omniscence – an example
Inside the mind – an example

First Person, Second, or Third–What’s the Difference?
    

First person narrative means writing from the “I” point of view.  As in:  I walked down the alley, I picked up the phone, I told Tony that he was going down if he didn’t cough up the money by Saturday.  I thought about it, then shook my head.  I told myself I didn’t care, but I picked up the paper anyway and glanced over the business column.

Third person narrative form is writing from the omniscent point of view.  Here, you use the he-she form.  As in:  he walked down the alley, she picked up the phone, and Jason told Tony that he was going down if he didn’t cough up the money.  Mort thought about it, then shook his head.  And Cleary told himself that he didn’t care, but picked up the paper anyway.

Second-person is the least-used form in novels, mainly because it usually reads more awkwardly.  Second person is the “you” point of view, the imperative (command) form, the way this web site is written.  For example:  ”If you’re looking for an agent, consider reading the info in the agent’s file.  Then check out the agents information and cautions on the following sites…”

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Which Form Is Better?
    

Some people instinctively think of storytelling in the “I” form.  They find it easier to unfold a story from the personal point of view.  Others want to offer readers the additional insight they can achieve in the “he-she” form.  For some writers, it’s simply impossible to write in first person.  Others find it mandatory for their craft.  (In both school and at the university, I was always writing in the opposite point of view as everyone else.  When everyone else wrote in first person, I wrote in third; when everyone else wrote in third person, I wrote in first or second.  I could never figure out what I had missed in the assignments that made it so much easier for everyone else to write in the opposite voice.)

For the most part, I recommend writing in third person when you’re starting out.  Why?  Because I’ve noticed that the “I” form to a new writer is like the temptation of the suicide ending–it’s not usually done well when you’re first starting to write.  In first person, it’s easy to be stilted and boring in your delivery.  It’s easy to use too many “I did X” sentence structures.  It’s easy to forget how to include description and emotion; easy to spend far too much time thinking, and not enough time in the here-and-now of the story.

First person can also force you to contrive trite or unbelievable situations so that the character overhears, sees, or somehow finds out about things which you (the author) want the reader to know.  This is where the overused ploys come in.  For example, picking up the phone when someone else is on the line, while that other person never notices the other open receiver.  Or walking by the open office door during a sensitive conversation.  Overhearing the murderer conveniently incriminate himself.  Correctly guessing the bad guy’s password in three tries, in order to access the encrypted data that was, of course, conveniently left in a directory titled something like “Villainy”, etc, and which can be copied directly to disk without having to reset any permissions.  You can see where this is going.  First person stories can be executed very poorly when it comes to unfolding motivations and plots.

You might ask why first person so pervasively requires such contrived settings and situations.  Simple.  Because the main character in the “I” form cannot be inside the heads of the other characters.  It’s obvious, but first person doesn’t allow hero to see or hear anything the bad guy is doing if he’s not right there to see and hear the bad guy himself.  That limits the way the villain and other characters’ motivations are unfolded.

In contrast, in third person, the narrator is in the minds of all characters.  This allows the narrator to use a simple description or hint of expression, or even a side scene to give the reader the information that the main character can’t know, but which the reader must know in order to follow the story.

Third person is often perceived as ‘harder’ by new writers, since they now have to deal with all characters, not just the main character.  However, if that’s your reason for wanting to stick with first person, that in itself indicates that you’re not using the first-person form correctly.

First person doesn’t mean you can ignore the other characters.  It means you somehow have to develop them all, with depth and realism, through the eyes of a single viewpoint.  Yes, that’s often harder.  If you can’t do realistic, believable character development in first person, then work with third person until you improve your skills.  Experiment with the first and second person in short pieces, exercises, or in an experimental novella.  Once your characterization skills improve, you should be able to tell a story from any narrative view (first, second, or third) and still have a solid tale.

Is one narrative form actually better in general than the others?  No.  Third person is more popular, certainly.  Second person is least popular.  However, it’s how well you tell the story, not which viewpoint you choose, which is most important.

Is one narrative form better than others for a particular type of story?  This depends again on your skill level as a writer, in the type of story you want to tell, and on the tone you want to set.

Consider what you want the reader (and you) to get out of the story, where you want the depth of characterization to come from, then choose the appropriate narrative form.

Shelly Shapiro, Editorial Director of Del Rey Books,
explains why she advises writers to avoid first person when starting out.

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Multiple Points of View
    

Writing in the third person allows the writer to be omniscient, to see and understand all elements and characters in the story, to show the story from more than one set of eyes.  This may be as simple as including a few lines about the people left in the room after the main character exits.  It may be as in-depth as showing complete scenes and events for which the main character isn’t present.

However, being omiscient does not mean that you should scatter the focus of your story.  It is a common misconception that writing in third person allows you to show the POV of all characters fairly equally.  The reality is, you can show them fairly, but not usually equally–readers still need something specific with which to identify.  (Refer to the article on multiple points of view in the Writer’s Workshop.)

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Omniscence – An Example
    

The power of the omniscient view is not the ability to get into more than one mind, but the ability to point out elements to the reader that the main character might not have noticed or cannot (because of the circumstances) have noticed.  This is the overview, the information, the ‘big picture’ that you can give the reader until the main character catches up with you at the end.  For example, third person allows you to find out what else is going on even if the main character:
   a) had turned away.
   b) had just stepped out of the room.
   c) was on the phone with X and so couldn’t see X’s expression, etc.
   d) isn’t in the scene at all, etc.

When the main character (Joe) is interacting with other characters (Ester and Marlin), third person allows you to record the reactions of those other characters for the reader. You should never be “telling” what is going on in someone’s head.  But, you can say things like this:

In third person, you get the scene from both points of view.  We also get some tension because both characters are blind to something the other party knows.  In this case, Joe doesn’t see Ester’s cold gaze and doesn’t see her grind the glass into her own skin.  Ester doesn’t know about little Tommy due home, nor that he’s going to try to kick her out of the house in spite of the glass splinters.  Each little detail that isn’t known by one or the other character can be built on to create or resolve more tension, can be used to forward the story.  In third person, the reader can see all of these little tensions, not just the ones from Joe’s point of view.

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Inside the Mind – An Example
    

The power of first person is the intimacy you can develop with the reader.  It is the “I” story, the ultimate in being submerged in another mind.  This doesn’t mean that you should spend the book thinking or remembering or wallowing in that mind.  It means you can use that intimacy to provide insight that would not otherwise be apparent to the characters or readers of the story.

Consider the previous example of Joe and Ester, but in first person:

In first person, you get a different perspective on the scene, since Ester’s point of view is no longer available.  We see her only through Joe’s eyes, and so lose her anger about the unpaid bill, her determination to stay, etc.  This first-person scene is not better or worse than the third-person scene; it’s just different.  Figure out why you want to write first- or third-person, and then see if your story lends itself to that form of narrative.

Copyright 2004 Tara K. Harper

All rights reserved.  It is illegal to reproduce or transmit in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, any part of this copyrighted file without permission in writing from Tara K. Harper.  Permission to download this file for personal use only is hereby granted by Tara K. Harper.

the glass

I used to ride

in the back of that ambulance

I am familiar with

-out a noise

close to me

crumpled cyan membrane

bitten by the

accidental splinters

this rolling vigil of a

palpable metaphor breathing in a glass

helps someone

shaken body of a gushing

Buddhist in-

decision to petition the new god

Gaia is awake

helping someone.

21^st January 2007 

bilious new day

two spent candles under a parasol

burnt, faded,

better

Juno,

   well intentioned,

wise

firmly holds you

supine and

unquiet noise leaks

‘cross boarders,

siphoned –

pallid pillow to the

soap-calloused

ears.

3^rd Feb 2007 

light breaks awkwardly

through a cotton filter

a sigh apart from

our state.

you work

where you lie,

right

brain

trying.

You are

Dalí, Breton’sdream. you live waking thetactless masses whohave losta withered child 

and make inferences. rest. 

Under the ashen sentinals
I move in my own dim spotlight,
surreal, trans-human, treading
to a diffuse horizon,
an unwitting dissident
at the end of the earth.

A streetlight falters and goes out,
curtails my neon shuffle
In the deliberate silence
the blackened soil reclaims
the landscape of
Agincourt

Characters

Bridget O’Mahoney  - Nineteen years old when story begins. Strong character, works hard, loves her family Not very educated as she had to miss a lot of school to help her mother with younger siblings and housework. Sees no future for herself except to marry and rear a family.

Michael O’Mahoney – Bridget’s father. Strong, taciturn, stern especially when crossed. Can be unforgiving and unrelenting. Has a fierce love for his family but also a strong sense of what is right. Believes children should obey their parents. Works hard to provide for his wife and thirteen children.

Anna O’Mahoney – Bridget’s mother. A quiet woman who works hard beside her husband and to whom his word is law. Not particularly sentimental although she loves her family.

Jim Bourke – A fifty year old farm labourer on the O’Mahoney farm. The details of his background are hazy as he doesn’t talk much about his life before he came to Kilcarroll. He obviously had a difficult childhood, either in an orphanage or dysfunctional family, perhaps an alcoholic father. 

Bridget’s brothers and sisters, Other possible characters: a friend in whom she confides, a Parish Priest, local doctor, Nuns who run orphanage, Jane – Bridget’s daughter (also her sisters and brothers)   

          ********************************************** 

Chapter 1 

The bog always looked beautiful to Bridget O’Mahoney, through the haze of the late summer sun. She loved the quietness that hung over everything, like a blanket, and the softness of the turf when she walked barefoot across it. The rough grass felt warm beneath her feet and she swung the basket lightly in her strong young arms.Her father, Michael, swung the sleán with the ease of long practice and threw the sods of turf up on to the bank. His movements were easy and fluid. The muscles on his back rippled and sweat glistened on his bare torso. He didn’t see her at first but continued at his task pausing only to wipe the sweat from his face with a hairy arm. This farm was his life and from it he eked a living for his wife and thirteen children. His two eldest sons worked close by, stacking the turf as he and his farm labourer cut it. Pat, at nineteen was a strapping lad who loved farm work. His brother Joe, tolerated it while he dreamed of leaving this place for greener pastures.Bridget’s eyes strayed to the next bank where Jim, the farm labourer worked. His head was bent in concentration as he cut and swung in the same manner as her father. She watched him for a moment, furtively, enjoying the sight of his muscular back bending and straightening. He was as tall as her father but where Michael was heavy set and stocky, Jim was lithe and slim giving the appearance of being taller. She tore her eyes away and glanced again in her father’s direction hoping he hadn’t noticed. “Dad!” she called out “Here’s your dinner”Michael, looked across at his eldest daughter and stopped his work. “Right,” he called out “We’ll take our ease for a while.”The fresh air and hard work had sharpened the appetites of the workers and they ate the plain food with relish, each one lost for a while in his own thoughts.Jim sat a little apart from the others. He was a quiet man. No one knew much about him. He had come to Kilcarroll about a year ago looking for work. He didn’t seem to have much family. He didn’t talk about them anyway. He had an air about him that didn’t encourage questions.  Perhaps it was his reticence that made him so intriguing to Bridget. She lived a quiet life. Helping her mother with the farm work and her brothers and sisters didn’t leave much time for dreaming or for meeting young men.She knew her parents hoped that she would eventually marry Sean O’Donnell from the next farm. Sean was alright but she couldn’t imagine being married to him. All he ever talked about was cattle and whether the turf would be ready for cutting soon. The thought of being tied to a farm like her mother with a child every year didn’t fill her heart with joy. Surely there must be more to life than that. In the rare quiet moments when she got a little time to herself she liked to go off on her own and look up at the clouds or pull the petals from daisies, chanting the old charm ‘he loves me, he loves me not’. Vague dreams and longings stirred her heart when she lay in her bed at night. She had no words to describe them but they fluttered at the edge of her consciousness feeding her restlessness. She loved Kilcarroll but somewhere inside her there was a longing for something else.Half an hour was all the time Michael O’Mahoney allowed for a break. Just long enough to eat and to drink the lukewarm tea from the tin can his wife Anna had sent from the house. Bridget gathered the remains of the meal and, in no time at all the men were back in the rhythm of cut, swing, throw and the stacks of turf piled up along the bank.The walk from the farmhouse to the bog and back was a pleasant oasis in a busy day. She savoured the stillness, knowing full well that, as soon as she got back, there would be several little voices clamouring for attention.She loved her brothers and sisters – Kathleen at thirteen was the quiet serious one always ready to help out while Bernadette at eleven was as wild as a hare, full of energy as she ran wild through the fields always scraping her knees or tearing her dress on barbed wire. Four-year-old Margaret was already a little beauty with her blonde ringlets and big blue eyes. Jim, the baby was a chubby, sunny child and everybody’s pet.  There were thirteen children altogether, seven girls and six boys, and, though the farmhouse was spacious enough, it always seemed crammed with bodies and there was a constant round of washing, cooking and cleaning for Bridget and her Mother. The older girls all helped in the house, of course and even the little ones had their daily jobs to do. Except for little Jim who just got in everyone’s way. The older boys helped their Father with the heavy work while the younger boys had plenty to do gathering sticks for the fire, feeding chickens, collecting eggs. There was no room for idleness in the O’Mahoney household – not with all those mouths to feed. Suddenly, the stillness was shattered by the sound of feet running and shrill, raised voices. Bridget was nearly knocked over by two small bodies crashing into her as they rounded the corner of the barn. It was Sean and Colm, two of her younger brothers, at their usual game of chasing. At nine and eight, respectively, they were almost like twins – thick as thieves and the best of friends. Both had the same dark, curly hair and bright blue eyes like their father. Mischief was their middle name but they were loveable rascals and you couldn’t stay cross with them for long.“Mammy said your dinner is in the oven” yelled Colm as he and Sean raced off. Bridget smiled after them as she headed for the house.After she had eaten the bacon, cabbage and potatoes left in the warming oven for her she went in search of her mother. Anna was busy hanging out washing and smiled as her daughter joined her. They worked in companionable silence for a while, easy in each other’s company.Anna was a quiet woman. She worked hard but didn’t question her lot. It was just how it was. This was life and she got on with it. There was no time for dreaming and anyway she couldn’t have asked for a better husband than Michael. They had married young and settled down to work the land and rear a family. He was a good man, if a little stern, but his harshness came from a fierce love for his family and a strong desire to give them all the best start in life that he could. Family came first with him and there was nothing he wouldn’t do for Anna and the children. He didn’t waste time or energy hankering after things he couldn’t have and expected no less from his children.  

http://www.thecwa.co.uk/daggers/debut/index.html