Category Archives: Novelist


I have two names, David and Tich.

I am not rich.

I am diagnosed schizophrenic, so what?

Thanks a lot.

I dislike labels.

I like chairs and tables.

In their proper places, I don’t like airs and graces.

Under the name of David I drink and as Tich I sit and think.

And sometimes write.

I hope not shite.

I was born in Ireland to be geographic.

Should I go pornographic?

I might be a bigger seller.

Like Joseph Heller.

Another feller.

My brother says Joseph Heller was not pornographic, must I point that out?

He wrote Catch 22, a great book, no doubt.

Very funny too.

My best to you.

This poem is semi-demi autobiographical, often the best type.

Like David Copperfield and other tripe.

Allow the madman speak.

The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.

What would you say if you spoke someone said to me.

Well, nothing much, do you agree?

At least I’m me.

Tich Ennis

1st December, 2017



You can’t depend on the weather in Ireland or anything else at all.

Hear politicians talking, they might as well be talking to the wall.

They make no sense at all.

Ireland is rather small.

Does it punch above its weight in anything or is it fate?

We’re not bad at talking, when will we start walking?

We wrote some books, we sang some songs, we tried to right some wrongs.

Occasionally, once or twice, we get it right.

We emigrate, take flight.

Beannacht De libh, good night.


Another wonderful day, as Beckett said.

Cheer up, you could be dead.

Tich Ennis

30th June, 2017



I am Irish so I talk a lot.

Talking is not all we’ve got.

Sometimes we say it with a smile.

Sometimes it is worthwhile.

Read ‘The Crock Of Gold’*, see what I mean.

Could you read better in a dream?

Tich Ennis

15th June, 2017

*James Stephens


Read Me

Are you known for what you say or what you do?

I could ask, me too?

Does it matter if you are known and if so, who to?

Only you?

Sometimes what a person says more or less is what they do if you for example are or were Mark Twain.

Or indeed Jane Austen, ladies first, must we go through that again?

At least you are not dead.

I take that as read.

Tich Ennis

31st May, 2017



I have the name of this poem written but what will I say?

A journalist’s problem that will not go away.

I have part of a page to fill more or less against my will.

Its quite easy, really, let it flow, hold on and don’t let go.

I had something quite different planned but this happened instead.

I am old but not quite dead.

This poem has zero to do with the title or headline.

Its over, I made my deadline.

Tich Ennis

17th May, 2017


Word Way

How are words to you and me, may they set us free?

I ask you and me.

Words are everywhere, in books and in the air.

In song, in story, in every form, on stone.

We are not alone.

In the future, in the past, free from self at last.

When oh when oh where oh where will we be there?

Yes, if we care.

I say yes, words may.


Words are the way.

Tich Ennis

13th May, 2017


A. A. Gill

Why did you die on me? Where are all the good guys gone?

In memory you live on.

Some more or less good remain.

The rest give me a pain.

Oh God above, Hellfire and brimstone would be a change.

Your cat has mange.

Brain transplants all around and replacement hearts, send them please.

I’m on my knees.

Where are the trees?

In times like these.

We need performing fleas.

I liked your line, A. A., about someone speaking like a duchess in a poorhouse.

Jazz music in the whorehouse.

Still the Sun shines, sometimes.

Tich Ennis

10th May, 2017