Frank Corcoran

irish composer


May 7. Lyric Fm broadcasts my ” QUASI UNA FUGA” with the Irish Chamber Orchestra/ Anthony

May 10. for Johannes Brahms 175th. birthday , North German Radio commissions Frank Corcoran two
hours radiophonic analysis of Brahms´ Fourth Symphony.
May 10. NDR broadcasts my Fourth Symphony ( National Symphony Orchestra / Colman Pearce ) .
May 10. I complete new ” QUASI UNA PERLA” for the Washington-based Basso Moderno ( piano and
double-bass ) .


My silver syringe

Sucks out dark blood for vipers

Poison for poison

In the high temple

Hunger for tea-cake, flowers,

Mountain marmalade

Up on one long leg

Long Mary sights her own beak

Water reflected

In its Milky Way

Glides and flexes and ripples

Our Solar System

Season of mellow

Yellow fruit; ripeness is all

Too tired to die

Their great flaps empty

The whirring wings are circling

Empty this goose gyre


Autumn´s light a bit burnished

The grass a bit burned

I stirred not before

That entire rice-field was sown

A willow witnessed

Will not one singing

Beetle or bee make him blush ?

Poor Palestrina


April 19 2008 Hüllm Cultural Centre

David Stromberg plays” Ice-Etchings” for solo cello.

July 1 2008 The Warehouse, London

Fidelio Trio gives the first London performance of my seventies” Break-Through” Piano Trio (1978 )


March 17 2008 Dutch Radio ” Mad Sweeney´s Shadow” Frank Corcoran Portrait including:



April 27 2008 Concorde Ensemble ( Hugh Lane Gallery Dublin ) ” THE LIGHT GLEAMS .

May 10 ” ( Cerkin Castle, Llubjana ) ” “

MAD MARCH HAIKUS – Variations On Issa

Matt, The Thrasher, gave
Her iron-dusted petals.
Their molecules kissed.

This mountain is sick.
Bird, beware all ferritin
Of a high recluse.

The mosquito blood
Sang in the shining syringe
Brown sultry music.

Na cuisleanna ag
Iompar ualaigh dearg na marbh.
Fear bréige órga.

E s´illumina
Il spaventapasseri.
Sera dei morti…

Hear that colour song –
Crimson wine, dark blueberry;
Insects have no blood?

Ease out that rice-plant .
How badly she planted it !
Slowly it rises, green.

Blossoms´ferrous pain
I am a sour-sweet cherry!
Big world now bigger.

Little mountain-bird,
Coo not; woo not my iron
In its thick sick blood.


This is ferrous thundering outrageous . I was not asked.To accept our recalcitrant gene C 282 Y which had mutated mutely enough in a West of Ireland bog, in let´s say ca. 550 B.C. with my neolithic bog-crowd of the blood which was up. This is on sanguine me as it is on my children´s boggy consanguinity, a haemo-outrage which rather makes a hames of plans for a quiet and holy life with the water-cress and the swine-herd´s heeled dinge in the mud of my forest-clearing, pink autumnal sun slanting .
This waste of iron in my body or yours was unheard of, cromatosis unsung at the field-day for Celtic leeches and the physicians of Old Ireland at Ould Ferrous Fair. Now for New Blooded Ireland. Bring down the Ferritin readings, and iron-levels in blue blood, your low-slung speed and slung-behind-you forest harp. And would you mind playing us a ” No grief is good grief ” planctus while the ferritinous outrageous is sucked out with phlebotomizing deceits for vacuum-bottles extracting our life-raspberry juices. Play us also that older harpers´ tune: ” Bring out the bright wine of your veins, missus! “.
I was mocked by the mute microcosmos of gene Cork 282 Yourself . Iron it is is in the blood, iron is in the man, iron the mark and marrow sometimes of somatic courage . A steely, cold eye , a ferocious friendship help while veins are bleeding, letting, releasing what was never wanted like that in that West of Ireland bog, our volcanoes scarcely muted, the Irish-speaking wolf co-habiting with the Great Elk. Blather on is another ploy of some leeches to distract from our amassing ferritinously unfunny minerals planning their comfy storage in thy life-blood till you´re a little older, a little bit colder, and ´tis then they´ll creep out and they´ll maxi-mushmake your organs´ music. Wait and feel ! ” Wei tan phöl “, is what she´d be bound and trussed to say, wrapped up in her unwashed mouse-droppings shroud, watching the needle seek the black-red wine, beaded bubbles winking in the syringe, in good strong bog-man veins. It flows, dietary iron overload, my ironic health, our paenchymal cells and all zygosity unwanted . Good ghosts of Trousseau and Professor Recklinghausen, leave the leeches snooze. Steely Sparta, we were not told, knew nothing of a cryptonite-overload in their warriors at The Hot Gates . Bronze and steel may break my bones but only iron will play my organ-music riotously, raucously , ferro-techno Rundlied a-pounding in scraggy pancreas , fat liver, fat life. It is because iron does not pity. Ferritin will not spare poor rich or poor sods in any West Irish bog , we are back in ca. 550 B.C. – the bog that embedded Our First Parents of all that harbour mutant C 282 Y for forty fat years and then twenty lean and then, if they don´t phlebotomize their big bloody red selves very quick, another twenty of funk , beflunked, organs shrunk and Down the Old Bog Road it shall be, surly sir. Prepare that vacuum-bottle, this our helping needle. Prick illusions, pray, prick our plans but leave us a beaded future, our liquid dark-blue bubble. ( Sterile, of course. ) Throw only then away what´s painlessly extracted, using vacuum and gravity and the vein´s own common sense. We will distinguish further between haemoglobulous and hobgoblin and we´ll let minerality and plain old anaemic being be, blood being thicker than iron-water, ion-blood being heavier than ferrous rinsings, the leavings of the blood-system´s butter-churn, the scum of the bog and iron-ore stores unattended till late in the day of the forest-clearing down by water-cress and cows´ milk sup in a mud-deli gouged by an unwashed swine-herd heel, the blood urging in pancreas, liver, deep heart´s core as well. Or consider the scarecrow and I this evening. In his veins no blood, no problem, no ruddy courage. No chromatic melody either. And yet remember his holy saw-dust , please, when the crimson clouds blow on. Do not forget sour blue-purple grape- and vein-juice nor yet your haemoferritin factory when we get to putting out the lights. Waste not, want not, pouring down the sink your vein´s beastings , not venery, yes pumpery; thus I muse as I bask in the anaemic dip in iron energy; only then leave aside her unwashed mouse-dropping shroud for some slight post-transfusionary hours , sailing out to the sun-set at the Great Red Blood-Orange Bar of Mr. Whistler. “Wei tan phöl”, “No grief is good grief” ” Bring out the bright wine of your veins, missus!” – all established traditional-veined ayres for the tuned-up harper couchant. Also his dance-tunes: ” Keep the bottle sterile”, ” Love thou a shiny syringe” or ” Mutant down the ould bog-road” , these consolations of the red badge of his courage, thin enough and slow to drip .


February 2008

ACOUSTIC TURN ( Wilhelm Fink Verlag. Petra M. Mayer Editor ) contains text and “Acoustic Turn” DVD of my May 4. 2006 illustrated lecture in Castle Salzau on ” Quasi Una Missa” ( 1999 West Deutscher Rundfunk commission; it won the 2002 Swedish E.M.S. Prize )


No bark ! ” I will never get enough recognition as a great singing hound ! I´ll never get what I desire and deserve and crave and readily yelp for and would kill for ;how I´d love to be rolled up in soft recognition, down recognition with Wolfie Good Gawdawg. I am now bloodily certain, the dog desires and he deserves and he craves and he yelps and he would kill for and he licks for and he would betray for exactly that quantity of recognition that a lollupadawgoddydawggy desires and craves and salivates and ruins and ravages and eventually rips himself apart for. ”
No bark! No deserve for whelps getting a just bit of tit for Tat, De Whinger. Nothing. When old Mother Hubbard got there, no bark ! The cupboard bare, pup ! No bark! A sheep-dog that has killed will die, he knows that . No bark! No four-legged chances in Hell of Dawg Redemption. No bark! Happy a bitch that won´t start whining again: ” I can´t get the love my doggy Ich needs, the love that drives the stars which our carnivores ravage for and ruin for. But if Dog is God, well, Gawd is Dawg as well .”
No bark! (The canine is an animal forever unclean, putrid, says the Prophet, notwithstanding his own unwashed desert background. ) Whinge how you will for your hope. Try higher up the octave, artful whine.
Art is not bark, yet consider Bishop Thomas Kearns´s holy doggerel , his EVENING DOG HYMN of 1705 : ” Teach me to live, that I may dread / The grave as little as my bed.” Surely this is not far removed from the hound-dawg´s dinner-song: ” I want recognition before I´m dead! I can´t get no ! ”
Bark! Save me from the grave and holy ! Eating dog chop is, regionally considered in South East Asia, not wrong. But to drown Gawd Dawg is always a grave sin.
Consider: it was the third day. Uneasy the chain of Lollupadawggie´s child-breaking, heart-wringing squeal : ” I can get no !” In the sack Dawg – Gawd floated a little, but then was held under; a hound and not a whimper!
No bark! Teach us to die under water in the sack which the two strong men held down for a long time, no ripping apart, no dog´s quarter, no recognition before Wolfie Lollup Dawgawdawg died; never get now what that hound desired and craved and was drowned for. No bark of recognition before wet agony was imposed, was initiated, took place, was meted out, was covered up, was sold to us children looking for a sign, a dog`s soft whinge or a few last bubbles from the now motionless sack – observing the dog´s water-boarding and that waterdeath, his water-justice and -cramp and -terror in all those who go down to the sea in a tied sack held under water for twelve bursting dog-minutes, seeing cynic suffering and doggerel suffering, and dogged agony, then that cosmic indifference ; and not a shout for gawddawg-lollopy “justice” or barked ” redemption” or snarled ” resurrection ” up out of six feet of drowning water in his heavy death-sack, to be untied only on the third day .
No bark! No strife! No struggle! All manner of watery deaths shall be well! All dawg-tears to be wiped from drowned eyes, full fathoms hounding ” I shall get no recognition. ” – To sleep in one´s trussed-up water-sack , awaiting the cosmic trumpets. For in that wet dream of dog-drowning what will waver in the wave for Wolfie Gawd Dawg or Tat De Puppy Whinger ? No bark ! Mute this : ” It is unknown. And was unknown. And never will be known. Es ist die ververborg´ne vinsternisser der ewigen Gotheit! Do not google Dagawd! ” Down, loppuppie ! Mother Hubbard´s arrived, dogs! Keep at a quiet hoarse bay all little craves and yelps and recognition to kill for and to lick for and, oh yes, to betray for. Salivating, ruining, ravaging and rip apart for. A dog´s life, a dog´s death: recognition is dormition, is all. All you can get. Bark! No bark! It is the unknown. And was unknown. And will be.