I. Intention
What happens when the poet, hair ruffled
Takes the required liberty
Of trying to free his uncivilization,
Dares to utter that
Which does not wish to be heard:
A forbidden letter, illicit syllable,
Or tabooed word?
What happens when the poet, clothing tattered,
Shoulders the easy burden
Of attempting to rescue his profaned globe,
Ennobles himself to do that
Which cannot bear to be understood:
A selfless act, random compliment,
Or promise made good?
"Oh father dear, I oft-times hear
You speak of Erin's isle,
Her lofty hills, her valleys green,
Her mountains rude and wild"
II. Where We Sat
vista stretch: headstrong trawlersfinger puppeting on a shifting stage
of wavy jade. regiments of ravenous gulls
circle loosely into the hologram
of unchained sky.
the truth of her face: classical, helenesque
in this surrogate troy. over made-up lips quiver
at my gurgling rage, threaten to topple
the fragility of the timeless stone wall
green with the mold of better days.
her questing eyes register my incomprehension,
which is a spider web, a finely threaded maze.
sitting sidesaddle atop this patchwork
of cold stones, we figured out
The Way Things Are.
"Oh son, I loved my native land
With energy and pride
Till a blight came over the praties;
My sheep, my cattle died"
III. My Story
"i know what i was forced to digest,so that's why i left.
the catharsis of exile, my dear."
amerika: awaiting mass suicide,
the unspoken grape kool aid
of unpacked historical baggage
that has cursed the present,
the voodoo hex of a constitution
when nobody can agree on the solution.
"it's a craven cult of warped personality,
masquerading as an advanced society.
the ceo's have no clothes, their failed bets
are exposed, for the whole world to see."
amerika: here, at this moment,
lies your one last opportunity
for down on hands and knees
repentance
at the omnipotent altar
of just responsibility.
amerika: thou destitute nation
of easily entitled hyper-commodified leeches,
parasites drowning in vats of blood, lost in a vacuum
of the narrowest primetime conformity,
ultimately to be struck
and swept clean
by the jagged broom of destiny.
"people can never be themselves, are only
walking racial designations, hyphens with heartbeats,
obese pocketbooks sharing sidewalk space
with pockets where pennies jangle a jingo,
greed battles daily with a more uplifting lingo
the primacy of the commons
over the individual
proven impossible
because they always look down
while typing the next text"
(and the list goes on, interminable...)
If only, If only, If only."
"My rent and my taxes went unpaid,
I could not them redeem
And that's the cruel reason
Why I left old Skibereen"
IV. Her Story
"aye wuz goina go ta thailind, ta werkwith strait chaldren." nothing too extraordinary:
overseas experience the reliable staple
of the irish bloodstream, first encoded
in heavily whiskied dna
back when the hill of tara
was just a pimple in the road.
"ireland: ravaged by neo-colonial fantasies,
noble artistic hands exchange daily
the suppleness of an accordion
and the dynamism of the ink pen
for the awkard collage
of plastic computer parts. assembly,
from sligo to waterford, killarney to drogheda,
unexpected promotion to the "information age."
salvation has been offered,
not from the hero of golgotha,
but the villains of the stock exchange
whose great-grandfathers owned manors
on the land your ancestors were evicted from.
impressive peasant armies huddled then,
as now, holding a tin cup at the corner-
the help-wanted ads crowded
with dandelions masquerading as shamrock blossoms,
offering steerage tickets to a nicer life at home,
the notion of autonomous progress
as alien as life on mars.
and your other ancient nemesis
does linger too: the crowded coven
of slinky rat-faced priests, pedophilic fangs
dripping with the excrement of open secrets,
the consistent historical confidantes
of the invader's armies, landlords, and factory bosses.
professional magicians
who shame jesus
because they never actually took the time
to get to know the man.
they didn't starve during the famine,
and they are not on the dole now."
"Oh well do I remember
That bleak December day
The landlord and the sheriff came
To take us all away"
V. I Am Irish
county cork: amidst pebble-strewn lanes,the first stirrings of family were born
in a cabin made of limestone and clay.
simple people all, content merely
with a little meat and a few spuds for dinner,
a hearty fire, and the legends of yore
for necessary guidance.
when i stumble into a tavern for a refreshment,
the bartender suspects i am irish.
she says it is written in the curves of my cap,
the constellations of freckles,
the inevitable choice of caffrey's, by pints.
in the museum, i gaze at the tawdry reproductions
of great artists like monet and raphael,
do my best to ignore the art punks
who cram my peripherals
with their shaky pretensions, relieved just knowing
that in the year 1906 my great-grandparents
actually did set sail from cobh to a better life-
but why do so many
still stream out from the emerald isle,
venturing to london, new york, dubai,
some as far away as tasmania? my dad says
there are less people in his little country today
than in 1845. the other week allen ginsberg died,
though he is neither irish
nor pretending to be.
there are no snakes, definitely not due
to the whims of one sainted patrick.
there are at least 2500 public houses. there are more
than 2500 hurling players.
i should be in grad school right now,
simply to put off debt
that casts a tumorous shadow,
but i wonder instead
if colleen will party with me tonite,
assuming the moon is keeled over right,
and assuming her dress is perfectly tight.
irish literature really flourished in the 1920's.
joyce left, behan stayed, and o'flaherty
came back. here, on inishmore,
nobody really cares
that i am irish.
they have probably deciphered ulysses all the way through,
and given creed to wildean wit.
as an irishman, that encourages me.
"They set my roof on fire
With their cursed English spleen
I heaved a sigh and bade goodbye
To dear old Skibereen."
VI. Her Brother
"from a bottle's eye view,the Truth unravels, unspools,
threadlike, this titanic ship of fools
to be caught by
overtoiled nurses and indifferent doctors.
the asylum floors shine with a fuck-you buff,
nine hundred years of acting tough
but still losing control.
the rusty bars on the bedroom window,
the unflushed piss
inside the toilet hole.
you can peruse the muted desperation
of the reluctant reject- those coffin-lid eyes,
rioting auburn follicles, and parched desert lips
only able to flutter
with a chilling twitch.
shane had a family once,
a job, a car, a house
until that day when the ghost resurfaced
it crept in like a mouse.
alcoholism churned, recalled
his father in the grave at dun laoghaire.
when existence becomes too dreary
it is elementary to pick up the drink.
it was stress which snared him, in bits
and bobs- a life shit-paced, wasted
trying to please corporate snobs.
wife, kids, almost non-entities,
glittering possession piles no authentic cure
for existential insecurities.
it began with bushmill's, a shot
here and there; at home after hours,
with a few moments to spare.
it grew like a tumor, spreading to binges,
inside the local pub, where
the bartender even cringes.
"dat's enuff now, boyo,"
comes the half-caring plea-
one man's private grief
for the whole world to see.
habit fed habit, and work soon was missed-
following one stumbling mistake,
his position was dismissed.
soon after, he lashed out, devastated
wife and trembling projeny victimized
by a fully-formed lout.
inevitably, the separation, then divorce,
and she took both kids. no money, no job,
no compassionate relatives with whom to live.
from yuppie to urchin,
metamorphosis complete:
all that mattered now
was passing out on the street.
from office to heating grate,
one arm dangling a tin can:
whatever coins inside jingling
going straight to the off-license man.
he was almost comatose
when they found him, outside a supermac's,
left hand glued to that loyal can
and its meager contents.
from a bottle's eye view,
the Truth unravels, unspools,
threadlike, this titanic ship of fools
to be caught by
overtoiled nurses and indifferent doctors."
"Your mother too, God rest her soul
Fell on the stony ground
She fainted in her anguish
Seeing desolation 'round"
VII. The Unknown Cousin, Thrice Removed
"the sheriff's willing smirk;
spread-eagled sable arms
alluding
to the complicity of history.
scarcely a dozen decades ago,
this pair would have been his closest link
in the amerikan food chain,
when irish workers were even more expendable
than african slaves, when both reluctant immigrants
were just tossed, in early graves.
now, ignobly postured before shur 'nuff
serves them niggers right just for driving at all
rush hour rednecks whiz by, enthralled.
you couldn't know one of these brothas
was a lawyer, and that the other dude
was his cousin. glinting lexus
paid for by the wages of the capitalist pyramid,
not cocaine slinging escapades on the block.
but you too stupid a kraka
not to prejudge a man by a nagging stereotype.
larnell swung like a lightning bolt of fist,
fed up with being pulled over:
examined, dissed, grudgingly dismissed
by public enemy number one
so stop doing it
just for fun?
the rest of the bad apples, rest assured,
were spawned in erin, with vision blurred
since the moment
you couldn't know one of these brothas
was a lawyer, and that the other dude
was his cousin. glinting lexus
paid for by the wages of the capitalist pyramid,
not cocaine slinging escapades on the block.
but you too stupid a kraka
not to prejudge a man by a nagging stereotype.
larnell swung like a lightning bolt of fist,
fed up with being pulled over:
examined, dissed, grudgingly dismissed
by public enemy number one
so stop doing it
just for fun?
the rest of the bad apples, rest assured,
were spawned in erin, with vision blurred
since the moment
when the first one stepped
onto an amerikan kurb.
mr. anglo saxon protestants' eternal bodyguards,
and it is rumored they also make good welders,onto an amerikan kurb.
mr. anglo saxon protestants' eternal bodyguards,
plumbers, prize fighters, and politicians.
sheriff maloney, you forgot to duck
as that right hook turned your tobacco-filled mouth
into a geyser of blood, fire-engine red
fountain, somebody running in the background, shoutin'
for help that would not arrive
before your badge was ripped off and crushed
under a spitshined italian loafer-
like a cockroach hoping
to be something more.
the irish were the white blacks of the continent,
but the comparison could not be held-up
for the race of cuchulain
to succeed on these shores.
an incredible journey,
from the nadir of the coffin ship
to the acme of the oval office
in such a brief span.
"She never rose but passed away
From life to immortal dream
She found a quiet grave, me boy
In dear old Skibereen"
VIII. The Uncle's House
"potato-flour, pressed flat-
a veritable plateau, haven
of domestic bliss
that was born to be sour.
how little could she know, being
a dreamer, that faithful old mick
was atop her doted-on hedgerow
with his gorilla beer gut, moving up and down
with the neighborhood slut
prick fattened like a space shuttle
entering the orbit of her popular vulva,
the neighbors curtains are parted
for a porno movie without a director.
how little could she know, being
a dreamer, that innocent young charlie
was smoking a gateway drug
through a pipe made from one of her
glistening apples, around the corner,
less than three hundred feet
from a roundabout where cars swirled
inside a whirlpool of concrete.
how little could she know, being
a dreamer, that chaste near-adult rebecca
was upstairs in the princess bedchamber
freshly vacuumed by one of her compulsive
hoover runs, preparing to go down on her tutor
because it was more interesting than spanish.
how little could she know, being
a dreamer, that her great grandmother
was denied the exquisite luxury
of blissful ignorance. snared
in a filthy hovel with mud floors, over-skinny
walls, and a roof that dripped rain
like a plant being watered nonstop, sharing
the usual scant dinner of now-pulled
spuds and buttermilk, with an
ugly, hatchet-faced shepherd's son, six gaunt,
unschooled tykes, and the two pigs that survived
recent winter's treachery.
no single act of perversity was a mystery-
no way that any of them could conceal it.
many roomed suburban abode, lush backyard,
and duo of high-powered autos
as far from her noble imagination
as hope itself."
"And you were only two years old,
And feeble was your frame
I could not leave you with my friends
For you bore your father's name"
IX. Everyone Else
"one is truly vessel-vised, boat-bound,
sea-stuck, here in the mid-
atlantic.
the definitive absence
of options, swinging
between poles of gravity versus ascension,
this feeble ship
a coal-powered pendulum.
once it is too late
to turn back,
to turn back,
it is still far too early
to arrive.
but we did reach the other side.
the state of the diaspora: grand,
father. millions of scattered
geniuses, prodigal experts.
we have english teachers in seoul, carpenters
in panama. we located at least one of our barbacks
in fargo, and there are more than sixty five
of our welders in perth. i won't forget to mention
countless service workers in liverpool, or the scores
of up and coming soccer players
we spawned in the bronx.
then, of course, there is our dedicated missionary group
in vanuatu, and that bilingual poet we just dispatched
to buenos aires.
the state of the diaspora: grand,
father. millions of spread-out
trendsetters, disseminated role models."
"I wrapped you in my cota mor
In the dead of night unseen
I heaved a sigh and bade goodbye
To dear old Skibereen"
X. I Am Still Irish
"I have not written much lately, which is not easy
for me to accept because i am irish.
we are a nation of authors and philosophers,
and i cannot deal with formal education.
we are a hopeful, if sardonic, people.
everyone in ireland loves john f. kennedy,
his portrait shares a space on every house wall
along with the pope and elvis.
maybe colm will buy some jameson's tonite
to cheer my sour disposition. the rain coming later
will take me to a vale in kerry, where
i will be free to step-dance with any leprechauns
who cross my path. on easter, 1916, irish rebels
sacked the general post office.
and then lost it.
why should i be sad? i am irish,
descendant of william butler yeats,
who lies buried beneath ben bulben's
broad misty head, forever unified
with the nature he so adored.
i know he wrote in gaelic, and this fact
excites me still. there is no chance
that kilronan will be static tonite.
a student from pittsburgh will be
armed with an umbrella, and a girl
from brisbane will be sticking hers
in the closet. a japanese yuppie will be
running to catch the last ferry
to the mainland, and a family from rio
will be entering an already overcrowded tour bus.
and numerous locals will just take it all in,
divining through the prism of a pint glass.
but i, an irishman, will meditate on other things,
thinking only of the green-clad glens
i have now witnessed firsthand. for most of the year,
the sun makes a halfassed appearance.
o sunshine, stay away!
i shall forever be an irishman."
