Of
these three submitted poems, two (namely ‘McParland’s Elder’ and ‘McGinn’) are
character based poetic fictionalisations of various characters in and around
the town (McParland and McGinn being two distinctly local surnames).
‘McParland’s Elder’ is an ode to the elderly of the city whilst ‘McGinn’ is the
story of a man observing his own wake and funeral (not very cheery, granted,
but very Irish in it’s outlook nonetheless).
The
other poem ‘Going to my Hometown’, is a sonnet written in dedication to the
city and was inspired by many of the landmarks dotted around the place (namely,
the old red-brick of the Hibernian Club on the Mall and the medieval church up
on High St.)
Going to my Hometown
Parading a musty clop along the mall;
Redbrick and granite should glimmer in their boast.
Razing a glint in bier-garten toast,
I’m jealous – their sip, lip-locked – I’m enthralled.
The chivalrous sweat in musical droves,
Saluting the weather with world-weary wink.
The steeples, serene, without rain to drink:
A clan wry, a-flowing – a city of mauve.
Borderline bubble I love you so well.
I source you for boredom, ‘tis true, ‘tis true,
For dryness can seem here the hottest of hells
But I would be dead if ‘twas not for you –
A cynic. A liar. A lover. A son –
A soul wracked to bone mass from valley-sought glue.
McGinn
I
Thespian legion of repute and rogue
Wherefore to season my home with your lease?
Cast without shadow and latent in vogue
Celestial yearnings burn without cease.
For human endeavour seems that of beast
When repertoire years are draping the squelch;
No requiem breast nor angel nor priest
In scant distillation can prove what I felt.
And though there were eve’nings in spite of myself,
Where lingered my spoils ‘pon high in the din,
I sired the void, alive and in health,
To slump down, a coward, and die with my sins.
“What friends, indeed, can
be said of McGinn?”
Seized up from the swell then through shuffling slits.
‘twas one from my past, though not of my kin,
Who’d shamble my bygones in idler twist.
“Well, let my retort
reveal to you this”
Responded my sibling, eye on my corpse,
“He was my brother and
though he be missed,
They’ll ravage his ghost
with sulphur and scorch;
They’ll send for his
passions, singed like a torch,
Drink them to blackness
and pluck him from thought.
Heathen of helix and
harlequin sport,
Hath thou no inkling, the
havoc you wrought?
A bold moment-muse of what
we all sought?
Wanting our brother, or
what for the word
Could heal you of stealing
the years we had brought.
For all that was owed us:
a man of the world.”
Only ‘twas then that time, stuck, unfurled
And eve’ning careered t’ward morning, t’ward fate.
When bones hold to dust by death, that old churl,
My years be reduced to scripture and slate.
For I have been poisoned by seasons in wait –
Weights worth the farthings they stuck to my eyes;
Sliding through epochs that harboured the great
And mock the mere mortals of meaning deprived.
‘tis that, as I laboured ‘mong mirrors they hide,
Residing in pine with beads in their coil,
That creased up and burned my thoughts ‘fore the guide
Of sinner McGinn to a patch in the soil.
II
My screed reads no softer after such toil,
No smoother a tale to be taught at your teat.
That my soul had not descended
to boil,
Nor had I with saints or skivvies to speak.
‘twas in my cortege ‘midst eyes without weep
And great sweeping haloes of droves in their drear
Where I’d come to shamble in rambling grief;
My infinite seal – a death without peer.
The chapel then, ceding in vaulted veneer,
Seemed placid, indiff’rent; a tomb without taste,
And I, of the asinine angular weird,
Sat nursing my years in debt and disgrace;
Though steadfast my legion not to make haste –
Not for the glibness nor gallons nor grime;
Nor e’en for wallowing Whitsuns of waste
Which, woven, made whimsical dust of my time.
No, friends! My kin were not even inclined
To whisper a shudder in lieu of myself;
Their benches, distended in line upon line
Had last term to conjuring sobs where they knelt.
And I, a poor reckoner, dumbfound and welt,
Who picked at his scars with bottle and beak,
Have culled from my friv’lous happ’nings health
And smile that my bygones weren’t utterly bleak.
The service, now ended, spilled out to the street;
The heat of the noon scald shapes and disrobe.
Of courage without, I slunk in the speak
And pictured my corpse garrulous and in globe.
With words said and skies pulled the hollow was lowed,
And dignified drops of a soil were dispensed,
And after the shapes had shuffled their shoad,
I stood for awhile to invite forth the hence.
I stood for a decade in sin recompense,
And pleaded with weathering debris and silt;
I stood for my penance, for death to commence,
Though condemned am I to be held by the hilt.
I cornered my prayers then, my flowers in wilt;
I threatened the heavens with nothing to stake –
But, reader, my anguish is always my guilt.
Is this script appendage enough for my sake?
