In Ireland on July 10, 2009 at 2:58 pm

Dublin is for Lovers

Dublin, rain on us,

anoint us with cigarette smoke

as we hobble to your green,

green city bus.


Rise up, ye corridors of fresh glass

and cracked mortar,

break open, ye nooked pubs

and two-euro shops.

Abound, little round tops

topped with gloaming-dressed churches,

swallow us down

your cobbled epiglottis

and digest us, liquid-legged,

like a midday pint.

Spit us into gym-locker lodging

where the walls pout

and the window weeps

with impoverished joy.


Cuddle us

with dark-woolen strangers,

duel our eyes

with folk-dancers


in a virgin square,

whilst bongo-men love-tap

their mating call

from a glum brick corner,

and a lunatic garbles

through his millennial beard.

Show us the tweedy attorney

too slow-stepping

for his on-time train,

may he regale us

with his crusader’s quest

for the five thousand

most beautiful songs—

now silver and cockeyed

he’s found ninety-nine.


Drag us through

the shattered-glass streets

and tufts of cackling freckles,

beneath a palpitating railroad bridge,

over light-dripping rivers,

and suck us into coal-chasms

that fling us back

to allied sidewalks,

then hotel again,

hotel again,



Zombie our tongues

so we sing out our questions,

roll us through the staff

of the Irishman’s scales,

so we leave here humming

the songspeech of Dubliners.


Stuff us

with squared sponges of carrots,

cumulonimbus potatoes

and damp shepherd’s pie—

fuel our marches

across constellated puddles

beneath pewter skies

that backlight no shadows.

Draw us along the Quay,

past the brontosauri of cranes

that raise distant rooftops

and swing long-freighted crates.

Serenade us with visions

of a yellow flower

leaning out of concrete

and a boy fixing

his girl’s lambskin boot

on a bench

by a freestanding


of beer.


Throng us with rugby songs

and crowd us with jerseys,

hold us hostage

in second-story dance-clubs

where stick-figure boys

parade round their tables,

then expel into air

for rain-speckled cigs.

Let us excavate stairwells,

glut in the doorframes

and dogfight with stories,

our giggles spitfiring

at clipped-wing collapses,

‘til our cheeks are as bulbous

as an almost-popped bubble.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: