Monday, 27 December 2010

I have a hand like a foot

4.50 for my premier pint
In the castle lounge
An accustomed palace
Visited almost each homecoming

Welcome home son

Chips, cold and uneaten scattered outside a Baggot Street building
A beggar fat, thinning hair, not much showing of her past femininity
But enlarged tits,
Giant grinning leprechaun's
Waving at us - the shoppers and drifters

Happy christmas
Help me

More hands out on Duke St, Kildare St, Merrion Row
Than I can recall being back on this land

How has Dublin changed? Only in matter, in the almost,
The quiet morning. How've I myself changed? In matter,
almost, in mourning.

Leaving here as a child of a split, a soured relationship
Has had me take neither this city or my residence as one
or the other. Does a young life belong to a soil?

Summer's slagging, a few bate's, hot cod at the chippers
Filling me bags with boo ks and fil ms
Whole working weeks waiting for me da to finish

These are Irish parts of my decay, the trinty gardens,
Bray's head, televisionless in wicklow

Going from nana to nana, riding girls,
A picture posed with that true first Guinness,
Wet August's, Glendalough, against the rocks
fuckin' wasps at a picnic

Pieces of heritage - the church grounds in Artane,
Granda jack's funeral, the walk down Grafton St on the eve
Of Christmas, seeing D in nativity plays,
Filling up with choke and tear
Trying to rip myself in two

I've kept my name and passport
Although my years of absence
Are greater then the years present
In my birthplace
It is my honor and need to call her home.

Ireland, my mother.
Ireland, my father.

Dublin, my home.

The surrounding cold sea
My garden.

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