in a doorway pale hands search the rain for softness
who has never touched the world with little fingers, who has never longed to never leave,
she is always there somewhere
The sea The gulls The Liffey Joyce And the ship in the window on Berkeley road Still Claim Her
.
there is a Dublin of which i am in love with. it is a culmination of miles of wanderings and the songs and poetry my father brought to my life. Even before I ever got there it had taken root in my heart. – She is always there somewhere.
written on first time back in Dublin since Feb (pandemic protocols initiated in March) on a early Sunday morning in September as i stood out from the hotel. now as of this last week of September the city is once again on restrictions.
PS for those who might not know – the Luas mentioned in the piece is a public transport akin to an above ground subway.
Here is the print ~
Sunday Morning early in the City of Pandemica
First of all
It was a Sunday morning
In the city early
Sunday morning early
In the city of Pandemica
Grey Sunday early on the sidewalks of the city of Pandemica
Cool collage
Damp cool collage breezes empty streets
Unmasked sounds
Cellophane, gull,s fop fop fop
soft shoe vague woman eyes on her own toes walks by
What’s the time? hey buddy? hey ya got the time?
A voice of an old fella didn’t even notice at first
Too busy in my own head in my own notebook
Hey ya got any cigarette papers?
All I could say to the only one who noticed me was, No
They took my phone and all the photos of my kids
Cost me 15 euros to get them printed
Sorry but I need a shower, so I won’t get too close
But they keep sending me down to the quays and all they want to do down there is fight
I’m 47 and I don’t want to fight any more you know?
in a doorway pale hands search the rain for softness
who has never touched the world with little fingers, who has never longed to never leave,
she is always there somewhere
The sea The gulls The Liffey Joyce And the ship in the window on Berkeley road Still Claim Her
.
there is a Dublin of which i am in love with. it is a culmination of miles of wanderings and the songs and poetry my father brought to my life. Even before I ever got there it had taken root in my heart. – She is always there somewhere.
So tea almost done. Sun has come to mid-day. Grey the rain or snow of this evening prepares itself. He’s thinking about his once walking Eccles Street, Dublin on his own. Now here so far away in so many ways he is able to read Ulysses because like Joyce , he too knew Dublin in the minute little ways of endless walking, sometimes to work, sometimes look for work, sometimes for the pure joy of nowhere to go- a smoke along the Liffey, a lunch of the best Irish stew in Ireland, a mad rummage among the old books and even though centuries separate their Dublin’s neither would not at all recognize the other’s.
Upstairs in the land of opportunity the New England traffic make its way. Still several feet of snow banked around the green. Tea almost gone. Another yoga stretch…
The times he’d gladly walk the hills for miles just to get to the village pub roll a smoke while Ita pours a proper pint and maybe a wee Jameson for warmth to ease the wait.
They got home three flights up. he made a snack of pasta, tomatoes, olive oil and parmesan, which they both ate at the table together. Homework was difficult. A writer’s tantrum over how boring and stupid her idea to write about an alien. Aliens aren’t even real so how can I have him do anything! I wasted a whole page on a boring idea! He suggests a waiting meditation to let the blockage pass. Well Dad, can I read while I meditate? They lay down on the bed together, she reads her latest Beverly Cleary and he’s on volume two of the newest Teddy Roosevelt biography. Soon they’d have to get up, make the drive down to pick the Mom up from work. Six today instead of half six. It was four forty-five now. They’d read until it was time to go.
Now the child to bed, the wife in the other room reads, he sits in the kitchen looks out the same morning window; now into dark still February night occasioned by car lights almost streaky red, amber and green traffic lights across the green. Old blues radio “To lay in the wind… To lay in the rain… Wish I was laying in your loving arms again.” maybe Katie Webster, maybe not. A pour of Connemara twelve year old single malt ahh peated turf smoke infused honey, purple heathers, iodine ocean ozone and enough heat to loosen your tongue. Last visit home a gift from duty-free to each other. Joyce, Dublin, Whiskey, the wife homesick today too. E-mail from her father. Mother’s ok. He’s ok. The dog’s ok. Everyone’s ok. The election is coming. Fine Gael should walk through. The country’s fucked either way.
all the things you’ve not seen before passing landscapes unnoticed by train
windows onto stray sheep, ancient brick-works, pines taller than any house, piles of rusted metal, latticed bridges cross places no longer there, high wall back gardens, endless grey guardians of new housing.
warmed over mumble voices distractions stories of prices and other countries travelled stars not of skies but hotels, restaurants places remembered so much better than here
the child in the twirly skirt noticing five nearly identical grey horses canter up a hillside stops her spinning
