Oh How I Long For Ireland  

Djeeper1987 48M
3389 posts
7/17/2006 5:38 pm

Last Read:
7/17/2006 7:51 pm

Oh How I Long For Ireland

I found this poem and I wanted to share it with the rest of you.

It rather long, but good!!

What's general all over Ireland is definitely not snow. Sandbag-
bulky clouds, about to splurge on rain, close in sulkily on all
four provinces, allowing them no quarter, flushing them out.

Rain adds layers of flab to the river where anglers in oilskins
prospect for trout. A downpour drowns the banter of two neighbours.
A course inspection at Leopardstown leads to cancellation.

Rain climbs hills on which foot-rot sheep, dipped in precipitation,
graze with a lamb or two in tow. Rain, not snow, is what blurs
perspectives at furze-lined tourist beauty spots in Kerry and Mayo.

Rain meaning whatever was sent to torment the couple humping
home a heavy bag of groceries, each grasping a plastic handle.
Rain not snow. On a ruined castle crumbling like a water biscuit.

On a heifer lying low with her drooling mouth full. On a mangy stray.
On a blinking lake. On roofs where zinc tanks corrode and starlings
practise courtship rites. On a night nurse in the sodium-lit car-park.

The man shouldering a wicker basket of racing pigeons to the station
takes a beating from the rain, as do the sleek racehorses making
a run for it in the beech-hedged grounds of sheik-owned studs.

Rain is general too in the village near the landfill quarry:
it's pensions day in the sub-post office; the creaking door
of a derelict thatched cottage plays second fiddle to a gale.

Rain joins isolated farms where border collies cap each
other's barks, like gossip passed from mouth to mouth. Rain
plinks on the glass dome shielding plastic roses on a grave.

It touches the raw nerves of gaudy window boxes, drums liquid
fingers on the corrugated transit warehouse where cattle destined
for live export to dry Libya or Egypt await their marching orders.

It tries the patience of the foreign film crew hankering for a break
in clouds, and the lodger for whom a limp window-envelope
marked Don't Delay! ‒ Save Money Now! is the day's only mail.

Rain hammers the builders' hut as a bricklayer shuffles the deck.
Damp patches taint the Old School Restaurant and the Rectory
B & B. Drains back up in the side-street panel-beater's yard.

Rain, bombarding windows, wants to pour out its feelings to a room
where a blue screen-saver flickers like a gas flame while a youth
revises for the Garda exam. It spoils a wedding party's photos.

The minimum-wage man expertly meshing empty supermarket
trolleys is well used to the rain. So too is whoever arranges
the optimistic beachball and bucket display at the seafront kiosk.

Tub-thumping rain, snubbing the prayers of grain farmers, finds
a welcome in the striped metal barrel at the downpipe and tops
the highest-ever levels measured at Belmullet since records began.

Commuters rush from the bus as if fleeing a catastrophe. Some wear
soaked newspapers as headgear. A woman, doggedly taking her
constitutional by the golflinks, pauses under the awning of an oak.

Rain pesters the baffled Latvian au pair, on the deserted platform,
who fumbles for her contact number. It droppeth on the church hall
that is now a lottery-aided heritage centre for a town down on its luck.

The breadman delivering catering pans to the electroplating unit's
canteen has never seen such rain. Not since yesterday at least
when it seeped through the felt on his flat-roof kitchen extension.

The pelt of the Atlantic Ocean receives the rain like a protective
spray on a pair of crocodile tassel loafers. A brightly-pegged
row of tracksuit bottoms sags on a housing estate clothesline.

Tomorrow, yet again, instead of snow, the forecast will hold out
the promise of a dull day everywhere, with rain and drizzle,
cloud formations like the tissue of a compulsive handwasher's brain.

Rain is general all over Ireland. It lashes the glass panels of the James
Joyce Bridge. Falls on the house where Bartell D'Arcy's song caused
grief one distant Christmas. And upon all the living and the dead.

Carpe Diem

cookiequeen1000 54F

7/17/2006 7:40 pm

That was good. What an exacting picture to paint. Can almost smell the dampness of it all. Thank you for sharing.

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