Night-time looking
over the Liffey,
slate grey artery,
flurry of merry music
like a band of castanets
still in our ears.
The cèilidh at Shannon’s,
man with a bodhrán
and a pint of tar
at his elbow,
girls in skirts
a blizzard of colours.
Róisín’s at UCD
but tonight, here,
the silky lilt
of English
pouring from her
emerald throat,
her hand in mine
as a crew of mangled gobshites
stumble home.
We swim in our jollity,
BYOC (bring your own craic)
in the city
where three times
in the 90’s we were kings
of the castle.
You say your father remembers ’62,
when I look in your eyes
you say coinnigh mé anois.
What’s that mean? I ask.
Hold me now.
And I do.
Your lips taste of Guinness,
my head foggy
with you.
Apr 28, 2020
Apr 28, 2020 at 11:22 AM UTC
Night-time looking
over the Liffey,
slate grey artery,
flurry of merry music
like a band of castanets
still in our ears.
The cèilidh at Shannon’s,
man with a bodhrán
and a pint of tar
at his elbow,
girls in skirts
a blizzard of colours.
Róisín’s at UCD
but tonight, here,
the silky lilt
of English
pouring from her
emerald throat,
her hand in mine
as a crew of mangled gobshites
stumble home.
We swim in our jollity,
BYOC (bring your own craic)
in the city
where three times
in the 90’s we were kings
of the castle.
You say your father remembers ’62,
when I look in your eyes
you say coinnigh mé anois.
What’s that mean? I ask.
Hold me now.
And I do.
Your lips taste of Guinness,
my head foggy
with you.
NOTE: This is the last manuscript poem.
Written: 2018/19.
Explanation: A poem that was part of my MFA Creative Writing manuscript, in which I wrote poems about cities that have staged the Eurovision Song Contest, or taken the name of a song and written my own piece inspired by the title. I have received a mark for this body of work now, so am sharing the poems here.
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