Today I saw a sign in a
town called Cahirsiveen
County Kerry, advertising
what appeared to be, Sive.
I sieved my thoughts, and
what came through the fine
mesh of my mind were the
filings of amnesia.
Earlier, I had passed by Glencar
the foothills en route to Valencia
an island off Ireland, last stop
before New York harbour.
Hugh O' Flaherty, The Vatican
Pimpernel was looking at me
through James Joyce's glasses as
I passed Daniel O'Connell's church.
It was O'Connell country for sure,
**** a native of the island could
share the ball with O'Dwyer and
Paudie O'Se, the three coasters.
Balinskelligs, monks Islands,
isolation, invasion, inhospitable
weather, antarctic insurmountable's,
Inis, Inn's, Inch, Tom Crean, Fungie.
I sieved my sievings only to discover
that Sive was by John B Keane, but
guess what, the Queen of the Kingdom
should be Miriam O'Callaghan!
Ps.
This is a poem with a colloquial
flavour, one needs to be a native
to comprehend it.