Sunday, March 17, 2013

The Less Cynical: 17 March 2013

Even today, without shame or any disrespect
(Which in our age is too much to expect)
Without even a break, or, simply a day’s rest,
They croak, their minuscule shrill choruses
Like fungi on that ever damp bark of their
Shrill voices- like indiscriminately free flung
Words never blooming, just to be, from such woods,
It appears, the sun's light never captivated them,
To let their cares fall down, just, for this one day,

Yet, Nobody actually seems to care what one believes
For the truth is no longer a difficult, hazardous climb
The Saint indeed was probably never from this Island
And the serpents probably never put in an appearance,
And that leipreachán every Irish person knows is for the yanks,

And that it was all invented by that second generation
Of Irish Americans who never really wanted to see us
For what we truly were, yes, maybe it’s all for the show
The green, the white and the gold, selling its tattered soul
To the silly bleary eyed tourists, with fake orange beards
And tricoloured top-hats throwing up pints of black stuff
For all the world to see- yet does anyone really care, for this day,
That seems anointed and blessed in the Celtic secular fun fair
Where everyone and everything is allowed to be a Paddy
Where all is made green from Lady Liberty to the Taj Mahal
Where we are known as that race of rebels, drunks and Poets,
An image branded for a new generation without any regrets?
For nobody here seems to care what one believes anymore.

Still your choruses croak their disquieting truths
Even Today, You croak that sad and bitter tune,
That sour tune I do not want to know or embrace
You, For is there something of the Fungus in me?
That austere quality, critical, best kept at a distance
From what lies hidden beneath the collective masks
And the caricatures, I too retreat into these multitudes
Of false joys, Of too much drink, and of typical regrets
Emptying and numbing down an entire nation’s thought,
There hides the grim history you so religiously obscured,
Still, for good reason, your choruses croak their truths
And, How I wish I could cloak myself as something other
Than you, to reveal myself as a free, new, man, emerging
Reborn after the battlefields of this church, history and state.