Kevin writes:
When it was initially advertised, the terms and conditions of the Irish Times/Shelbourne Hotel poetry competition to celebrate 100 of the Irish constitution was only open to residents of the Republic of Ireland i.e. the 26 counties. This provoked no small amount of hostile social media commentary (see here and here and here).
Recently, the terms of conditions have been changed to allow Northerners to enter. I have entered this poem in the competition.
The Dialectics of Irish
after Francois Villon
There is no great starvation
without someone somewhere keeping the trout paté for later,
no t-bone steak at The Shelbourne (rare or well done)
without bales of straw being dragged through January mornings,
no plate of cabbage without the possibility
of an open safety pin camouflaged within it like a terrorist,
no refusal of a cup of tea
that’s not a potential resumption of hostilities,
no glass of high end whiskey
you can be sure the night porter
didn’t celebrate his departure
by lacing with high end Dublin piss –
though these days he’s mostly from Latvia or Killybegs –
no problem that can’t be made worse
by a pair of fashionable glasses whose big idea
is a poetry competition sponsored by Guinness
on the theme of black and white.
There is no Tá without Níl,
no no without the wink of other possibilities,
no card game that can’t finish up with everybody losing,
no peace talks to which the dead aren’t invited,
no ballot box in Leitrim without the ghost of an ArmaLite,
or the actual metal of a Heckler & Koch
Garda submachine gun in the hands of
a large farmer’s son from County Meath,
no pint of Guinness that can’t be made worse
by a poem about peace
shouted out by a pair of fashionable glasses.
There’s no wealth like empty office blocks,
no talent like the country’s least favourite novelist,
no generosity like an Anglo-Irishman taking
his ten gallon hat out for the evening,
no wisdom like a Leinster rugby fan
screeching for war with Russia,
no courage like informing,
no place in the minds of the nation’s keenest intellects
that exists less than Creggan, Ballymurphy, Crossmaglen…
and no poem about all this
that can’t be made more unpalatable
by a pair of fashionable glasses
trying to sell you the best of all possible
pints of what might be Guinness.
Maybe it’s old age but I’m really enjoying Kevin’s recent poems.
Kevin’s poems are great, he has no fear about saying what needs to be said.
There was once a lad named Kali,
Who wanted to stay so badly,
At the Shelbourne hotel,
With his bird Chantelle,
So he wrote this rubbish so badly
Sorry Kevin, that prize is mine
Roses are red
Violets are blue.
A poetry night in the Shelbourne
Is just too good to be true.
Irishness? – defined with precision
Is a topic beset by division.
The most realistic
Like a census statistic:
Broken down by age, sex and religion*
*Original quote/joke was by Seán Mac Réamoinn
Ah Jaysus, I missed the closing date. That might have been fun.
Excellent, sent shivers down my spine. All peace in the world is so fragile when one thinks of the hawks we sadly have have running it. Corrupted is rife, the love of black gold is all, world domination the goal …. trendy glasses or nay!