Filíocht Nua: New Poetry Simon Lewis (bio) river walk We took to walking along the River Lee,strolling the banks, crossing the bridges.Parnell, Parliament, South Gate, Clarke’smeant nothing to three teenaged boysfrom Akimijan. We’d stopat Wandesford Quay, grab a glanceat the girls in the orphanage.They never looked but we lingered,soaking up their drippy white skin.In this city, we are the poorest,except for here, but we could seetheir beauty in the dust and rags,until the nuns spied usand we ran—gushed up Proby’s Quay,flowed past all the junctions,until we reached the train station.After, we’d toss pebblesin the South Channel and saythe walk was worth the throbbing. the good room I heard Mozart wafting from the sitting roomand remembered it from school, sprinted into share the story with my father. He was sittingon the sofa with a tape recorder, red button downand he glanced up, growled at me to get out.Months later, I found him in there sobbingin his palms after he lost his job, asking againand again, what he was going to do as my motherpetted the anaglypta wallpaper instead of his skin. [End Page 88] graduation He had longed for her since he saw her dancingto Goldfrapp at the Freshers’ Ball in UCD,swaying in the strobe lighting, channelingthe trip-hop beats in the main marquee,the canvas roof dripping in dew, the groundsweating with beer puddles. He skippedhis lectures when she was free, sitting aroundwith the microbiology crew, became acquaintedwith Louis Pasteur’s theories while she balkedat a price-rise on pints, forcing studentsto drink their booze at home, it was bonkers!He held her hand to pass the bouncers, walkedher miles back to her digs if she couldn’t,then watched her shift Greg after too many vodkas. creosote On my knees, like Christians, I’m prayingI’ll get a break today. There’s no lackof chairs, tables, cabinets in this factory, churned outfor me to stain in the color Manning shouts at me.Every bit of me, my hair, body, clothes,shoes, pillows, bedsheets are coloredmahogany, walnut, cherry. Rivkeh knowsif I’ve been painting with maple or ebony,says they all smell different. It doesn’t matterwhat she cooks for dinner, it all tastesof turpentine and she no longer touches methe way she did before, just jabs at the brownsasking where each one came from.Tomorrow, I’ll sweat again until the finish. [End Page 89] echo Every day I shut the door and push my cartpast the markets up Albert QuayI watch the graying herds of common garbwalking sticks and cycles humming byuntil you come dillydallying down the street,a bouquet draped in violet, mauve, or green.In April, you stopped, your hand reachedto pick a bunch of daffodils. A shilling?you asked and all I wanted to tell youwere the names of every flower in the worldand how we’d fill vases with yellows, blues,purples in all the rooms of the house I’d build.I had waited, all I needed were the words:A shilling, I said, and lost you in the herds. circle time You were sat beside me listeningto the others—the gas lad telling jokeafter joke about boys in the townland,two bucks on the edge of the circledebating the merits of a Passatover a Skoda. We sit together at every family party; we shake handsand you tell me I’m getting youngerand you laugh, patting yourselfon your bald head, slapping me on the back.I ask about the farm but you’re yearningfor a proper chat about tractors, baling techniques, the best value cattle feed.A farm is not what you talk about with me.City rearing has no currency herein this place, where acreage is king,so you stand, trudge to another chair and startlaughing, shaking hands, slapping backs. [End Page 90] the...
Read full abstract
Jan 22, 2024
Fujia Li + 10
Open Access
