Sunday, December 22, 2013

Next Year All Our Troubles Will Be Out Of Sight

 A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark, mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
          --James Joyce, "The Dead." 
Sleep, lucky world.
A star is born.
No, sorry: A child.
The star was just an announcement
to this little light lost.

I would follow a star
like that if it was
the dead of night
and I was alone with a bunch
of shivering sheep.

Even, I suppose,
if I was a wise man
on some sort of inexplicable
no-girls-allowed walkabout
in the desert.

I think it was a desert.
I imagine it was.
I'm sure it felt like one.

Trust me, though,
beneath these ribs lurks
the heart of a true believer
with a big, booming drum
and a feather in his cap.

I'll believe anything if it can
make me feel like something
other than a disposable
razor or a pink, quivering
grub nestled in shavings.

For God's sake, people,
there is not one thing you
could ever say that would
convince me that I am not
the proud father of a dog.


  1. Just stumbled upon your blog thanks to Coudal linking to your post of things you say to your dog. Started looking around and particularly liked this.