Friday, June 16, 2017

A Walk across Dublin - Bloomsday 2017

An old post resurrected for the day that's in it.
Apologies to Joyce for the weak imitation.

..sure I'd get off the bus at Parnell Square and pop over to the Garden of Remembrance stepping down the steps and tripping over the junkies and them saying: 'hows it going, bud?' shaking all over sitting in Dublin's park that honours the great dead of the country and hoping the children of Lir in the statue come alive and rescue those junkies, bad hair and black teeth, they must be someone's son? Is there any point in remembering the dead if the living are ignored and left to sit on wet steps in their own vomit in a park in Dublin, scum someone called them, look in the mirror first before you call someone else scum, said I.
and off to O'Connell Street where Daniel O'Connell stands stretched out in all his glory, someone clean the pigeon droppings off him, sure that is a disgrace, our greatest man with mush on his head and the head that's where all his liberating ideas came from, wish he could come back to life and become Gulliver like in his travels and tramp over O'Connell Bridge, giant galumphing leaps, careful to step over the students in Trinity College playing cricket.

He'd respect our young, not send them on a one way ticket to Sydney or London with a pile of dole money to pay for shared lodgings telling their broken hearted ma and da to skype them, even the stoic couples with no broadband standing at the departure gates in airports remembering all the packed school lunches and the single bedrooms tidy now and half the gaelic team missing on a Saturday morning. And Daniel would place his two giant feet firmly on the grounds of Dail Eireann and stand with arms outstretched to the heavens under a Dublin sky and ask the esteemed members of our government,
'What the crap is going on here? Is this the Ireland I wanted?', and I'd pay to see the looks on their faces, 'sorry Daniel', they'd say eyes downcast like a kid lying about eating all the cakes 'we are setting up a committee to search for our soul', and Daniel would weep a giant tear that would flood the liffey and say
'it's too late'
..and then pop to Grafton street, the great thing about Grafton Street is yer man , the one and only rocker, Phil Lynott, sad day when Dublin said goodbye to him, but Philo is not covered in pigeon shit, he only has to worry about the stag parties urinating budweiser on him, should have that in the Dublin guide book, 
'you are welcome to get drunk as long as you don't urinate on the sacred statue of Phil Lynott'. Too bloody right, as the taxi driver would probably tell you on the way from the airport, 'state of dis bleedin' country, a feckin mess', he'd tell ya, his ears turning purple with his dead bleedin' right opinions about the state of the feckin roads, the weak, the old, the sick, the homeless, locked out of a country that's become an economy, a list of figures on a balance sheet. No place for the weak in columns of typed columns of numbers in bold fonts.
I'm telling you, Padraig Pearse would be turning in his grave, spinning, and de Valera and his visions of the dancing maidens at the crossroads, he should come back and stand outside a city centre nightclub some Saturday night, and take an eyeful of the comely maidens in their pole dancing rig-outs and sinister make-up, their boyfriends too damn lazy to finish a sentence leaning against taxis and sending texts to the people they are with, asking them if they are having a good night, smiley face dot com, a revolutionary thought to just turn their heads a degree and ask them.
Strange days in Dublin town and sometimes late at night you can almost see the comely maidens dancing their ghostly dance or that could be just the gargle playing tricks on the eyes so sober up and stop to shop for a good old book and admire the international stores flogging labels, 'fcuk it!' and search for a book shop that is not owned by a conglomerate and think, Jaysus, we are in Dublin, home of the literary greats and there is hardly a book shop to be found that doesn't have a celebrity author smiling in the window. And Brendan Behan and all the aul lads in shiny suits spectre like peering into their old haunts and wondering what the jaysus happened to the sawdust and spiky conversations trapped in the smokey air and wondering what they'd do with a panini drizzled with Mediterranean sauces.
Dublin 2017, a shadowland of it's former self.
Where's the poetry gone?