*********

Riffing off of Auden's wonderful ballad...

As I Walked Out One Evening
W. H. Auden, 1907 - 1973

As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
‘Love has no ending.

‘I’ll love you, dear, I’ll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,

‘I’ll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.

‘The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.'

But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
‘O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.

‘In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.

‘In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.

‘Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver’s brilliant bow.

‘O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you’ve missed.

‘The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.

‘Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.

‘O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.

‘O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.'

It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.

****

This is my playing with and paying homage to García Márquez first collection of short stories, Leaf Storm, which included “A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings,” in 1955...hence my calling my angel Márquez. It has always delighted me.

***
When Brian was bringing me back from the airport and we got to Merchant's Quay we would always shout out as we approached Adam and Eve's Church the opening of Joyce's Finnegan's Wake. . .

" riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend
of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to
Howth Castle and Environs. "

And as we crawled past it we would shout out the last sentence....

"a way a lone a last a loved a long the / riverrun, past Eve and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay, brings us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs."

The traffic snarled at us but if we used Joyce's words upon it...it would unfurl and move it move move it! We used to recite it both slow and fast...sometimes at the same time or in Jimmy Joyce's wee little Irish voice that he had on him. The traffic seemed terrified of the words and it always worked.  We always called the traffic HCE....HERE COMES EVERYONE! Ahhh...the power of literature!

After his funeral I just hadn't the heart to greet the church with the usual Joycean playfulness and remained lost in silence as we left it bewildered behind us like an old friend snubbed.

The Franciscans secretly said Mass in the Adam and Eve Tavern, where the popular name of the present church comes from.

***
The title is from the last sentence of Finnegan's Wake as it once again becomes the first sentence. He used to love saying this as stuck in a terrific traffic jam opposite Merchants Quay and we passed Adam and Eve's church and we rejoiced in Joyce's words....the traffic was terrified of the Joyce and would always unsnarl for us!

" riverrun, by Eve and Adams. . .. . ."

New York with one century becoming another and in this one moment on the threshold of a new age...a woman cries her own private grief...a sorrow that has no name but seems to be the grief of all ages now and to come. I never discovered the reason for such sorrow and the neon coloured it blue and yellow and then red.

I wrote Res Burman this poem. A WONDER TOLD SHYLY about that wonderful moment in the concert when Liam slings the guitar to the side and recites Austin Clarke's THE PLANTER'S DAUGHTER and then asks the squeezebox about a plaintive Irish air.

Like Clarke's poem puts it...." like a bell that is rung...like a wonder told shyly...and oh she was the Sunday in every week! Here is my effort for what it's worth!

THE PLANTER'S DAUGHTER

When night stirred at sea,
An the fire brought a crowd in
They say that her beauty
Was music in mouth
And few in the candlelight
Thought her too proud,
For the house of the planter
Is known by the trees.

Men that had seen her
Drank deep and were silent,
The women were speaking
Wherever she went --
As a bell that is rung
Or a wonder told shyly
And O she was the Sunday
In every week.

Austin Clarke

"Ar éirinn Ní n-Eósainn Cé h-í"

Aréir is mé téarnamh um' neoin
Ar an dtaobh thall den teóra 'na mbím,
Do théarnaig an spéir-bhean im' chómhair
D'fhág taomanach breóite lag sinn.
Do ghéilleas dá méin is dá cló,
Dá béal tanaí beó mhilis binn,
Do léimeas fé dhéin dul 'na cómhair,
Is ar éirinn ní n-eósainn cé h-í.

Last night as I strolled abroad
On the far side of my farm
I was approached by a comely maiden
Who left me[? 'sinn' = 'us'] distraught and weak.
I was captivated by her demeanour and shapeliness
By her sensitive and delicate mouth,
I hastened to approach her
But for Ireland I'd not tell her name.

Dá ngéilleadh an spéir-bhean dom' ghlór,
Siad ráidhte mo bheól a bheadh fíor;
Go deimhin duit go ndéanfainn a gnó
Do léirchur i gcóir is i gcrich.
Dó léighfinn go léir stair dom' stór,
'S ba mhéinn liom í thógaint dom chroí,
'S do bhearfainn an chraobh dhi ina dóid,
Is ar éirinn ní n-eósainn cé h-í.

If only this maiden heeded my words,
What I'd tell her would be true.
Indeed I'd devote myself to her
And see to her welfare.
I would regale her with my story
And I longed to take her to my heart
Where I'd grant her pride of place
But for Ireland I'd not tell her name.

Tá spéir-bhruinneal mhaordha dheas óg
Ar an taobh thall de'n teóra 'na mbím.
Tá féile 'gus daonnacht is meóin
Is deise ró mhór ins an mhnaoi,
Tá folt lei a' tuitim go feóir,
Go cocánach ómarach buí.
Tá lasadh 'na leacain mar rós,
Is ar éirinn ní n-eósainn cé h-í.

There is a beautiful young maiden
On the far side of my farm
Generosity and kindness shine in her face
With the exceeding beauty of her countenance.
Her hair reaches to the ground
Sparkling like yellow gold;
Her cheeks blush like the rose
But for Ireland I'd not tell her name.

A twenty-minute-write-a-poem that emerged from Ian McLachlan's poetry workshop at The Corner in Wembley Library the other evening.
I knew Ian of course as the perfect poet/performer that he is and now can add poetry facilitator to his accomplishments. Much thanks for his ability to drag these words outta me.

That insufferable romantic skunk who stunk of his own "me me me-ness" and inflated ego and libido.

The long suffering female cat that he would mistakenly take for a female skunk("la belle femme skunk fatale") due to some circumstantial mishap( squeezing under a fence with wet white paint)was of course -Penelope Pussycat. The fractured French would half us in stitches...."Le mew? Le purrrrrrr!"

Pepé: (sings) Affaire d'amour ? Affaire de cœur ? Je ne sais quoi… je vive en espoir. (Sniffs) Mmmm m mm… un smella vous finez… (Hums)

Even titles laid it on thick - FOR SCENT-IMENTAL REASONS...SCENT-IMENTAL OVER YOU...ODOR OF THE DAY..ODOR-ABLE KITTY...LOUVRE COME BACK TO ME!