! ! To, For, Or Against An Irish Poet

When you re-ad alou-d your ow-n po-ems – (prizewinners, dammit, every one) - lingering on every no-un, ad-jective and ad-verb as if they are simultaneously ancient jewels that you’re touching, showing to us; and yet new jewels you’re yourself in wonder at… clothing e-ach w-ord with the sc-ent of peat fire, soda bread, a glowing hearth; a child asleep there in the corner; a woman who’s grown rich, timeless in your love; outside the cry of curlew, seagull, the slap of wave on cliff; but edged, sharp, like the sudden intake of breath, with centuries on centuries of uprisings cruelly downtrodden, famine, allegiances, leprechauns and muskets and the Armalite… all these wrapped in baby’s or in widow’s shawl; the shawl of memory that is a poem.. when you read you-r ow-n ver-se like this – may-aking a tri-nity of vow-els from each Anglo-Saxon one – then, I’m emerald green with envy, reading my own verse in your imitated voice as if it were those precious ancient new-found jewelled words… and wishing that all poets – or no poets at all – were, are, shall be, Irish-born…