IRELAND FOREVER

Éire go Brách! 

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BETWEEN THE LINES (“WOMAN”— the subtext)

    I’m the “Princess” Story Book,

     Full of things so fine —

     You really have to study me,

     If you want to read between my lines!

 

     I’m the lovey-dovey dove,

     Singing and flirting! — You be

     The tree I perch in.  Shush!  Don’t move!

     Everybody’s listening and looking at me!

 

     I’m the garden spiderweb

     Spangled and diamonded with dew....

     The angle where I display myself,

     That’s you.

 

     I’m the black orchid, I’m the blue rose —

     I beautify every spot

     In which I pose.

     You? The pot.

 

     I’m a perky blade of grass,

     I feel pretteee!  I feel pretteee, and witteee, and ... pretteee!

     You be the dandy lyin’ weed

     — What do you mean, you “don’t agree”?

 

     I can be anything! Do anything,  I  can!

     Because I am Woman! You hear me?

     —What do you mean, you don’t want to be

     What I say?

 

     Aw, you ain’t no man,

     Anyway.

 

 

      

Hunk: pinterest. com/pin/302444931199628233/

A MATTER OF SMALL MOMENT

A MATTER OF SMALL MOMENT

There having been no announcement, 

The work was far advanced 

When I happened on the scene: 

Some insect shell was underway – 

Head, thorax, abdomen, and wings 

Silently gliding, sustained by teams 

Of ants intently stroking it along.  

It almost seemed 

The funeral caisson of a king 

In mute procession to the tomb, 

Or a Venetian war trireme 

Measuring the sea.   

Despite the ants’ tenacity 

And the roughness of the ground, 

From time to time sharp gusts of wind 

Carried away the outer hangers-on 

Of the excited throng 

Like those that always swarm around 

The edges of great undertakings.  

Feeling the wind beset them, 

They must have just reared up, let go, 

And let themselves be swept away. 

Those that remained 

Did not miss them. 

Steady and slow, 

The small cortege moved on.   

But I could not dismiss them so.  

They made me think 

Of all the launchings I have seen: 

Ships, missions to the moon, balloons....  

Outfitted in yellow, red, and blue, 

Brass bands blare martial music 

While dancers prance in Mardi-Gras costumes; 

Flags flap and crackle in the wind, 

And ribbons stretch, and streamers stream; 

The vendors of souvenirs, soft drinks, and ice cream 

Pop up everywhere; 

Phileas Fogg and the Wizard of Oz 

Usurp the atmosphere.  

And then the tiny gondola swings 

Beneath a silken dome that swells and nods 

Like some old Narnian Monopod 

Just come to life and visibility.  

Ropes creak and strain.  The crowd falls still.  

The frail ship and its cargo sway 

Upward, and slowly shrink away.  

 

And we turn back to work again, 

For all our momentary transport, 

Earth-bound – yet not quite the same.  

Balloons, Oz, Phileas Fogg, and Monopods! 

And gondolas and triremes – 

Incongruities fit for the Renaissance, 

That delighted in such things: 

For the well-designing ministers and kings 

Who took advantage of 

The occasions and displays of state 

To awe the bumptious populace, 

That always managed anyway 

To turn authoritarian shows 

Into subversive play.   

Perhaps of all the things we boast 

To set us off from other creatures, 

This is the most peculiarly human way 

Of behaving.  It is our nature 

To turn a strictly purposed thing 

Back on itself, to make it say

Something entirely different, and mean more 

Than we had thought before – 

Turn disciplines of iron and fire 

Into objects of desire, 

That captivate and tease us on.   

As much as any calculation, 

This may save us from the fate 

Of the socially more advanced: 

From the relentless and complete 

Totalitarian organization 

Of the six- and the four- and the two-legged ants.

Balloon: delivery.superstock .com/WI/223/4128/PreviewComp/SuperStock_4128R-8425.jpg

Hunk: pinterest .com/pin/302444931199628233/