Eiru Fodhla and Banbha, the triplicate Goddess Royal Tuatha De Danann queens and married.
Mayo Attymass, Belcarra, Belmullet, Bohola Achill to salmon, Finton of Ballina, Assaroe
And Ballinrobe, Ballintober, Ballycastle, Ballyhaunis Ballyglass, Ballyvary, Bangor and Boytown
Bunnacurry Castlebar, Charlestown, Claremorris, Cong, Corroy and Crossmolina, Currane, Derreens, Derrew
Dooega, Dookinella, Foxford, Geesala, Glengad Glenamoy - Keel, Kilkelly, Killala, Kilmaine and Knock
Kiltimagh and Swinford, Shrule, Newport, Mulrany, Pollagh Rossport, Tourmakeady and Louisburgh,
Dooagh, Islandeady, Westport Valley and Dugort Church, poetry occurs effortlessly, endlessly, eternally, forever there
alphabetical Asia in three quarter light from Achill hawk Slievemore shore, dying in their generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas, Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long Whatever is begotten, born, and dies. Caught in that sensual music all neglect Monuments of unageing intellect.
Thus the forest spake.
Welcome to Balony TV
I'm Mike Igoe
He's going to be reading a poem tonight called, Rosanna You Muppet. An unwarranted personal attack on the eternal Mister Universe Ireland 2003
'Rosanna You Muppet.
Rosanna you muppet! I'm with you, cohabitant in heaven.
Hell! I know your pain of sainted martyrs and cancer sufferers, I know your agony of wooden rice bowls and children with distended bellies, I was with you in solidarity when you walked barefoot on landmines and razor wire, From Land?s End to John O' Gods collecting direct debit mandates for the victims Of burst Russian fission reactors.
I shared your stoic horrors under a 7,600% pay cut, due to inflation, To feel your connection with public sector school teachers in Zimbabwe. I was grinding my teeth in the background when you donated those Twenty-five gallon drums of cooking oil to Haiti And accepted the key to the city, graciously,
When they buried the machete in your honour.'
Actually, the title of Mike Igoe's poem is not Rosanna You Muppet, but Rosanna you ****. Begins with S and ends in G, LA between: gas poem, not for the tenderest in our flock of luvvies one must flag-up, from across the spectrum of age and experience, who may or may not choose to draw from one a door of perception closed to none but the man Alan, y'all gotta be ready for the real title of this audaciously ambitious poem. The premise it sets out from, Rosanna You ****, a direct address to a very intelligent all rounder and class first Miss World Ireland, one of the very finest young blooms and brains from The Lady In Red: Daughter of C. DeB. not the kind of thing one would publish under His own imprimatur
...out of nature I shall never take My bodily form from any natural thing, But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make Of hammered gold and gold enamelling,
...outrageously a veneer may trip one up and slam the door to peptides docking clean, new, protean one's chain of amino acid protein, shuttin off our neural perception of the other biological space-time survivors back from the page time forgot, what you know I know you know but think not.
Get over it.
Thanks very much.
Your head on my belt, do cheann im chrios luv, dichetal do chennaib, spontaneous critical divination from the instinctively topper tip of Cruachán worked for you: Muse of ten thousand American souljahs in a poet army of bardic fluff, came for you
Old freinds, old freinds, sat on a park bench like bookends a newspaper blows through the cracks, falls on the round
toe, of the high shoe, of the old freinds, winter companions the old men, lost in their overcoats waiting for the sun,
sounds of the city sifting through trees, settles like dust on the shoulders of the old freinds. Can you imagine us
years from today, sharing a park bench quietly, how terribly strange to be seventy, old freinds, memories brushing
the same year, silently sharing the same fears, time it was and what a time it was, it was a time of innocence
a time of confidences, long ago it must be, I have a photo- graph, preserve your memories they're all that's left you
I mentioned paradigm shifting once could have been when I was wounded not the blood kind the spirit spillage kind well am a day walker now a night sun blood man the myth boy shape shifting with indigo eyes cataclysmic I saw a film wolf once on a LA night scape I stole that dream I ate that time became haunted becoming the hunter of Castaneda I will split into the myriad invisibles of my meaning then reality breaks a sweat not seen since Maya