A Yank in Galway attends a poetry reading where all poems are recited over a few pints.

A Night of Poetry in Galway, Ireland

The Irish poets recite, tonight
From the small stage at the B&K wine bar
The first scrawny poet, a Cockney,
Warns us not to “bite the hand that feeds us,”
And proceeds to bite his hand
Growling with abandon
Next is a young anarchist
Who’s got a problem with a guy named Jack,
“Freeloader Jack,
Who eats your food, drinks your drinks,
Smokes your fags, steals your girl,
Fooking Jack…”
A blonde broad-shouldered poet then laments:
Lesbians felt like lepers
Under Catholic Ireland
So bring back the pagans
An American with sapphire eyes holds her own
Dissing her Canuck lover
Who could “f*** but not love.”
The MC collects money for the poets
“Why don’t you give us a poem, then?” someone says
“I have nothing prepared,” I say
“Make something up, Yank,” comes the answer,
“You had the balls to invade Iraq,
You can create a fecking poem.”
I offer to recite Yeats
“We don’t allow that classical shite here!”
The crowd is thirsty for drink and the blood of poets
“Recite or buy the house a round.”
A guitar sits on the stage
“Today marks the birthday of America’s greatest song writer.”
I play ‘It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue.’”
One line resonates with these Irish poets:
“All your sea sick sailors they are rowing home
Your empty handed armies are all going home…”
Patrons hoist their glasses in a birthday salute
To the Minnesota Bard

Michael Corrigan