Sunday, November 22, 2020

MY DEAD OF IRELAND

 


This evening I was wondering why Dublin does not come to mind more frequently.  I was in the basement and picked up GIRL ON A BICYCLE a novel by Leland Bardwell.  I had not read it as it was badly printed on paper that turned brown though I  had acquired it from the memory of meeting her in Dublin.  But more vivid in mind was Fintan MacLachlan her companion, boyfriend or what not, now  finally only known as the father of three of her children but when I knew him he was a taxi driver and as a "toucher."  

There is never reason for how names appear in mind, as they simply do...we are always almost unanchored to the present moment

SO to make a list of the dead--- does that account for how Dublin seems to have gone somewhere yet my ST. PATRICK'S DAY another day in Dublin remains in print in the world--though the National Library of Ireland does not have it in its collection, while University College, Dublin's library has it... 

James Liddy, 

Philip Casey, 

Eugene Lambe, 

Derek Mahon, 

Patrick Kavanagh, 

John Jordan, 

Francis Stuart, 

Liam O'Flaherty, 

Dickie Riordain, 

Dermot Healy, 

John Montague, 

Leland Bardwell, 

J. P. Donleavy,  

Christine Keeler,

Pearse Hutchinson, 

Austin Clarke, 

Jonathan Bardon, 

Ian Whitcomb, 

Tommy Smith, 

Philip Hobsbaum, 

Brian Higgins, 

Michael Hartnett, 

Tim Tollekson, 

Willie and Beatrice Opperman, 

Brian Moore, 

Desmond O'Grady, 

Roger McHugh, 

Jeremiah Hogan, 

Garech Browne, 

Paddy O'Hanlon, 

Jan Kaminski, 

Justin O'Mahony, 

Jim Fitzgerald, 

Stephen and Kathleen Behan, 

Mary Lavin,

But of course Grafton Street remains and St Stephen's Green... I will walk by Ely Place where last I lived...continue on and think of teaching at the Dublin Tuition Center or living in Grosvenor Square...and and and... but no longer tonight



4 comments:

springandall said...

Girl on a Bicycle is one of my favorite unknown novellas. B also published a late volume of excellent poems.

Anonymous said...

I love Irish names. I Googled Liam O'Flaherty, and Dickie Riordain, and Justin O'Mahony. Wonderful names. Dickie was the mayor of LA for a while. A different Dickie. According to The Times he, "didn't do much."

I received my copy of Invisible Ink from Amazon. My report is forthcoming.

Anonymous said...

A long time ago I visited Ireland. My peeps are from Ireland, so I said to myself I'd better get my ass over there and visit them. I wanted to see where James Joyce wrote Ulysses. I wanted to walk those same streets. I wanted to jack-off in the same spot as Leopold Bloom did when he was spying on that hot Irish chick.

I did this, and then I wrote a story about my time there. My original story is in Gaelic. I hope you will be able to read it. If not, I'll put the translation below the original. The name of the story is "Got Grog?"



Fuair ​​Grog?


Nuair a théim go hÉirinn, ólann mé grog. Grog maith. Fuair ​​siad grog maith. Uaireanta gheobhaidh tú swill, ach an chuid is mó den am, bíonn sé go maith grog. Déanaim iarracht caisleán a aimsiú chun mo ghrog a ól ann. Caithim t-léine a deir "Got Grog?"

Ar dtús, téim go dtí an teach tábhairne chun mo ghrog a fháil, agus fiafraím de na wenches faoi chaisleáin in aice láimhe. Tar éis dóibh a gcuid píopaí agus fliúit a leagan síos, ólann an t-ál cuid mhór grog. Déanann siad machnamh ar dhaingne comharsanacha. Ardaím mo chupán agus grog gulp in éineacht leo, ag fanacht lena bhfreagra. Stán siad orm go tráth na gceist, ag sciorradh síos suipí breise grog. Chug mé, arís, níos mó grog. Tá an grog go maith, agus go raibh maith agat níl sé swill.

"Tá caisleán suas ar an gcnoc eile," a deir siad sa Ghàidhlig. Gabhaim buíochas leo agus iarraim orthu fonn Éireannach a sheinm. Deir siad go ndéanfaidh siad i nóiméad, ach ar dtús, caithfidh siad a gcupáin grog a athlíonadh.

Ag breith ar dhá chupán grog sa dá lámh (tá ceithre ghrág agam), asclaíonn mé an cnocán glas, féarach a théann suas go dtí an caisleán. Níl sé éasca an cnoc a dhreapadh mar gheall go bhfuilim róthrom ón ól grog ar fad. Flops mo bolg thar mo chrios. Breathnaíonn mo thóin cosúil le dhá choileáinín squirming taobh istigh de bhileog mór de ceallafán daite denim. Stopaim leathbhealach chun sosa. Tarraingím mo ghiotár as mo ghualainn agus tosaím ag méarloirg "Londonderry Air." Faighim amach go dteastaíonn níos mó cleachtadh uaim, agus gearrann mé ceann de mo chuid mugaí grog. Caithim an cupán go talamh cosúil le Meiriceánach. Téim ar aghaidh agus suas go dtí an caisleán.

Faigheann tart tart ar chnoic féaraigh. Faoin am a shroichim an cruinniú mullaigh, tá na ceithre ghreim curtha agam agam. Anois tá sé in am fiach feola a chaitheamh ar mhaide, nó b’fhéidir muiceoil líonta taobh istigh de bhaisc choirce friochta. Díolann siad iad seo taobh amuigh den chaisleán. Díolann siad grog freisin. Beidh mé ag fanacht ar an grog breise, áfach, mar tá mé woozy. Tá mo chroí palpitating. Beidh mé ag lorg binse. Caithfidh mé luí síos.




Anonymous said...

Translation:


Got Grog?

When I go to Ireland, I drink grog. Good grog. They got good grog. Sometimes you get swill, but most of the time, it's good grog. I try to find a castle to drink my grog in. I wear a t-shirt that says "Got Grog?"

First, I go to the pub to get my grog, and I ask the wenches about nearby castles. After laying down their bagpipes and flutes, the brood drinks a large amount of grog. They ponder on neighboring fortresses. I raise my cup and gulp grog along with them, waiting for their response. They stare at me quizically, quaffing down extra sups of grog. I, again, chug more grog. The grog is good, and thankfully it's not swill.

"There is a castle up on yonder hill," they say in Gaelic. I thank them and ask them to play an Irish tune. They say they will in a moment, but first, they must refill their grog cups.

Grasping two cups of grog in both hands (I have four grogs), I ascend the green, grassy knoll that leads up to the castle. It's not easy climbing the hill due to my being overweight from all the grog drinking. My belly flops over my belt. My ass looks like two squirming puppies inside a large sheet of denim colored cellophane. I stop halfway to rest. I pull my guitar off of my shoulder and begin to fingerpick "Londonderry Air." I ascertain that I need more practice, and I quaff one of my mugs of grog. I throw the cup to the ground like an American. I stumble forward and up to the castle.

One gets thirsty climbing grassy knolls. By the time I reach the summit, I have supped all four grogs. Now it is time for a hunk of meat on a stick, or possibly pork stuffed inside fried cornmeal batter. They sell these outside the castle. They sell grog too. I will wait on the extra grog, though, as I am woozy. My heart is palpitating. I will look for a bench. I need to lie down.