483. The Uncertain Knight

Night falls, the mountains fade,
and the lamps are lit in the east.
After the feast I know you must retire
with the other women. I cast a sigh
for I have caught your roving eye
as I shuffle closer to the fire.

Night falls, the fountains hiss
and sing in the garden, a splash
of water on stone. I feel so alone
no matter what I try. My father
is a beast within me, a clash,
an abyss of water and burning fire.

Night falls, and I clutch my sword,
in which I place no trust, the blade
is sharp, keen steel, it has no rust
and it mocks me. How can any girl
really love me? I place you above me
in this, in all, in whatever’s made.

482. Irish-Americans

Americans of Irish Ancestry

Nothing means nothing at all
until historians knock, come in to call
and place their markers here and there.
Never knew what was happening, I swear,
until I read your best-selling book,
Mister or Missus or Mizz.

I was living through historic times
with no sense of a change, the range
of the stones we threw was paramount,
and as a revolution this would not amount
to much, but it did in Palestine. I am amazed
how the rebel Irish set the tone, dazed

by the way everyone else gets shot down
or clubbed or imprisoned, in India,
South Africa, Syria, you fuckin name it,
and I know we are the the guys to blame
for telling people to get off their knees
and stand up. Cousin Martin back in the day

was living in Amerikay, minding his own
bizness, getting along so easily as the Irish do,
when they fucked him into the military, sent
him off to Vietnam. I don’t like this, says Martin,
gazing on the departing body bags. I think this
could soon be me: no return to Éireann mo chroí!

It was a very bad war to send in the Irish,
because like the Mexican War a century before
they felt a certain sympathy for the other side.
Who’s beating the fuck out of whom and why?
Racism kicked in, and also loyalty to friends,
but it was a wrong war against the wrong people

with a need to make amends. I don’t know
if we can ever do so. Every single bloody war
America starts, and by God they start a lot of them,
the Irish are right there by their side. They say
they are Americans now. I believe that, how

could you not believe them? It’s in your face, it’s true,
but for God’s sake stop being stupid, stop being dense,
stop pushing, and have a little bit of sense! Our belief
is still with that Shining City Upon the Hill, and the will
to be a free people living in a free country.

481. Dutch Cicadas

Cicadas march on to their shift at daybreak, since
you'll never hear the buggers at night. They have
their factory horn: drop your cocks and grab your socks!
It’s reveille, a revelry of summer sounds. A summer morn
as long as these rockers are around, a pervading blight
which can either drive you nuts, or make you reach
for Pina Coladas on the beach, your sunglasses just so,
waiting for that heiress from Indiana. Juliana was still

Queen of the Netherlands when my father fucked off
for New York and didn’t like it. New Amsterdam was a joke
with nothing left but misspelt names: Harlem, the Bronx,
Roosevelt. He lit off with another bloke for Miami Beach
on Trailways Buses through the Deep South, his mouth
opened wide, a constant O of wonder. A lynching in Georgia,
a bottom pinching of a Charleston Beauty. But that was a fat
old white man, member of the Klan, so he was all right.

Travelling on by day and night, the sun a constant trial,
for the Hollanders of his generation did not grow tanned
but proceeded from pink to red to scarlet to near imminent
self-explosion: a phial (bah!) even a gallon of sun lotion
came as little relief. Stubborn, pig-headed, Dutch beyond belief,
he headed for salvation, immolation, between the sea and sand!
Of course he made it. Not only that he met my stunning mother,
stole her off some New York hood. She liked his peeling nose

and reckoned things might turn out good with an honest man.
She was right about that. Pretty girls know men will chase them
for a certain while: be bad, if you like, but make your pile
before the party's over. My Mommy wasn't a hard case, not really,
she wanted out soon. She married my Daddy, Dirk Van Roon,
and lived happily ever after. My sister and I grew up in style,
amid songs and love and laughter. But they are sadly dead now,
as so many people we love are dead. The lines have been read.

480. Consolation

“Love don't make things nice - it ruins everything.
It breaks your heart. It makes things a mess. We aren't here to make things perfect.
We are here to ruin ourselves and to break our hearts and to love the wrong people and die.”
- Moonstruck

You know the way you just
run into people, as if by accident?
Strangers, I mean; this is
definitely the main theme
in all our lives. I've often heard
children can’t choose their parents.
So what? I say parents can’t choose
their kids. You take what you get,
but when it comes to chance encounters,
you never know what will happen.

This is a poem about you, by the way.
OK, I may not know your name, sorry,
but I know you very well. This same stuff
has also happened to you, don’t even
begin to deny it. How did you meet
the first boy or girl you ever slept with?
How did you meet the person you married?
When did you start thinking, Omigod,
I wish, I wish I’d waited. Never at all?

Liar. But that’s all right, because we all
tell lies to ourselves. We have to prop up
the façade of who we think we are, who
we think we want to be. Hey, it’s normal.
Otherwise you go quietly insane, take pills,
jump off some fuckin bridge, steer the car
in the oncoming lane. Reality is not good for people.
We need all those little ways of avoiding it,
so if we don’t fall down the stairs, don't get shot,
don't board the wrong plane, we make it to old age.

479. Afghanistan

There is an Afghan strain in me, loud and ebullient,
as I wear helmets with colourful fluttering streamers
that match my marvellous pantaloons. I tease
my hair into ringlets, put dark kohl under my eyes,
and look sexy, decadent and dangerous.

This pleases me exceedingly.

I know dancing boys with bums like peaches,
alas, alas, on the other side of the river!

When the British came the first time
we murdered Sekundar Burnes, assassinated
their commissar McNaughten, and simply waited.
Elphinstone was an old man, a weak commander,
he decided to retreat to British India.

Hoo, hoo, hoo, what a fool!
We cut them to pieces, murdered them all
in the snowy passes from Gandamak to Jalalabad.
What a wonderful killing time that was,
and the old grandfathers made songs and poems.

Now we have the Feringhi again, not Russians,
but Amerikhani, Anghrezi, some others.
Why do they keep returning? One wonders,
since the result is ever and always the same.
They die, we die, and in the end they leave.

It has always been so.
---------------------------------------------------
historical reference: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/First_Anglo-Afghan_War

478. Dietramszell

Hindenburg in his declining years
came often, old Prussian as he was,
to soften the hardness, tamp down
his fears. He was so old, near death.

Each gasping breath brought pain:
He, first to know his time was over,
knew that the War had been long ago
but that the politics would remain.

I imagine him in this Bavarian setting,
the low green slopes and distant mountains,
cap-doffings in the street, “Gruess Gott!”
The greetings of God, Herr Feldmarschall!

His steps would have taken him to the church
which stands still now at the bottom of a hill,
and he would have gone in, the Old Junker,
sweeping aside sectarian differences.

Bavarians were well known for being Catholic,
soft and fond of beer. It took Prussian steel
to instill real fear of God! Pause in the annex:
Fallen for Germany, 241 names, this small town.

Slightly abashed, the Field Marshall proceeds.
The main door is opened and glory explodes:
there is no other word, all is white and gold
and decorative and completely unrestrained!

This is the 18th century brought to life again:
baroque, rococo, architecture possibly designed
by pastry chefs, inedible incredible swirls of plaster.
The Field Marshall blinks once, twice. He smiles.

477. The Return to Ireland of Conor MacArt

Fill ar ais go hÉirinn de Conor MacArt

Three years in a darkened prison, by God,

and myself snivelling and whining for food,

kissing hands of any man who brought me water.

God blast the heathen Jew and Paynim!

I would roar in my black and fearful cell

and the rats would cock their heads to listen.

Bert, my servant, had been summarily executed,

thanks be to God, he with no more stories to tell,

caught stealing bread from homeless orphans.

‘Twas that bread that barely kept me alive

until the summons came, a flood of sunlight,

illuminating stones, the source of a shriek of pain.

The chains and manacles were roughly removed,

and I was bathed and shaved and pomaded.

Arra, this is looking good, says I to myself.

A ship. The Great Suleiman has paid your ransom

I was curtly told, and I confess I was none too pleased,

but then we fell among moustachioed Cypriot pirates.

There was a great furore and a clanging of swords

and when they came down to kill us all, I sang

Kyrie, Kyrie Eleison, Kyrie Kyrie Eleison.

They dropped to their blood-drenched shaggy knees

and asked if I was a priest. I was, I told them,

and was escorted most politely to the upper deck.

I did solemn funeral ceremonies for the Christian dead

while the Turks were simply cast over the side.

I suggested a collection for the widows and children.

Now that I had money I was ablaze to get ashore

and was dropped, feigning illness, on an island called Rhodes.

It took me half a year to get to Marsillia in France.

Erstwhile friends, with exceptions, feigned not to know me,

and it was a weary journey from the south to the north.

At long last I gazed on the turbulent, grey northern sea.

England? No, I hardly think so. That Queen is no friend.

But a long sea journey will cost more than I possess.

Sadly, regretfully, I settled on robbery and murder.

Green and yellow, under clouds, beyond blue rushing waves,

appear the long and longed-for shorelines of Erin.

Home is the wanderer, what fate will await me now?

476. Heartaches (a wee shortie)

Heartaches
are like bonebreaks:
You'll never walk again!
You think it's true,
but then you do.

475. War

A few friendly farts around the table
do not come amiss, a new friendship starts
before language kicks in. Most of the lads
of whatever nation, of whatever station,
laugh at the same jokes. We are yokels.
Wars, I think, are made easy to start
because of male simplicity of the heart.

We need women to keep us sane,
balanced, keeping to the narrow lane
of things that matter. And as we become
older and fatter, the truth sinks in,
that it is young men with their flags unfurled,
heavy on the booze and with nothing to lose,
that make revolutions in this world.

474. Cahirciveen, 1720

False friends beam slyly in the taproom
and thy name is now unknown to me,
thou Jezebel! The very doors of hell
yawn wide in a field in daylight
my bruiséd soul to greet. A breeze
whistles through the woods, and I,
who once would fawn, dissemble fright,
who would once yield, go weak in my knees,
go light of head, run fey in your sight,
am but a warp in a winding sheet.

473. Game Suspended

Lounging about, as we do,
in that limbo-like, that lingering time
where nothing happens, the now and then
where we find ourselves asking
which constructs are actually true,
and which but gatherings of desire,
simple deep derivative desires,
or if or whether or when
we retreat or get physically flung
arse over tip, chest over chin,
to be lost without trace, again to begin,
or to be stretched and hung, alone, apart,
shuttled off in rattling old cattle cars
to the rag and bone shop of the heart.

472. Mister Death Leans Down

When your bones are mangled
people try, they try to be so gentle,
but every movement hurts: such activity,
many many people talking all at once,
all of them in a foreign language.

Think, stay conscious, concentrate!
What … what happened? One minute
cruising along, iPod on the speakers,
last lesson coming up at this company
and then a ten-day break to follow.

Next thing Mister Death leans down,
skids you neatly into the oncoming lane
and lets you watch for a second or two:
you know exactly what’s going to happen
and not a damn thing you can do.

The guy who hit me was not a truck
I’m glad to say, and I’m also glad to say
he wasn’t hurt himself. His first question
as I dangled out the door, presumably dying,
was ‘Hey, dude, do you have insurance?’

I nodded. Bummer, I’ll be late for work.
I tried to lie down, just take a little nap,
when total strangers started slapping me
and behaving in a very impolite, a most
un-Japanese manner. Sirens, sirens …

-------------------------------------------

Apologies. I’m still trying to make sense of this thing.
I’ve been in hospital for the last six weeks
(which would explain the blessed silence).
In time, I’m told, everything will more or less work again
and there will be no permanent physical damage.
I’m not fishing for sympathy here – you’ll know that if you know me.
But I still cannot figure out what the hell happened!!
Being a Celt, no matter how many generations along,
I am only half-Christian and aware of the Other World.
I look upon this as a direct and painful warning.
I have been doing something seriously wrong in my life.
Apparently, I’ve been given one last chance to fix it.

471. Inennan

I want to hold you
but I cannot hold you …
not in front of a policeman
not when the lights are turning green
not when people are looking
not when your eyes are shining
not when a cough is coming
not when a war still rages
not when the climate changes
not when children are sad and hungry 

unless perhaps when it rains
and we can smile in one another’s eyes
and hide under a big umbrella 

but the people will bump into us
from before and behind and say,
move along, move along, move along!

抱きしめたい
保持することはできません...
ない警官の前で
交通信号灯が.緑色に回っていない場合
人々が探しているいないとき
あなたの目は輝いていない場合
咳が来ていない場合
ないときは、戦争はまだ激怒
ていない場合の気候変動
子供は悲しいと空腹時ではなく

ない限り、多分雨が降るとき
互いの目には笑うことができる
大きな傘の下に

人々は上がっていきます
前と後ろと言うから
移動する移動する移動する 。

470. The Master

Last in, first out
Is what they used say
In the factories: the layoffs
Sensed before they happened.

And in Belfast, at H & W
Where they built the Titanic,
The Taigs would go first.
The natural order.

I think more and more
Of Louis MacNeice.
Of all the poets in the world,
He is the closest to my soul.

Protean, entirely unimpressed,
Shouldering the black guilt of Ulster
And simultaneously shrugging it off,
Every poem a new beginning.

Auden felt awe as his powers failed.
Spender more or less had given up.
Only Dylan Thomas ploughed on,
Sound-intoxicated, incomprehensible.

Larkin, I think, had little to say.
Heaney, Longley and Paul Muldoon
Owe Northern debts of gratitude,
As so, in my Southern way, do I.

A sample of MacNeice:http://dublinerinjapan.blogspot.jp/2004/07/louis-macneice-dangerously-good-poem.html

469. Happy Saint Patrick's Day!

Beannachtaí na Feile Padraig (Happy Saint Patrick's Day) to all my friends -- and to any enemies as well, what the hell! ... since it's not really any specific day any more a but an extended period every year in the middle of March when you get to thinking about the country and not just what it means to those of us who were born there but for all the people of Irish ancestry all over the world and for the people of any nationality or ethnic background who can tune into the music and the craic and get a sense of what this small country poised between Europe and America has come to add to the ongoing story of our human race, adding great moments of hilarity and good cheer in spite of a history that could have crushed any people less resilient: A pity beyond all telling, Yeats tells us, is hid in the heart of love.

Mary Black:   A Song for Ireland

468. Réimse Beag Glas (the little green field)

Five thousand feckin years if it’s a day
and would yeh look at them cows, shitting,
bedamn, on the same old lumpy grass.

They do be your fields now, Donal Óg,
and your dear departed father’s before you
although the oul granddad wouldn’t have had

tuppence three farthing to rub together,
God between us and harm, and the wife
with a tongue on her that could slice lemons.

You’ll be speaking of me Daddy’s mam?
Ahh, sure, what if I am, Donal my dear,
and she the pride of all five counties?

You’ll be careful now in your choice of words.
I will of course. I will indeed. Would you
look over beyond now at Tim Daly’s tree

where the rooks, unclean birds, do be rising
with the harsh rattling call of their kind,
it’s as though they remember the day.

They were there themselves on the day
or their grandsires surely, swooping down
on the men in the boots and red coats

as young Timmy Daly swung from the bough
with the blessings and thanks of Farmer George,
that fat bloated king of the English.

That day is long gone, Donal Óg,
as we live in the comfort of a difficult peace.
There should be some thought of our children.

Boy children grow up to be men
and the girls grow up to give birth to men:
I fear this business will never be finished.

It is anger and memory that disturbs your soul,
mo chara, mo fear álainn. Sit thee down. Turn
away from this strange and bitter mystery.

There is peace in the land, mo buachaill ghile,
where the cows are patriotic Irish cows,
dropping their Irish dung on Irish fields.

But there are caves and caverns beneath
where the unsung dead cry out for vengeance
and you can hear them in your dreams!

I can hear them clearly, Donal mo chara,
had I a mind to listen, which I do not advise,
for they would lead us on to fear and madness.

Ours is a green and lovely land
carried to the brink of its own destruction
by sióga dona, by the ghosts of history.

Donal, Donal, put your eyes
on the field . Good man yerself.
Put your eyes on the cows. Put your

mind in their minds, was it five thousand
years you said? Aye, that was the figure,
with five thousand more on the way.

-----------------------------------------------
Glossary of Irish terms:

Donal Óg -- young Donal, lit. Donal the Young.
mo chara, mo fear álainn -- my friend, my lovely man.
mo buachaill ghile -- my gallant boy.
sióga dona -- evil spirits.

467. The Conversion to Islam of Conor MacArt (Part 7)

An Comhshó a Ioslam de Conchubhair Mac Airt

Níl aon chairde ar nós an sean-cairde.
Tá siad na cinn chun grá agus an brón.*
---------------------------------------

Holy fuckin Jaysus, here am I in Jerusalem,
dragged out from the dripping tunnels below
with nary a penny to my name. Mazeltov,
says some hairy beaming Jewish gentleman
as he wields a large and rusty Turkish scimitar.
Your most devoted, says I, bending the knee,
I am on an archaeological quest, I am a man of science,
and I greatly fear my poor servant has perished …
Not in the least, a miracle, he is alive, alive!
God Almighty, so he is. My misery is complete!
There he sits, beaming, fackinellmytethortuwozagonner!
I smile weakly, what will I tell O’Sullivan? I collapse.

Days later, on a diet of locusts and honey, I revive
and review the circumstances. Our secret mission
to undermine, to betray these hirsute Hebrews has failed,
and I turn to a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup.
Eat, eat, eat, cries Rachel, the moustachioed burly mother
of Nathan, the man of the ancient Turkish sword. You are
most kind, says I, lapping it up like a kitten. Just imagine,
she chortles, a man of science in these unsettled days!
Haha, I agree, reaching for my spectacles which I cannot find,
then my bruised and bursting head, still, Thank God, on my shoulders.
You are most kind, dear lady, I murmur, most kind indeed,
but I realise my rapier and pistol are no longer to be seen.

As I was going over the Cork and Kerry mountains
I met with Captain Farrell and his money he was counting
with your Ring-Dumma-Doo-Dumma-Da, no chicken soup
in those easy breezy days. Eat, eat, says the urgent Rachel.
I slurped it to the dregs, (mmm, lovely!) reconsidering my situation.
I was a spy, let’s face it, more or less caught in the act,
under the orders of the sultan, Suleiman the Magnificent,
to whom God should take a spanner, the only living man who could
cause me to shiver more than the murderous Shane O’Neill.
Shane was far far away and gone from the present shenanigans,
thanks be to God, Saint Patrick, and their respective holy mothers:
I never want to behold those mad light eyes again!

A shudder ran through me. You can’t help that thinking of Shane,
and doesn’t the oul wan, Rachel, run up to me with arms outstretched,
poor poor little boy, you are cold, knocking me over with her bosoms,
when Nathan pops in the door, all very bright and cheery: Konbor!
which is what they do be calling me, God bless their little brains,
I have with me your loyal servant, he is so so worried about you!
and in walks Bert, the shifty-eyed blackmailer, the bold rapparee,
Appytaseeyerinthepink , says he, reporting for duty, Sahh! We ogle,
if such a thing can be said, one another. Orrlbleedindeadthebleedinbloighters,
he remarks complacently. So much for the men. Orlbutyouandme. Sahh!
Very good, sergeant, see to my kit would you? Orlloikefackingorninnit?
What? I beg your pardon! Fackingorninnit? Just you and me, sah. Sahh!

Oh, God … (to be continued)

------------------------------------------------------

* There are no friends like old friends.
They are the ones to bring you love and sadness.

Links to previous sections below:

Why bother? It's a bit of a story, that's why, and both Mr Dickens and Mr Thackeray have departed this world. A pair of Englishmen, to be sure, no fault of their own, but stories like theirs still need to be told.

Dubliner in Japan: 428. The Conversion to Islam of Conor MacArt
Dubliner in Japan: 429. The Conversion to Islam of Conor MacArt (part 2)
Dubliner in Japan: 430. The Conversion to Islam of Conor MacArt (Part 3)
Dubliner in Japan: 432. The Conversion to Islam of Conor Mac Art (part 4)
Dubliner in Japan: 433. The Conversion to Islam of Conor Mac Art (part 5)
Dubliner in Japan: 433.5 The Conversion to Islam of Conor MacArt (Part 6)

466. Crossover

My life is in your hands, she said,
and my first ignoble thought, forgive me,
was why was she saying this?

We’d only known each other three weeks
and she was a cute lovely girl and all that
but we hadn’t, umm, you know … done anything?

My father comes from the old country, she said,
and he is so strict. My mother, she is worse!
My older brothers, Daoad and Amir,
they always always beat up my boyfriends
and I hate them! But with you I feel good.

Me, I wasn’t feeling ecstatic at this news,
for I had had a glimpse of Daoad and Amir,
those hairy gorillas, and could only imagine
what the father was like. Never mind the mother.

Ehh, do you have any sisters, says I, to move
this dreadful family saga along. Oh, she dead.
She betrayed my cousin so my uncle kill her.

Oh, really?
Yah, my father he must apologise.
Anyway, you kiss me now?

My lips for some reason ran dry,
some temporary saliva failing, and I
took a rather quick look around …

O God! Is that Daoad (or Amir) outside
looking in the window? No, a shadow.
I’m starting to have feelings about shadows.

Look, Zaynab, I really like you a lot …
I know. I am a treasure. Many boys want me.
But you, you don’t only want my body,
you love my mind. I like that in you.

Ah, of course. To be sure.

I like you, you are Irish boy, Irish boys
are strong and brave, good lovers.
I dart a glance again at the window.

O God, that’s him!
doubt without a Daoud,
no, I mean … emm, I need to visit the gents!

Of course, my dear. Don’t be long.
Where is the back door? Unseen by me,
Amir arrives, smiles at his sister,
and picks up my half-finished pint of beer.

Gone then, is he? O like a puff of wind.

465. The Facebook Poem

 ( aka Cellphone Sally)

Perhaps a coupla hundred contacts
on Facebook, then, as if you could tell
who or what the hell. Might know, see,
37 of these people, but as for the rest,
they pop up as a constant surprise.
Could be for the best, this ebb and flow,
day to day before your eyes, as through
anew this jagged world you come and go:
try not to be cruel, try to be kind!
Wannabe friends? Oh, I don't mind.
So ... that's how you collect all these
stunningly gorgeous Japanese women
(well, according to their own photographs)
who ding on you but don't have to meet you??
Telecomputers become their social tool
which for them is ... so exactly cool,
it tickles their feminine mystique:
don't touch, don't see, don't speak!
Look, look at them on the trains and buses
tap-tap-tapping with polished nails,
having a great time altogether! I think
if smartphones had a disposable stiff extension
for discreet use, say, in a shopping mall
(come on Samsung, come on Apple!)
there'd be no further need for marriage,
no further need for lads at all.

464. Moon Faraway Person Thinking

Looking at the Moon and Thinking of One Far Away

望月懷遠

海上生明月， 天涯共此時。
情人怨遙夜， 竟夕起相思。
滅燭憐光滿， 披衣覺露滋。
不堪盈手贈， 還寢夢佳期。


Over the sea the moon
brightens heaven, brings
to separated hearts
thoughts in the night.

It is no darker
though I blow out my candle.
It is no warmer
though I put on my coat.

So I leave my message
with the moon,
and I go to my bed
hoping for dreams.

-- 張 九 齡 Zhang Jiuling
http://en.wikipedia....i/Zhang_Jiuling

Translator's note: I hope your computer is able to read and transmit the Chinese characters of the original poem, if for no other reason than that they are so concise and elegant! A difficulty arises in all translations from the Chinese (or Japanese) in that the brevity and directness of the style causes all kinds of technical problems in attempts to reproduce the content in English while adhering to the driving spirit of the poem. The mental worlds surrounding our varied languages and ways of thinking are different, of course, and never more so than when dealing with faraway cultures. Although this poem was composed more than a thousand years ago it is as fresh as the day it was written! You will notice there are three 4-line stanzas in the translation whereas the original is composed of 4 separate stanzas made up by each horizontal line divided into two sections of five Chinese characters apiece. The first stanza of the translation actually combines the first two stanzas of the original, i.e the first half of the poem. This was done on purpose by me in order to maintain the velocity as well as the content of the poem ... and if you can understand that, welcome to the world of translation!