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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 “fuck 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