City of hunger and sorrow
the contempt of your conquerors
colors the streets grey.
Your wars are never won.
A grimy rain prevails
like tears of the defeated
or the famous indignation of Swift
dampening forever the Dublin stones.
In his library near the cathedral
the collection is the same
as when Swift climbed the stairs
to those austere ranges
leather and gold bindings closed
on his scurrilous marginalia.
A frozen scholar or two crouches
in the coffin smell of wood.
The librarian like Keats’s hare
limps trembling.
Only in the shabby pubs
or on desperate trolley-cars
the crazy Irish mirth crackles into words.
We should get off here, I say
this is our stop.
No, not yet, says my husband.
There, there, cry the crones in chorus
the man is always right, dearie.
Even God won’t let us get off
till he pulls the bell.
Dublin, city of sighing rain
Joyce did well to map and mock you
from a blind distance.
Even the prism of Yeats’s dream
fails to alleviate the grey, the grime.