Being a distinguished contemporary Irish poet – like Seamus and
Tom and them other fellers –
carries its own responsibilities. Bringing in the cultural allusions
(Tom likes Verlaine, I’m more of a Valery guy) while remembering in the end
that your verse man, like the one who recited to Brian Boru,
is only a story teller. It
doesn’t have to scan, of course, but you
can arrange it over the page to look
as if it
does. And meanwhile the funny place-names need a mention,
so I’m putting in Auchnacloy, Cullaville and Derrymacash, some of
them
in italics, in the hope that
they’ll grab your attention. Did I forget anything? Oh
yes Dev and O’Hanlon and all that ould Gaelic stuff. That fifties childhood, of course,
with the packet of fags on the car seat and the clothes built to
last. Anything else would be
forswearing our past. Me, Seamus, Tom and the others. As poetry
goes – and boy does it go – we’re just calling your bluff.