>Start of something more substantial…

by Brendan Strong

>Yeats lost romantic isle
with hands fumbling in greasy tills
for the week and
friday nights, the nights
when the lights light up
staggerers staggering
(as, I suppose they do)
to the beat of an ego taller than a monument to light

Heaney’s turf, all of it,
was cut out of bogs –
the nation changed and there we were,
moved back, started over
sponsored foreign games
enjoyed foreign food and beer and wine and prices
but cursed out the foreigners themselves
– maybe so they know how we felt in London – a trial by fire?
– we send the new Irish home,
going home bitter, twisted and forgotten
and meeting home resented