|Romancing the Blarney Stone: Poems written in and on the way to and from Ireland|
“Funny, observant and comforting, “Romancing the Blarney Stone” is a fine read from one of my favorite poets.”
~ Amber Tamblyn, Author + Actress
“I saw my own country through the culture-shocked eyes of a stranger who clearly loved it as much as it clearly confused him too. A really great, funny, and perceptive verse cycle by a true poet. “
~ Rodney Orpheus, Irish Author + Musician
“…a detailed, humorous tour of Ireland, full of blarney, a little stoned (various quantities of fine Irish whiskey are consumed), and always entertaining. “
~ G. Murray Thomas, Poet + Editor Next… Poetry Calendar
Visit Ireland with Rick Lupert, and his wife, in this, his 19th collection of poetry written on the Irish Ireland nation, where the color green was invented, where the north and south are still struggling with a seventeenth century conflict. Sample Irish whiskey and cheese. Try to out-nice the locals…and walk the same streets where so many of the world’s most essential writers cut their teeth. There’s a stone to kiss. Are you in?
Poetry from Romancing the Blarney Stone
Somewhere Over Canada
It is 7:30 in the morning and my eyes are
staging a revolution of closing hours.
I message Brendan to ask if he is awake
with a quick follow up telling him I am not.
They will not hold planes for tired people.
So if you wish to go to a place that is
different from the place you are in
you will need to defer to the schedules
of others. Behind me they discuss
the size of water bottles. This is a topic
I have nothing to add to. They say this
flight is nonstop but I can’t imagine
any other kind.
Romancing the Blarney Stone
Somewhere in this universe
in this solar system
on this planet
on another continent
in a country surrounded by water
in a town there
in a castle there
there is a stone
a known stone
a kissed stone
a stone kissed by
more men and women
My lips destined
for this stone
in that place
in all the places
that I mentioned
Next trip I need to bring more bags
Addie says. Her love of things to contain
other things will not be contained.
Boxes, Tupperware, Pyrex, water bottles.
Don’t get me started on her convulsions when
we pass by The Container Store.
We just finished putting breakfast inside us.
We, irreplaceable human containers.
Day two In Dublin begins.
Roinn an Taoisigh
The sign in Irish says
Roinn an Taoisigh.
Translated it says
Department of the Taoiseach
cleared it all up for me.
We hang out with Finbarr, the guide, after the tour.
He is twenty-eight years old, or, in that ball park
and has a beard like an evil Moses.
He’s a cat guy which diffuses that a bit.
He is classic Finbarr and we are not at all
jealous that he gets free pints at every pub.
He laughs like an Irishman.
Refers to me kindly as Richard Dreyfus.
Leaves to bring a pizza to his girlfriend.
What does he do when he’s not leading a tour?
Sleep he says. Which is exactly what we
go back to our hotel and do.
Dublin you city of writers
You city of Vikings and rebels
Your failed revolutions
Your faeries your leprechauns
We’d walk the streets with a Guinness
in one hand and a Jameson in the other
if it were allowed. You’re the kind
of people who’d storm a biscuit house
until it was allowed.
You are unseasonably warm,
hiding your rain from the Americans
so it won’t embarrass you. We’ll talk about
your weather fondly, Dublin.
We’ll cross your river. We’ll eat
your brown bread.
Dublin, show us your naked Germans
your rock and roll, your Trinity
your old and new, your buildings
built on Vikings.
Show us where you
kiss the sea.
There’s a Pizza place in Belfast Called Big Caesar’s
Oh, it’s on.