March brings with it the first hints of Spring for
those of us
who live where the end of each calendar year leaves
us chilled
and sluggish. The debut of nubile buds sprouting from
naked limbs
of grey trees stirs hope of fresh mobility in our
lives...
The poet is ill-equipped to restrain the impulse to
sing the
praises of the season. Especially, the advent of what
"a young
man fancies"-- And fortunately, I might add, age does
little to
diminish these "thoughts of love"!
It is this veddy St. Patrick honorin' month that brings
to my
mind a particular breed of poet. I reside in St. Louis'
unabashedly Irish "Dogtown" neighborhood, and seein'
as I was
named for my great-grandmother Mary Jane Collins,
I dig dem "will
o' the wisp" Irish tune weavers and word spinners.
I present to you now, a wee nibble... a mere samplin'
(if you
will!) of tasty Irish prepared morsels for yer feastin'
pleasure:
Startin' with our own darlin', James Douglas Morrison... 
Why do I drink?
So that I can write poetry.
Sometimes when it's all spun out
and all that is ugly recedes
into a deep sleep
There is an awakening
and all that remains is true.
As the body is ravaged
the spirit grows stronger.
Forgive me Father for I know
what I do.
I want to hear the last Poem
of the last Poet.
I am troubled
Immeasurably
By your eyes
I am struck
By the feather
of your soft
Reply
The sound of glass
Speaks quick
Disdain
And conceals
What your eyes fight
To explain
If Only I
If only I
could feel
The sound
of the sparrows
& feel child hood
pulling me
back again
If only I could feel
me pulling back
again
& feel embraced
by reality
again
I would die
Gladly die
My dear, devilishly romantic/Irish Edgar Allan Poe...
Lines On Ale
Fill with mingled cream and amber,
I will drain that glass again.
Such hilarious visions clamber
Through the chamber of my brain--
Quaintest thoughts-- queerest fancies
Come to life and fade away;
What care I how time advances?
I am drinking ale today.
For Annie (Excerpt from longer work)
My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting its roses--
Its old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:
For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
About it, of pansies--
A rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansies--
With rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansies.
And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the love
And the beauty of Annie--
Drowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.
She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breast--
Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.
When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels
To shield me from harm.
And I lie so composedly,
Now, in my bed,
(Knowing her love)
That you fancy me dead--
And I rest so contentedly,
Now in my bed,
(With her love at my breast)
That you fancy me dead--
That you shudder to look at me,
Thinking me dead:--
But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars of the heaven
For it sparkles with Annie--
It glows with the fire
Of the love of my Annie--
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.
And Oscar Wilde, native of Dublin, Dandy-Extraordinaire...
Impression Du Matin
THE Thames nocturne of blue and gold
Changed to a harmony in grey:
A barge with ochre-coloured hay
Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold
The yellow fog came creeping down
The bridges, till the houses' walls
Seemed changed to shadows, and S. Paul's
Loomed like a bubble o'er the town.
Then suddenly arose the clang
Of waking life; the streets were stirred
With country waggons: and a bird
Flew to the glistening roofs and sang.
But one pale woman all alone,
The daylight kissing her wan hair,
Loitered beneath the gas lamps' flare,
With lips of flame and heart of stone.
