A thing that was hard for you

I don't know
at what point
the intercourse
and whispers
of confession
talked the pillow down

and turned it
easily
and conveniently
into the sacrament
of reconciliation
with its push and pull
higher than the tides
of Fundy

but there it is
and so I am
like the guest
at Joyce's dinner party
in The Dead
who reports
the regret
of a woman
in "Broken Vows"
whose man
promised her
and said a lie to her
and who had taken east and west from her
and taken what is before her and behind her
when her mother told her not to be talking with him
too late

and though late
like all regrets
this lament was fresh

in spite of being added
by Huston
to Joyce
who never had it
in Dubliners
and even when Huston
added it
it was hardly new
having been Englished

from then hundred year old Irish

by Lady Augusta Gregory

who counted Yeats her man

and bore him

in mind

when she rendered

"Donal Og"
to protest his love
the way all love is eventually protested
even if not renounced
or the reasons well founded

It is late last night the dog was speaking of you;

the snipe was speaking of you in her deep marsh.
It is you are the lonely bird through the woods;
and that you may be without a mate until you find me.

You promised me, and you said a lie to me,
that you would be before me where the sheep are flocked;
I gave a whistle and three hundred cries to you,
and I found nothing there but a bleating lamb.

You promised me a thing that was hard for you,
a ship of gold under a silver mast;
twelve towns with a market in all of them,
and a fine white court by the side of the sea.

You promised me a thing that is not possible,
that you would give me gloves of the skin of a fish;
that you would give me shoes of the skin of a bird;
and a suit of the dearest silk in Ireland.

When I go by myself to the Well of Loneliness,
I sit down and I go through my trouble;
when I see the world and do not see my boy,
he that has an amber shade in his hair.

It was on that Sunday I gave my love to you;
the Sunday that is last before Easter Sunday
and myself on my knees reading the Passion;
and my two eyes giving love to you for ever.

My mother has said to me not to be talking with you today,
or tomorrow, or on the Sunday;
it was a bad time she took for telling me that;
it was shutting the door after the house was robbed.

My heart is as black as the blackness of the sloe,
or as the black coal that is on the smith's forge;
or as the sole of a shoe left in white halls;
it was you put that darkness over my life.

You have taken the east from me, you have taken the west from me;
you have taken what is before me and what is behind me;
you have taken the moon, you have taken the sun from me;
and my fear is great that you have taken God from me!

Of course she's not a true red

As the parent of a "ginger", and having red heads on both sides of the family, and having married into two Irish families, I know first hand that ginger covers the whole spectrum from strawberry blonde (to my way of thinking a classic ginger!), to orange (carrot tops), to a real rust red (what my father in law would call a true red). When Pat Todkill first set eyes on his granddaughter, he remarked, "Of course, she's not a true red". For one thing, Emily the Elder lacked freckles on her face and upper body. For another, she really was and is a strawberry blonde. A further observation. Even people with the raven blackest hair have rust red lights--caveman red, soot covered ochre if you like. Woolly mammoth red. Sometimes it takes just the right light to pick out the smoldering ember, but beard and eyebrows tend to incorporate the tell tale ginger strain, like chili pepper in a spice jar of mixed pepper corns. And, of course, brunette...

Danusia and the brickworks

Kipling, who made comments about big guns and so many other politically inappropriate things it would be impossible to include them here, once visited Medicine Hat and declared that it had all hell for a basement. It does have natural gas, and a flame is constantly lit in the coulees to mark the spot. Some say it is a waste of gas, but at least you can actually tell the whisperer by his flame. Harder to pin down is the wind. In southern Alberta they say the cows sleep standing up because of the wind. And you only know there isn't a breeze when you get bit by a sand fly. Here I met Danusia, the daughter of Polish combatant, who, along with her childhood girlfriend Bogusia, sold Toni home perms and L'Oreal hair colour to fellow children of displaced persons, who cut hair and did it up just so in the Flats, where it flooded every Spring, or thereabouts. Danka and Bugsy were married, as was the custom, to strapping Polish lads who worked at the IXL brickw...

I double dog dare ya

I double dog dare ya to repeat the story you heard in 3 Trees the shop of Indian incense and beeswax crayons from Germany perhaps a source for Waldorf or Montessori Nepali filigree or Balinese woven silver and semi-precious gems cut loose dresses and butterfly pants from Indonesia or somewhere similarly hot and breezy and yoga cushions maybe made locally and unmentionable remarks harder to tell than listen to I think it was a tall woman of subcontinent ancestry who was trying on bras and dresses and saying she was generally pleased at the selection and the clerk who replied yeah who knew Asian women have boobs and height and take up space and commisserated with her customer who mentioned she didn't think men looked for a mirror to see how their bum looks before deciding and buying down the risk she knowingly showed to me I was there for the sale half price and no tax the gift they give 3 times a year to generate so...

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