POETRY

Esquisse

To : James Joyce’s portrait of himself in the "Ulysses"

Idyllic cold frozen dry hurting love
It quiets her yearnings, her rushings to peal
Forsaken goodness stills the rich Irish sounds.
Is Hibernia the creator of Evil?
Supreme Herald,
Fetid cluster,
Hall’s inferno: Blows ice cold,
Subduing a "Cancer Ward"-
His Mephistopheles is Goethe:
How auspitious an end!

Should anyone suffer the dry deserted Dublin?
The saintly Hibernian sprung out of Joyce’s hand,
Who dwells in houses of Bloom?
His refuge is the strongest malt,
the bitterest brine.
It rolls from down inside and outside
Toe to mouth, mouth to toe.
At home he clings to the fire,
like a lad to his gestures,
Like a lass to her walkings.
It is not divine harps, gongs you may hear:
It is the sound of bagpipes, melodies of pipers and drummers;
Perhaps, as they march onto war.
He, Dedalus with broken wings;
She, the nymph with a nun’s soul.
And, they exchange looks, talk Gaelic as happy larks.
They see hay a-greening,
smell a Rose’s chalice.
Days may never pass only a few hours;
And, the Jeunesse will cross glances,
turn skirts into fitted pants.
He, Icarus, laden by fortune passes from hay of old meadowlands.
To become,as Dedalus,
a soldier of Ulysses on the New Lands.
Gaelic Metempsychosis is Ariadne´s celestial drama,
Her realm above.
j.a. canto, MBA