I have in my family tree

only one person in five hundred years

who was born in Ireland, technically that makes me one

in five hundred and twelfth of the Emerald Isle.

Even then it was by default as he was born at his mother’s insistence

as she could no longer hold on to the pull of the umbilical cord

and would kill any man

with a face of black thunder who tried

to stop her getting rid

of her impetuous fairy like Cornish-Scottish hybrid load

and to history, who knows,

never stepped foot or breathed the air

of the place he was born in again.

 

I have drank more black tar than I could ever believe was possible

and dabbled with the grain of the island but heartedly admit

it doesn’t hold a candle to the beauty of Balvenie

or to the murky, despicable child-friendly spit water

that resides, over-produced, shimmering like bluebottles

on the shelves in homes of those with no taste.

 

I have visited the land of Hurling, lost

and the wonder of butch Oscar Wilde twice

and both times been entranced by its splendour and

poetic like language.

I have visited the grave of one of its leading lights,

born in West Bromwich, buried in Howth, died one night in Salisbury

when my dear friend was on duty and the phone call brought

tears to my eyes.

I have laid a vacuum packed tipple in his memory

and stared in wonder

at the seared in the bullet holes and took that image home

to the city of distinction that boasts quite rightly with pride

of being the second city

of Ireland

and is actually the true and untainted

cultural capital

of England.

 

I have no Irish in me

except for what I have lovingly absorbed

from being adopted by my sister and what has filtered through

has touched and informed me to

the point of admiration

on all levels.  My home has helped in that respect as

all I see is the tremendous influence that a despairing act

in humanity’s history has created a vibrant culture,

spoiled sometimes by large green novelty hat

bobbing up and down.

 

Thank you for giving us so much

and I can but apologise that we didn’t give you

more in return. Whilst some parts leave me cold,

my fault, not yours,

I find that is not my business

to comment on explosive issues that

divided us.

I was born to the sounds of England winning the Ashes in 71,

part Cornish, mostly Brum, Scots and Norman thrown in

for good measure

but I’m happy to admire you,

you sparkling beauty that sits between me

and the past in New York.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015.