Foolish Monkey

Foolish Monkey
MAGIC TOWN where the old never die, Connecticut,
January 31
*************************** "I find that I am so excited I can barely sit still or hold a thought in my head. I think it's the excitement only a free man can feel, a free man at the start of a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain" -Red in The Shawshank Redemption by Stephen King *************************** WARNING: I like to noodle. can't resist. and once is never enough either. ***************************

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MARCH 15, 2012 6:25PM

st paddys, the living & the dead (poetry repost for ben sen)

Rate: 7 Flag

This is a repost  dedicated to Ben Sen who wrote a most excellent St Patrick's Day post called A St. Patrick's Day Valentine, about working in an Irish bar. My poem was written a couple of years back for a St Patrick's Day open call. It's been rewritten and tweeked so many times, it almost qualifies as new.  I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I have enjoyed (re)writing it. 

irish bar


a song of flatbush, st paddys, the living and the dead

remember lucky strikes?
smoked em for the longest time
didn't care for the camels
luckys was spicy
peppery like the irishmen
i was 
so nuts about
  swore em off a long time ago
you ask me why 
I tell ya 
there just too addictive
like potato chips 
and satin drawers
you get use ta them on your skin 
til you come up fat and raw 
i loved quite a few
you might say
i specialized
was we lucky? 
maybe we was 
me more then them
in spite of the hard knocks
i could dish em out too
they was right to tell you 
i was a piece of work in my day
been known to reach over a barstool
&slap the crap outta some dumb hoor fer
 givin my man the eye
lookin at me now
you wouldnt think it
tho wouldja?  
but it was me did a mean jig at
 st paddys every year
& those irishmen how 
they loved 
the roundness 
of my ass how it quivered under the hand
&my mouth my voice the way i could sing an
hold my own with the best of em
an didnt stop til long
past last call
one st paddys one a us sat on some kids hand she
in the back a the car
sittin pretty between an
drunker than all a us
so she broke a finger
so she said
this was in bobby joyces car
goin from o'briens on flatbush 
(a bucket a blood if they ever was one)
to gilmores to moriaritys
round and round and back again 
half the night
til bobby passed out 
him stinkin up the car with puke
then bobbys wife started her bitchin so we run off laughing
we never stopped til 
we shoulda stopped
an hour before
irish is easy beauties
tall and fair skinned soft as the first spring air
newly warmed in cool passing
tan freckles on pale silk hard 
them smart eyes peerin inside ya so deep
that even now 
i just
gotta laugh 
two, no three i married
one would come home and
lift me over his head 
the sheer animal
 joy of his arms our lust the
taste of camels&clouds&
clams on the half shell iced rheingolds
layin on a beach under a blood sun
us so hot running my hands
up his chest over his arms through
the soft curl of his hair
crawling into one another
hangin on for dear life 
not here he'd say but I wanted it
we made two little irishmen
fat pink not immune to none of it
not the gifts not the blessings &surely not the curse
two husbands was drunks
one wanted a mother to crawl back into
my men would &could charm pants offa pope
they sure charmed the pants offa me
yea i was lucky
lucky charms they was
lucky as my luckys
they still a taste
in my mouth

an old Irish blessing:
May the road rise up to meet you
May the wind be at your back
May the sun shine warm upon your face
& the rains fall soft upon your fields
& Until that day
We meet again
May God hold you safe
In the palm of His hand 

 - (amen amen)


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and hey and a happy st paddys day to you!

no green beer here!
Thank you gracious miss scarlett. I'm glad you likee. I work on this poem, noodling it...tightening it up... constantly. I think it's my most worked on piece. I do that with paintings when I paint.

I suppose it's bad form to repost but it's NEW I say. it's practically a whole new poem! and even if it isn't. so what?
fabulous poem, you picked up the way with the words as well, u see it's all them lowly potato eaters had and you know darn well how good they go with guinness. at least we're still here for another one.
yes we are, to tell the stories. :)

btw, those bars were real places. I had hoped to find pictures online: o'brians was truly a bucket of blood on flatbush and newkirt ave. you went there if you were a down and dirty drinker. it was dark and there were a lot of fights that happened there, between old guys. you didn't want to TOUCH the peanuts on the bar. gilmores was right across the street, on the corner, had more of the old crowd, mostly irish, some from the other side, some born here, some non irish, but it was essentially an real neighborhood bar, much loved. the owner was pat gilmore. moriarity's was owned by billy moriarity, was on newkirk plaza right by the train station and that was a young irish and young neighborhood crowd that went there. we loved it there too. all those places would hold a tab for you but you didn't want to be known as someone who needed a tab.

that story about the girl in the car was true. :) thanks for stopping by!
Terrific poem, foolish monkey. this should be an EP and on the cover for its fine quality and in honor of St. Patty's Day! Best to you my friend.
thank you so much erika! really. I'm honored.
Vivid images from all the senses. And with just the right tone(s) (for there are many). Brilliant.
by the way, thanks for dedicating your poem's repost to me, it's a real honor and especially because it's such a good poem. said the poet to the poet.