lives of the great poets

The writer Francois Mauriac has a scene in one of his books where a young poet is on a bus quietly reading his own poems in a notebook.
You just know the character is Mauriac himself and that the scene really happened.
A passenger in the seat next to him leans over and says: "That's really good. Is it by Rimbaud?"
And Mauriac feels the first call to greatness in being mistaken for France's most famous poet of the belle epoque.
Something similar happened to my brother Barn at school.
Mrs Docherty the teacher was holding a poetry competition where the kids had to write a poem in French.
She had narrowed it down to two poems, one by Barn and another by Jean Paul who was a native of France and attending Newbridge College for six months as an exchange student.
Jean Paul had actually entered a poem by Rimbaud.
Mrs Docherty gave the prize to Barn.
A few years ago I was asked to do a eulogy in the church at my Aunty Marie's funeral.
I began with Worsdworth's lines:
"A power is passing from the earth
To breathless nature's dark abyss
But when the great and good depart
What is it more than this
That man who is from God sent forth
Doth yet again to God return
Such ebb and flow must ever be
Then wherefore should we mourn"
Back home Uncle Scutch told me that he thought this was the best poem I'd ever written.
There you go bold readers.
Francois Mauriac in his youth was already being mistaken for Rimbaud.
Doctor Barn in his childhood was actually beating Rimbaud in poetry competitions.
And William Wordsworth in death is still being mistaken for me.

the meaning of ********

Afternoon at the Tearman eatery, recently renamed the Cafe Des Sexy Krauts.
Terence O'Borkan sees me entering and calls out from a corner table.
"What did you think of the American elections James?"
Terence is a liberal left wing atheistic abortionist against the bomb.
I am pleased and somewhat surprised that he would greet me in friendly terms.
Our last discussion eight years ago in Kilcullen Theatre about American foreign policy, did not end well.
My salient argument at the time had been: "You take all your opinions from the Irish Times. The Irish Times spent the Cold War rooting for the Russians and has moved seamlessly from that twisted posture to advocating the collapse of our borders to expansionist Islam. They are burying our culture and our freedoms in a sea of gangland Jihad IRA crudd. For heaven's sake man, think for yourself. Just once. About something."
His most seditious sallies had run:
"According to you the Americans and the Israelis are right about everything. You haven't a clue about geo politics or political analysis. Your knee jerk racist views are completely out of touch with modern thinking. If ever there was someone who needed to read the Irish Times, it's you."
Now that's an insult.
The part about the Irish Times I mean.
Today it looks as if we're both happy to let bygones be bygones.
"You know," I say in great earnestness, "I honestly don't think Mr Trump won. Rightly or wrongly, I think it's a fix. And I never believed Mr Trump was rich. His earnings such as they are, are based on near limitless and repeated billion dollar borrowings, given in dubious circumstances by banks to which he already has defaulted serially on previous billion dollar loans. And I think his business involvement with the Cosa Nostra Mafia is indisputable. Then there's the character issues, the verbal inconsistencies, the insults, I mean the ones he really said (not the ones about Senator John McCain or Megyn Whatshername) but the ones he really said are just awful. So I guess I'm saying I'm about as concerned as I could be about his gaining the Presidency of the United States. On the other hand Terence, it has been fun seeing you Irish Times types wandering around like sick parrots these past few weeks, as if the sky had just fallen on you or was about to fall. Oh the humanity. Call the Feds Ma Kettle. And so on. I suppose even the apocalypse has its bright side."
"Heelers," says Terence, "you're a bit of a *******."

let us treat of bims and germaine greer of cabbages and kings

The Insomnia cafe on Nassau Street.
Attractive northie bim at adjoining table gives me a fulsom smile.
I look fixedly at her chest.
There is a slogan emblazoned on it.
It says: "repeal."
Something beautiful dies.
I sigh.
Well folks.
At least there's one beautiful bim in the world who's not going to have to worry about me staring at her chest for very much longer.
The one word slogan "repeal" is a newly coined rallying cry for pro abortion groups in Ireland.
I imagine myself leaning across to the beautiful bim.
"I have a better slogan for you," I imagine myself telling her. "Billionaire financier George Soros poured a fortune into financing a campaign to promote the murder of unborn children in Ireland and all I got was this lousy tee shirt."
That's what I would have said if she hadn't been a northie and I hadn't been afraid of her.
They're all in the IRA, Northies.
I mean I don't want to go casting no aspoyshuns.
So I said nothing.
With a last regretful leer boobwards I exited stage left.
And the ghost of Germaine Greer announced with relish: "Heelers has left the building."