He would become a keeper of superstitions,
subvert a language, tilt its axis,
play god with all his ready characters –
not one of them was fictional.
But first, a crooning father,
a mother who believed in miracles.
Between them in his cradle
a son already listening to the operatic arias
so often sung in Brighton Square.
He was the talk of the village,
of the tidy gardens, a child
born on a nascent day of spring,
too late for the Feast of Brigid
but quickly carried to the Christening font
where he saw his own reflection
and was spellbound by the image.
There was rejoicing in the square.
Neighbour watching neighbour
to see who would bring the first gift to his crib,
who would ask to hold him and whisper
in his ear Out there you’ll find your river,
your city, the bedrock of your life….
Gerard Smyth is Poetry Editor of The Irish Times
subvert a language, tilt its axis,
play god with all his ready characters –
not one of them was fictional.
But first, a crooning father,
a mother who believed in miracles.
Between them in his cradle
a son already listening to the operatic arias
so often sung in Brighton Square.
He was the talk of the village,
of the tidy gardens, a child
born on a nascent day of spring,
too late for the Feast of Brigid
but quickly carried to the Christening font
where he saw his own reflection
and was spellbound by the image.
There was rejoicing in the square.
Neighbour watching neighbour
to see who would bring the first gift to his crib,
who would ask to hold him and whisper
in his ear Out there you’ll find your river,
your city, the bedrock of your life….
Gerard Smyth is Poetry Editor of The Irish Times
