Wednesday, May 07, 2014

Derry King Danny

Dublin, Thursday, June 16, 1904

James Joyce, the ineluctable.
all the dead and Derry kings of mead
and merry fiddle diddle Derry
dairy airy very merry merry very

well may they say it’s the luck of the Irish
devil may care toss of the blue black hair
the lick of the dervish fair and true
worshipping the dawn-late stars
the harbour ships and bars
the battled bricks the sea-fetched gale
slaking with foam-festooned ale
his dry throated crooner

well may they say when the hay glows shy in the fields
and the lickety clover-sprung cow like a dream
greenly moos, waking a leprechaun songster
fluting skyward, lowly dancing a milk-hung jig
to the tune of highlands purple.
Danny drums through thistles deep as night
high as a kite, skipping
breeze blown, ballooning
bags of pipes, wet whistles, lutes and
lady loves like crazy in the hazy dew
all dank and new

Danny, a light-luted Pan
sings for  mummy (“oh boy” he sang)
and whistles a lilting moony tune
poor loony boy both ripe and ready
to roll with his grainy pretty
to sway and sweetly fiddle and soak
so fickle well may
with that devil may care

lucky they say but beware
the devil may care cruiser
bruising the heather blue-black at the edge of
highlands landslides
slippery tip and tittle
fiddling with that devil may care
charm of the Irish in a misty dawn
after hay-tossed hymning
to the pretty under dawn-late stars
to the harbour ships and bars

drunk as a skin-tight skunk
truculent and fancy-full as noble dead
the legendary, lucky Derry kings
those faery kings of mead
and merry fiddle diddle derry
Danny daringly so airily so merrily ...

while moons away his luck-struck love

wonders what all that was about.

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