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An Irish Poet in Paris Yearns for Home

( A Dream Song for Thomas MacGreevy )


He was homesick for the white horse 

on O’Connell Bridge, 

the river flowing from watered hills, 

the gulls that screeched in boisterous language

above the monuments to sedition; homesick for 


the midnight streets of Dublin shiny in the rain

Valhalla on the Liffey, 

his city of conspiracy that reeked of history 

and night-rain hissing at the windows

of National Library, Capuchin Friary. 


He was homesick for the city of the unwritten 

sentence, the iambics of distress.

The city always waiting for great events –  

city of disappointments, 

nagging doubts, homespun sentiment;


the stale voluptuousness 

of Sundays spent in the museum 

where the attendant in his corner 

watched in case he rubbed against 

the master strokes on an ancient canvass.

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