Wednesday, July 10, 2013

To Guinness

(Sometimes I write a poem for myself alone, but later discover that others want access to it.  This is a departure in tone, but what of it?)

To Guinness
What dismal brew comes now to rest
Before my disenchanted breast?
Brew, I say?  This cannot be!
A brew has weight and dignity.
But this?  This piddle, thin and bleak,
This sallow swill with sunken cheek.
If barleycorns must crack their chests,
Then let them die a noble death.

Let them lie in sacred state
Within the walls of St. James Gate.
A princely stout!  A poet's milk!
With creamy crown and robes of silk.
Thy brooding brow. Thy nodding head,
Adrift upon a midnight bed.
I know not if I'm fit to sip
and bless my most unworthy lip.
And yet, you heed no rank nor class
But fill the same each eager glass
Of statesman, scholar, journeymen,
And all who labor with their hands.

Good traveler, quit your hurried call,
And peer within these lively halls
On gentlefolk with courteous hearts
Who choose but mirth before they part.
Come doctor, welder, lawyer, nurse.
Come drink what's worthy of your thirst.
Come ladies, with your flow'ry styles
And revolution in your smiles.
Come poets, players, lift your voice.
Come distant shades. Come Yeats! Come Joyce!
Come gather round this festive board.
Be kinsmen in a happy hoard.
We'll drink to all that glows within us.
And God in heaven, make it Guinness.


1 comment:

  1. Joyce probably doesn't like being dragged back to Ireland. Oh, well.