Tuesday 6 March 2018

Dublin by Frank van Dijl

Dublin 
Frank van Dijl [1951]
photo Internet

I.
Everyone in Dublin has the same popish
puppy-face that you still see in remote 
parishes in the south of the Low Countries,
which have only just been connected to 
the telegraph and telephone net.
The Irish: palefaces with water-colour freckles 
and lifeless eyes that at any
moment can drown in tears. Indeed,
drowning sorrow in drink is what they do best:
when you give them a pint they will wag 
their tails and growl in gratitude. 
Sometimes, it is said, they lick your hand.
After closing time, far too early of course,
they piss, one paw up, against the pub.

II.
In almost everything they imitate the English,
but after all, how long haven't these been their 
bosses? So it's bacon and eggs in the morning,
tea with milk, sandwiches for lunch, tea
with milk, a bit later afternoon tea, with milk,
and in the evening steak and kidney pie with
far too big, far too green peas. Just like the
English they drive on the left, although it makes 
no difference on their narrow roads where you drive.
And they speak English: the bilingual
street signs are only there for show,
just like The Irish Times has a little corner
left for an article in Gaelic.
A stray dog is dead happy with the smallest bone.

III.
It is a long way to Tipperary:
the dog, dead tired, drags his paw.
Oh, sure, Ireland is stunning, with mountains
and valleys, and the Irish whiskey is
good to drink: I know all about it.
But James Joyce wrote his best books somewhere else,
though of course, in the museum dedicated to him 
in Dublin, they don't tell you that,
and Kennedy became America's president.
Ireland is not a country, it is an island,
and it isn't even that. No one feels called to greatness, 
meekly they walk the streets, thanking God 
that at least there are potatoes again.
Then what the hell was I doing in Dublin?

Epilogue
I, who went swinging in London, Paris or 
Berlin, entered – madness - 
the kite of Aer Lingus and read sweating 
how I should act in case of emergency.
I sought oblivion in alcohol. The drink 
against fear of death, which I didn't seek here, 
consoled my body, and my limbs acted 
as if it was normal to be Icarus.
No city beneath me, Dublin is a hole 
between mountains of cardboard, a decor for 
cheap tragedies without a heldentenor.
I, Icarus, fell. It didn't help to call out.
Who would save me: I fell with them. But just as
the sea is good enough for the sailor, I was content.


Original title: Dublin From: De Tweede Ronde, tijdschrift voor literatuur, herfst 1981 - Uitgeverij Bert Bakker, Amsterdam






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