A Pocketful of Poesy was and is again a Poem-a-Day(-on-Average) Blog! For 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, and now for 2017 and going forward, you may expect to see 365 poems every year, 366 for leap years.

but aren't they all random?

Friday, May 24, 2024

Culture-Honor Hit Piece #2: The Greeks!

Originally the Irish

The Irish, even
before any one of them
got slave-or-saint named
Patrick, 

have 
always been
too wholly a people
to regard nature as
capable of being 
"profaned." 

So they say fuck a lot, 
they fuck a lot. Not all 
of them! But enough do, potato
babies rise in rows well ho'ed
and orderly or rude, unruly
rose to squall, bawl justly
and lustily and once

they get up to it,
eventually row with 
others. And so are seized
upon, caught up and taught by
hook and crook, by brook streaming,
meadow rolling or lying like wilde
in some still, wet gutter, haloed
by reflections of stars, beaming 

like an aesthetics expert critiquing 
heavens and finding all wanting.
By such hardest and easiest lying
and well and poorly laid lessons, in
time (and by its nick!) they are given
by nurture

one prettiest, cutest
accent in the world

by which to say fuck, 

or,

without shame 
or stain of hypocrisy! 

Other things. 

Because of this, th'
Irish have one beautiful,
worldwide reputation for
fools to believe, or 

if they go, 
finally

to set foot on firm Eyre
itself, spy out its pots, nooks
and misty rainbows oe'r
all and sundry, 

they know better. 

Or worse for themselves. 

The Irish, o the greatest part 
of them, do not mind your 
fucking slander much. As 
you've just kindly taught 
them the worth of your 
fucking mind! Or some 
of its fucking contents, 
right enough. 

Though
many of them,
kind enough might presume
to conclude as a courtesy,
a charity: you may

have just popped out of it!
For a bit. Sure and all, why

wouldn't you?
Being you and all.

No accent can truly
be faked by anyone
not a professional film, stage
or other screen actor, but 

particular accents

would be even unwiser to try,
lest ye be caught up in the enchantment
of some laughing lass or laddie's 
disenchanted-by-you

eyes. Ire 

knows no particular tongue
when one's Irish is got up. It
knows them all too well - and
none too wise and fair!
Aye, that it isn't,
much.

Keen, sad 
mirthful look.

What was it you'd expect? You 

ass

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