Revelation

Not really, but that's what it says on the suitcase.

Because of the day that's in it, I've been thinking of Irishness and cultural baggage in general. I published a poem on this in my first collection, AIRBORNE in 2001:

Cultural ID

makes me think of my dark
overgrown little back garden,

more moss than grass, the granite wall
shawled in ivy. Enough space

for the washing to do its line-dance
and, slendering upwards,

a tall-storied old ash
keeping time with time.

I wrote a longer post about these matters on my LIGHTBOX blog.

Paddy's Day never meant much to me; parades don't do it for me, though I wouldn't want to rain on anyone else's. I know PD means a great deal to many, perhaps especially Irish Americans. I remember going into a lesbian bar in San Francisco with my girlfriend (Maud's: it was opposite our house on Cole Street and we were young and curious). They were very warm and welcoming. The woman behind the bar had Irish roots and was practically in tears at the thought of heading over for Paddy's Day.

Earlier this evening I headed off to Dún Laoghaire to catch the last light. Standing by the sea wall near Sandycove, my fingers went numb after about 15 minutes. Got a nice Paddy's Day PUDDLE (might use it in the absence of shamrock to illustrate the Trinity) and a spooky passing by WOMAN IN BLACK.