Start of something more substantial...

Yeats lost romantic isle
parodied
with hands fumbling in greasy tills
for the week and
friday nights, the nights
when the lights light up
staggerers staggering
(as, I suppose they do)
to the beat of an ego taller than a monument to light


Heaney's turf, all of it,
was cut out of bogs -
the nation changed and there we were,
moved back, started over
sponsored foreign games
enjoyed foreign food and beer and wine and prices
but cursed out the foreigners themselves
- maybe so they know how we felt in London - a trial by fire?
- we send the new Irish home,
going home bitter, twisted and forgotten
and meeting home resented