Alchemisland

We are given, gifted, brave souls 

Such that the oft cowering are offscourings

Bound for Gehenna’s rank mounds 

Temples of dirt and toxic mould 

Our head rounds should point to the sun 

Never down to the ground like a coward

Let lion eyes beam out, let man be lionised

Let Earth be wonderful, let us build Lyonesse. 

---

Nigh on three and we spy two travellers coming on

Such approaches we have learnt could be poachers

We keep our eyes on close and daggers closer  

Our duo becomes a quaternion

We are glad to have their champion 

We have a stew on, which we food on 

They tell us of rapine and ravin

Rains of blood from skies ravenous

Cavernous bores and spells Ahrimanian

They tell us ‘Demons hound us’

Our fire surrounded, sound is redounded

Our redoubt by rain hounded, our hoods floundered 

We have seen no hair of our kith 

This day, yesterday, before or sith

We are packed close like animals in cotes. 

---

Then you are warriors?

Should your vocation worry us?

They laugh to calm us worriers

Worse than gurriers out there

One hails from the Ring of Kerry

He says Edmund Spencer knew nothing about faeries, not that a Saxon would care

By Jays, he said supping tae, I could spin tales that’d scare 

You’d hold fast to your chair, white’d winter your hair

You wouldn’t sleep another night without nightmares

He bares a cheshire grin to indicate I should take no care

Of his ceaseless japes, accustom would make you aware

Of my inclinations toward tricksome prankery, beware!

An Irish rogue if ever there, red like fire opal igniting his hair

Swear you’d go spare out here, neither maidens nor tinctured mixtures to delect in

I selected from my vast satchel another capful of admix and said, ah sure

To call it drank ill fits, he got it in swilled and swallowed it; he said an odour rare

Be a whiff of the air

What is life at all without drinking

That got him thinking and talking

He said his name was Mick, he was a king’s man and felt that a dirty trick

Given what England did

He got a bit thick but he was partial to it

The other hailed from Galway, his name was William Ormey 

He served aboard the Osprey, did to his good lord pray

He had no more to say and silently sat, his colleague did a fine job of that, expounding on days

Spent together and dark nights, on the way to Samarkand

To the Holy Land and its stinging sands

By whose Command

A fair flight for what they hope will prove a fair fight

There’s a big pie out there, boys, I’m getting a bite

Back home I was fixing bikes for posties, drinking pints

When it was still daylight, looking like a slob gobshite

When the bill went up, I signed up right

Away, the ink still wet and I’m on my way in spite

Of what everyone said and says, I’m delighted 

Out here, my village in Kerry was small and spiteful

William here’s a gent, if quiet, but see him with a few pints in him

He’ll sing you Raglan Road, thrusting his hips like a sinner

My god, I’m gonna be a winner one of these days

If ever we should tavern again, I will buy you each a fine dinner

Of many courses, and a room to suffer its effects, fine wine vintages, vine riches, and a room with a bay window

It’s not unlike Killorglin out here

Now that we are friends his own wineskin appears

He pushes his lank, matted hair behind his ear

All in one tussled dreadlock it sticks up like an antler on a deer

Head, a small curved knife with which he peels a prior concealed potato

He sings the well below the valley-o, right among the bushes-o

Where I used to dwell it’s all malice and drunks in alleys, pubs called O’Malleys

Horse fairs and grannies and bonfires hot with any scrap of vanity – worst of crimes, Ireland decrees

Nothing worse than accusations of having developed notions

Usually those who return having crossed oceans

Have drank the potion, they have left Tír na nÓg forever

Ireland does not wait, She’s not patient

We loathe commotions and open emotions

Emotions, how you show them

That is the stuff of religious devotion

I see he is enjoying his respite, enjoying his pulpit

I imagine him talking to a rapt audience while his pints are pulled

His pockets are empty and because he doesn’t pay, someone else will

He pulls the stool over, pulls the wool over, his woollen pullover thick as armour

Comfortable as in his own armchair at home, he mulls over all the stories he knows

The many odes to heroes, betrayed betrotheds, cursed thrones, magic bones

They inch to be nearer.

---

He spits into the mud

He bites into his spud

Before his story has begun

What a web the starspidress has spun tonight

A far fly from Clew Bay alright

They seek a farrier, a foal, then a ferry

Ferrous shoes to carry them on ways merry

We will ferret out an existence temporary

Then proceed and retake God’s sanctuary.