First thing’s first, if that title didn’t make you L-O-L then I’m not sure you’re the type of person I want reading this blog. But then again I am needy and in constant need of attention so who am I to turn away readers?
I’ve been trying something new the last little while, something I never ever do. Not even in school. Creative writing. Even seeing those words makes equal parts scared and sweaty. I have such admiration for people who are capable of writing fiction, short stories, poems and other sorts of descriptive, punctuated goodness, because I couldn’t. I used to always think my short stories in school were the bomb-diggity and that I should replace Jacqueline Wilson because hello everybody, you got a new fiction writer on your hands.
Alas that was not meant to be. I couldn’t quite grasp it, and as the lazy soul that I am, because I couldn’t grasp it, I stopped trying. Maybe if I had persevered I would have gotten somewhere with it. Oh well, too late wishing now isn’t it?
Nevertheless, I’m trying my hand at it now. This piece initially started off as a poem, but as you may already tell, I don’t really know how to write a poem. Perhaps I should say I intended this to be a poem, but I’m sure there’s all sorts of rules and regulations that come with poetry that you won’t find in these words below. So take this jumbled mess of words, commas and run-on lines as whatever you want, and be kind. It’s all new to me and I hear the WordPress community is nice to newbies.
Don’t let the crowded streets distract you.
Let them speak to you, show you.
Hi, how are ya?
A city willing to share itself.
A city generous with its life.
A city that belongs to me, to you – but also doesn’t.
I’ll meet you at Eason’s.
A city with many layers: a jumper and coat in Summer,
a scarf and umbrella in Winter.
A city where two streets exist in one.
The melting pot of Grafton Street that boils over and
comes to a stand still come five o’clock
the home of peaceful midnight strolls seven hours later.
Three thirty, please.
Life here is nourished by the quintessential essence found
only among these streets.
It is accompanied by the street performers,
the artists, creators,
by the same hope for life
and love for the city.
Streets that have been ran down,
fought over, danced on,
never refuse fresh feet.
Old feet are welcome, and encouraged.
Returning visitors from afar find, to their delight,
that not much has changed.
They continue to slot themselves in,
wherever they left off.
Absence and distance hold no power
over muscle memory.
I’m just on the quays, I’ll be there soon.
The bones and memory of this city are strong,
its origins deep, fleshed in literature, art, poetry.
It carries the weight of its citizen’s lives, and all that happens within.
It carries them through life, through death, and life again.
It hears secrets revealed at 4am, and observes
the unnoticed acts of kindness and malice.
It sees destruction – patiently waiting for
its time to repair and renew.
It feels the life inside you,
And you it.
Dublin. A city to some, a home for many.
A multitude of memories, the heart of hopes and my future.
Dublin, my home.