By: Susan Facknitz
Felt tilt of the flat plain,
stones for streets underfoot.
Near the river
rush and hum of crowds
crushed into pubs for porter,
pipes and whistles.
Sliotar’s jittery rills
spill out onto jackknifed floors
where dancing loonies spin
and craic, their pints foaming
the tables behind them.
Hopped-up on Belgian,
we pester through the crowd
back to dim light and drizzle
after midnight sunset
on the quay. We wing
our way back to gated Trinity,
past lighted Spars and empty classrooms.
We’ll learn there tomorrow
how the night felt
in the famine land,
how all the songs began.
***
Susan Facknitz teaches creative writing at James Madison University in Harrisonburg, Virginia where she have taken students on travel programs to England, Ireland and France. I have had poems recently in Southwords (Ireland), Room (Canada) and Adanna.