Weeds United

By Mike MacDomhnaill

Weeds United is the eclectic reader’s cornucopia with touches of Gabriel Rosenstock’s Infrearéalachas (Infrarealism), a Blindboy Boatclub podcast on the inside of a tennis ball (should he ever take it on) and the poet’s own unique brand of insightfulness, which the reader will find enthralling.

Mac Domhnaill’s work is a critical, daring, humourous, local and universal, self-mocking and sardonic book, laced with historical, political and social commentary, in two languages.

It is a reader’s version of being spoilt for choice, with much playfulness offset by the poet’s sensitive eye for both human and the natural world’s vulnerabilities, a sort of tableau vivant that is life.

Cuireann Weeds United go mór le canóin na Mumhan agus filíocht na hÉireann. — John Liddy

• Language: English
• Publisher: Limerick Writers Centre
• Release date: Mar 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224911127

Book preview

Poets like to frighten the shite out of us

as they summon up the stark reality

of our imminent departure,

you’ve read Kinsella and his Mirror in February –

last time I checked he was still alive –

I could quote and quote,

they tend to start with the morning mirror:

How little this poor creature knows,

this evening they’re preparing the obit!

If any way half-famous

there’ll be clips in the files

which can be readily dragged up,

a suitable banner declared

(just the job for the new sub-ed)

and the cub reporter sent to the obsequies

(they have no inhibitions, the young lot),

as the coffin’s shoved into the hearse

the best shot

Poets have a lot to answer for

the way they frighten us

out of our silly day-dreams

And we haven’t even touched on

Larkin’s Aubade

you know the one

where he wakes at four in the morning

and haunts himself in the awakening gloom

or Scepter and Crown

Must tumble down

you have to remember that

from your school days

that, at least, was satisfying

if you were the one with the sickle

doing the back-breaking work while

himself sat up there on his throne

‘We’ll get even’ rattling through your head

Poets

they’re forever bringing us down.

JEAN, NÍ JEAN

Ar ndoigh b’in adúirt tú, ní ag ceartú per se ach – tuigeann tú go maith –

ag cur trasna, ag cabhrú, océ, glacfad leis sin, ag cabhrú.

Bhíomar óg, maithimis a chéile, ag an am

nuair a bhíonn an créatúr seo, an duine, pas beag soineanta,

níos soineanta ná anois?

ag brath ar do thuiscint air mar fhocal agus pé scéal é

níl am againn do bheith á phlé, agus an t-eitleán ag tuirlingt.

Soineanta… sea, am éigin b’fhéidir thar chupán tae.

An leabhar i mo sheilbh, is cuimhin leat, ní cuimhin liom anois

cén diabhal ainm a ghabh leis, leabhar cuíosach caol déarfainn –

cé a thugann faoi leabhar mór groí ach an té, b’fhéidir,

a bhfuil aghaidh aige ar an gcarcair. Muna bhfuil an t-údar

in ann é a rá go pras caith uait é, nach sin a deirtear.

An fáth gur luaigh mé é? Óige. Iarracht tú a impreasáil,

mar a dúirt an fear ó Chonamara. Ach níl sé sin féaráilte

dóibh siúd ón Iarthar. Ní bhacann lena leithéid. Impreasáil.

Is an ceart acu. Is cuma leo sa diabhal. Cá rabhamar? An leabhar

ag gobadh amach as mo phóca, nach mar sin a bhí,

agus as mo bhéal do sciorr: ‘Jean’.

Ó, Sartre! Jean-Paul! An mar sin é, Jean, ní Jean,

más mar sin a thit amach, an cuimhin?

Tuigimid a chéile anois. Is mó leabhar imithe faoin droichead,

mar a dúirt an fear ó Dhroim Conrach.

JEAN, NOT JEAN

While not exactly correcting, it’s what you said – you know only too well

– while not spelling it out. Helping? we’ll go with that. We were young.

At a time when still innocent. More innocent than now? We can return

to that. Depends on how we define, and besides, no time, what