Wednesday, June 03, 2015
Ireland votes gay
to shame
a bloodied church.
Which can always fall back, as
if such forever possible, on hate
the sin, and love the sinner.
Who can tell the difference, really?
Yeats said it, as you’d expect,
better, with his dancer-dance.
Preceded by O brightening glance!
And you don’t get many of them
to the pound, do you suppose
he was Bardic everywhere? Say the wife
finally shrieking? “For Jesus Christ’s Sake,
tell me in plain words what you fancy
for dinner!” Or in the pub dissecting
our disgraceful team, maybe saying
The Little Sisters of the Poor’d beat ‘em?
Well, that is poetic, the image
of a wave of nuns advancing
to our goal, concealing, one after
other, the ball in black folds!
Before the coup de grace
of our final humiliation!
Our keeper giving his best
imitation of a man. Or ass.
Labels: Bard, Catholic Church, football, Gay Marriage, Ireland, poetic language, soccer, Yeats
