Living Irish Literature

The last few days ducked in  I did to the latest Irish literature festival here in Cork and  many transporting moments were afoot. For me, the thing kicked off when the lovely Tom McCarthy, an extraorinarily gifted  and meticulous poet who doubles as a guardian angel for many Irish writers -- a friend to every person he ever met -- gave an introductory speech for the launch of Theo Dorgan's new book Greek. Dorgan is himself a celebrated Irish minstrel who is according to John Montague "a blend of street warrior and muse poet." Said to formerly sport dreadlocks, he's inhabited modern Greece in his body and ancient Greece in his soul, but the mythology he celebrates all harkens back to Ireland...

"Where every man is a walking myth" or something like that he said.

Another memorable moment was provided by Martina Evans, a rather spellbinging lady of the pen and voice, who held the audience rapt for a long time -- except for unruly elements led by the apparently eternally self-mythologizing git of Desmond O'Grady still crawling up the backside of Ezra Pound and harkening to his hayday cameo appearance as Mr. Drunken Irish Poet in La Dolce Vita. His The Wandering Celt, he informed all, was legit, because he (almost alone) was a true Celt and thus an emissary of civilization, as opposed to Americans, who he repeatedly characterized as "barbarians."

Anyway, Martina, who grew up in a pub/shop/petrol station/house outside Macroom (home of Macrumpians), mixed poems and seanachie anecdotes about her remarkable upbringing which encansupulated an Ireland gone magically -- wonderful stuff altogether.

A mention, too, to Conal Creedon. He is the A No. 1 writer of Cork, in my estimation, and absolutely should be known more broadly internationally; he has the ear for every corner conversation, every magnifient touch of endearing absurdity he encounters. He's known well enough in Ireland, but should have longer stilts by far. Find him, try him.  He went on for a half hour about his father's years' long construction of his own coffin and had every single mug laughing in stitches -- about his father's intricately planned demise.

Writer course material, what? Along those lines the Munster Literature Centre is offering a 1000 euro prize for a single poem somebody in the tribunal happens to like best, even if it's written by a barbarian American or Hun. Apparently, there must be some link to the spirit of Gregory O'Donoghue, a recently deceased Cork poet,  deceased in Rilke like fashion, who was a barmate and I would like to think friend of mine. Greg was a gentle man with a cunning eye and he would be laughing in his grave that you might grab the thousand, get sent free to Cork, and paid to drink for days in his honour, which is about the size of it.

Chalk this whole experience down to the category -- What I Love Best About Ireland.

I mean -- that you can dream about a man you never met and get paid for it. Gotta be happy here, send me 10% if you get it, 20% if I coach you.