More Musings and a Poem

I don't expect everyone to do things the way that we do in America, but, seriously, in this day and age with the all the technological advances we have, can't the Irish switch to a smaller electrical plug? The ones that they use look like some kind of heavy duty utility thing and are just way too bulky.

In Ireland, you are never asked if your food is "to go", it's always "for here or take away?"

Now, I am in no way suggesting that they are leprechauns, but I have seen an inordinate number of little people here.

All of the street signs, billboards, posters and such are in both English and Irish (technically Irish Gaelic), kind of like Miami with Spanish...but no one here actually speaks Irish.

I'm not quite sure why, but every pub, club, and bar here in Dublin has at least one bouncer standing in front of it...complete with a secret service type earpiece. Just what is it from which they are protecting the general population?

I'm all in favor of short skirts, but...good grief! The girls over here, especially the younger ones, are wandering the streets in what amounts to a scarf tied around their waist. I don't think they realize how ridiculous they look. Although, maybe the skirts explain the need for the bouncers.

One of my favorite things about McDonalds has always been their straws. They have the sturdiest, biggest straws that you can find anywhere. Well, here in Dublin, McDonalds has decided to forego the traditional straw in favor of a cheesy, thin, bendy straw...very disappointing!

They have one of the best inventions ever in most of the public restrooms here. It is called a Dyson Airblade, and it dries your hands better than anything I have ever experienced. You stick your hands in and then pull them out slowly...about 10 seconds in all...and your hands are completely dry. On top of that, it is better for the environment too...check it out http://www.dysonairblade.com/homepage.asp


And now...the aforementioned and promised poem...

An Ode to Guinness

My goodness, my Guinness

what a beautiful sight!

your dark, chocolatey color

your aroma just right

With a thick frothy head

from your nitrogen pour

So smooth going down

I always want more

Your taste so unique

it's like no other

A meal in a glass

think I'll have another

Just four simple things

make this liquid feast

water and hops,

barley and yeast

Combined together

in just the right measure

they make an elixir

thats nothing but pleasure

If I overindulge

good thing I'm resiliant

my goodness, my Guinness

simply...brilliant!

Random Musings on These Wacky Celts

The Guinness here is unlike anything you will ever get in the states.

French fries here are called chips.

Chips here are called crisps.

You can never forget what you are drinking, because all the pubs pour your beverage of choice into a glass that has the name printed on it.

If you order a simple mixed drink, you will get a glass containing ice and the liquor, the mixer will be served in its own bottle. You must do the mixing yourself. When I asked, I was told that sometimes the women don't like to pour the whole bottle of mixer into the drink.

When the weather is warm (which I assume is not very often), you will find the Irish laying in the sun anywhere where there is some grass...despite the fact that they are mostly all pasty white.

Bono knew what he was doing when he sang that the streets have no names...cause they don't. There is no way to match a map to the actual streets because there are no street signs. Every now and then there will a sign posted to the side of a building, but they are certainly not reliable. Irish people seem to give directions more in regard to places...you know...like, go down the road and take a left at the pub...

If you need something, you can just run down the road to the Spar store (think 7-11)

I think they must call it the Emerald Isle for many reasons...Ireland is very green (think ecological)...not as much as our Pacific Northwest, but close.

If you have to shut down major roads to extend the tracks for your streetcar, it's probably not worth it.

The Desert

My heart is a wasteland

where nothing ever grows

A vast and endless desert

that no one truly knows

Once it was a garden

lush, fragrant, and serene
Then the rains stopped coming,
clouds are never seen

The plants, they all withered
and shriveled up and died
At first this was a blow to me,
I just fell down and cried

I thought I preferred the garden
but the desert has beauty too
There can't be one without the other
I know now this is true

I find comfort in my desert
and draw strength from it too
There's something on the horizon
Looks like a storm is coming through

I was I, My Things Were Wet

I read this poem back in high school (think it was Mrs Drake's English class) and remembered liking it. I don't think I have read it since then, but something brought it to my mind so I decided to check it out again. I find that I still really like it...amazing that all the years that have passed have not altered my taste...at least not as far as this poem is concerned. I thought I would post it here so that anyone who has never read it (or, like me, has not read it in a while) can share in my love of it...or not...that's part of the joy of poetry, it can mean different things to different people.



Terrence, This is Stupid Stuff
--A. E. Housman

Terence, this is stupid stuff!
You eat your victuals fast enough;
There can’t be much amiss, ’tis clear,
To see the rate you drink your beer.
But oh, good Lord, the verse you make,
It gives a chap the belly-ache!
The cow, the old cow, she is dead;
It sleeps well, the horned head...
We poor lads, ’tis our turn now
To hear such tunes as killed the cow!
Pretty friendship ’tis to rhyme
Your friends to death before their time
Moping melancholy mad!
Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad!

Why, if ’tis dancing you would be,
There’s brisker pipes than poetry.
Say, for what were hop-yards meant,
Or why was Burton built on Trent?
Oh many a peer of England brews
Livelier liquor than the Muse,
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God’s ways to man.
Ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think:
Look into the pewter pot
To see the world as the world’s not.
And faith, ’tis pleasant till ’tis past:
The mischief is that ’twill not last.
Oh I have been to Ludlow fair
And left my necktie God knows where,
And carried half way home, or near,
Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer:
Then the world seemed none so bad,
And I myself a sterling lad;
And down in lovely muck I’ve lain,
Happy till I woke again.
Then I saw the morning sky:
Heigho, the tale was all a lie;
The world, it was the old world yet,
I was I, my things were wet,
And nothing now remained to do
But begin the game anew.

Therefore, since the world has still
Much good, but much less good than ill,
And while the sun and moon endure
Luck’s a chance, but trouble’s sure,
I’d face it as a wise man would,
And train for ill and not for good.
’Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale
Is not so brisk a brew as ale:
Out of a stem that scored the hand
I wrung it in a weary land.
But take it: if the smack is sour,
The better for the embittered hour;
It should do good to heart and head
When your soul is in my soul’s stead;
And I will friend you, if I may,
In the dark and cloudy day.

There was a king reigned in the East:
There, when kings will sit to feast,
They get their fill before they think
With poisoned meat and poisoned drink.
He gathered all the springs to birth
From the many-venomed earth;
First a little, thence to more,
He sampled all her killing store;
And easy, smiling, seasoned sound,
Sate the king when healths went round.
They put arsenic in his meat
And stared aghast to watch him eat;
They poured strychnine in his cup
And shook to see him drink it up:
They shook, they stared as white’s their shirt:
Them it was their poison hurt.
--I tell the tale that I heard told.
Mithridates, he died old.

Walking the Tightrope

I grow weary of this life,
it weighs heavy on my soul

Tired of all this searching

for something to make me whole

It all just seems so pointless

with this emptiness inside

I can't escape these feelings,

there's nowhere I can hide

And yet I still remember

times my heart would sing

I wish I could go back there

for the joy it did bring

But still I trudge onward,

trying to find my way

Like a blind man on a tightrope

that the wind has set a-sway

Perhaps one day I'll make it

and see the other side

but if the worst should happen

at least I'll know I tried

It's not the destination

but the journey that provides

the lessons that we need in life

in order for us to thrive

The Prayer of St. Francis*

Lord,

make me an instrument of your health:

where there is sickness,

let me bring cure;

where there is injury,

aid;

where there is sadness,

comfort;

where there is despair,

hope;

where there is death,

acceptance and peace.

Grant that I may not:

so much seek to be justified,

as to console;

to be obeyed,

as to understand;

to be honored,

as to love...

for it is in giving ourselves

that we heal,

it is in listening

that we comfort,

and in dying

that we are born to eternal life.

*modified by Charles C. Wise

Saturday Morning

Wake up

Another day

Sun's up

Birds sing

Still tired

Wanna sleep

Stand up

Move around

Get dressed

Head out

First mile

Legs hurt

Second mile

Labored breath

Lose track

Rhythm found

Glowing now

Beauty abounds

Mind leaves

Body floats

Spirit soars

God speaks!