Ireland Poem by gershon hepner
Ireland
Harps and martyrs, peasants, saints and civil wars,
bar-maids, red-heads, emigrants, and singers, writers,
priests and politicians, laborers and whores,
always ready for a drink and to be fighters.
Green as snot the grass because it always pours,
gray the skies, dark brown the sodden peaty clod,
its people always in a state of mind, because
it is an island that's obsessed by thoughts of God.
9/22/99
I don't recognise your Ireland Gershon. Had a bad experience there, did you? Just a couple of things clod, whether sodden peaty or otherwise, is usually dark brown and as for Ireland being god-obsessed, well a decade before you wrote this piece, but even then that is pushing it,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/3/2024 9:15:30 AM # 1.0.0.1119
No Guinness? - surely the black would have inspired you to further comments of derision - watch those Irish fight back! ! ! My grandfather was Irish, Savage was his name - I have learnt to be very careful about not treading very carefully from such a nominal lesson. Jeff (it means peace)