Dublin 4

October 8, 2013

Most of the National Gallery was blocked off, so that didn’t take long. Saw some old friends. Bought a ticket for tonight’s show at the Phoenix. Hung out at the Flowing Tide with Colm, the only bartender there not named Dave. When he and his friends were in New York, their vow was never to pass a bar bearing one of their names or the word Guinness. Walked all day, returned, exhausted and in need of various kinds of relief. I had been gone for six hours, was back three minutes and literally had just sat down on the toilet when the maid knocked to fix my room. I was furious. I scolded her, realizing that to some degree it was unfair, but also that it was not even conceivably a coincidence that she should show up just then (the halls were empty in every direction when I unlocked the door) and that the same thing should have happened every day of my stay. I hope she is terrified. Went grudgingly to the basement bar, had a yellow concoction, and chatted with a couple from Chicago who had just had “the trip of a lifetime.” She was chatty, he taciturn, very old with very many aches and pains, but helping each other down the hall as they must have done for time out of mind. It was sweet to see them.

To the Abbey to see McGuinness’ The Hanging Gardens. Met in the bar another couple from Chicago, who also have a home in Kerry. Linda was there, too, and we formed an expatriot cadre in one corner, with our drinks and flat accents. The Hanging Gardens was really quite horrible. The acting was good–that hardly needs to be said-- but the play itself was the worse for being written by a professional who knew what buttons to hit to make people think, for a while, that his work was the real thing. It’s a family drama where there is strained poetry and buried secrets and awful revelations from the very first moment, before you have any idea who these people are or why you should care. He has stolen from every dysfunctional family from the House of Atreus down to George and Martha and in all directions around, and the effect, to me, was totally, bottomless false. Borrowed finery, worn like a whore. Chatted with Linda at the interval, and she noticed the same thing, but didn’t hate it, calling it “Appropriation” and “Appropriative Theater,” and finding it “interesting.” I did in fact see her point, but didn’t like it any better for the understanding. The second act made everything jolly and they sang a song together, and then dad went madder still, lest McGuinness be accused of veering off from wailing profundity at the end.  Linda hated the second act, so I felt vindicated. We shared a taxi home, but the driver missed both places and we each had to walk a little through the night. I stopped at Foley’s and heard the fine singer again, and then walked a little (I was drunk by then) to a bar set far back in a building, where I had the best time yet, and I tried to buy the band a round, but they were drinking water, as it would not have been in days of yore.

My last trip to Ireland was dark. This one is light, and I am grateful. Have barely thought of my life back home. Have barely thought of anything but what I am doing. The night rain is yellowing toward morning.

Dublin 3

October 7, 2013

Rose late yesterday but still early enough to hike to Saint Patrick’s for sung mass. The men and boys’ choir was magnificent, but made the same mistakes we do, coming in late on a verse, losing their places, though the sound was so magnificent it hardly mattered.  The great building was holy and gloomy, exactly as I wanted it. The sermon was on faith, springing from Christ’s odd comment that if the apostles had any faith at all they could cause yon mulberry tree to uproot and plant itself in the sea. I have a deficiency of faith, or a perpetually disappointed faith, so I listened, but got smiling Anglican wit rather than succor. Ugly thoughts, unresolved memories were in my head as I sat in the space before the service began. Certain moments of coming to rest let all that slosh out like bilge water. At the coffee hour I met Paul, a very tall man, a priest who left his parish last week and meets his new one next week, and filled in the gap with Saint Patrick’s. His new post is St Patrick’s, Trim, where he will be installed Friday. We chatted about American and Irish politics. Him I filed away into my could-be-friends-when-I-move-to-Ireland box. Made my slow way–eating salad and tea on Lord Edward Street-- to Trinity, where I had tickets to Ground and Floor. There I met Linda, a theater fan from New York, who is about to open a website called theaterhound.org. Linda knew everything about the avant garde theater scene in New York, and was willing to share. She asked me who my favorite contemporary playwrights were, “besides yourself,” and, by God, I couldn’t name a one. She recited a list of those to whom I should pay better attention, and I will. Ground and Floor turned out to be ten minutes of matter stretched out over an hour and a half. I kept falling asleep and dreaming what was happening onstage, except that my script was way, way better. The actors were very pleased with themselves at the end. They did have excellent balance. Helped Linda find an address she has a meeting at this morning. Came home, soaked my aching legs, went out for a quick one at Foley’s, was early to bed. At Foleys I shared a table with an English girl who has two children, Olivia and Alfie, and she’s over here with her boyfriend, but after 4 hours of watching football the boyfriend went to bed, and she, desperate to see some of the real Ireland, drifted to the pub where the excellent singer could be heard in the street.

Bought a tiny watercolor of Lough Corrib from Edward Thomas of Village Weir, Lucan.

Dublin 2

October 6, 2013

Dull morning, so dull I slept very late, with an extended dream about doing a play with the students at school, during which we turned into vampires. I had hard time finding the table to take off the make-up afterwards.

Yesterday met Loretto in her gallery for the first time in years of trying. She looks well indeed, though she had tales to tell of open heart surgery last summer. I think she is a greater power in the art world than she lets on. Today she is in Nice for some conference, so I met her just–. Stephen says there is a death in the family, so he can’t meet me until Tuesday. I think he doesn’t want to see me, and picked a day that was plausible and yet late enough that I might be gone. It’s all right. I won’t try again.  Jason did the same thing, made up an elaborate story about a deluge so he wouldn’t have to come to the meeting he himself had insisted upon. I am able to take “no” for an answer. I expect to take no for an answer. Arrived back at the hotel late in the afternoon, at the exact second the maid was doing my room. Had a drink in the lounge, came back at the exact second the maid overseer was checking the maid’s work. This infuriated me. Hope I kept it to myself. It is a great hotel. Everyone calls me by name.

Late last night to Project Arts to see Riverrun, an adaptation by Olwen Fouere of part of Finnegan’s Wake. Ms Fouere was sensational. The evening proved that a charismatic actor can deliver even nonsense for a while and still keep an audience, though she (the piece, rather) lost me long before the end.  Handsome boy beside me who was her colleague, so I had to keep myself awake. The Wake is an exhausting joke that the amateurs and Philistines got right off. We academics still hammer away, trying make something of it, while Joyce in the Heavenly Dublin laughs.

Boring hour in the George. Portrait of John the beloved bartender on the wall, whom I knew and who knew me.

Derelicts in the street. They’re grubby enough, but how many are genuine? Saw one on Dawson, though, welcome a puppy from the street, who curled up beside him with the boy’s hand on his head.

I hope there’s still the Sunday art show on Merrion Square. Dived in yesterday. The shady areas are very dark, the meadows very bright.

Dublin 1

October 5, 2013

Writing from the beige-pink elegance of my room in the Merrion in Dublin 2.  I suppose I’ve been in showier hotels, but this has layers of charm, personnel of flawless courtesy, and the best art collection–all the Irish masters–I’ve seen outside a museum. Several Georgian houses were combined to make it, one of which was the birthplace of the Duke of Wellington. The flights were perfect, the one from Charlotte here so empty I had three seats to myself to sprawl upon. My taxi driver was Turkish, and I told him how must I loved Istanbul. We chatted about the disastrous conditions of both our countries’ governments. The glitch was that I couldn’t get into my room for eight hours, after 11 hours en route. Planes land at 6 AM and last night’s tourists do not need to be out until noon and the maids need to clean: it’s a problem even the best hotels have not solved, except by chance. It did require me to wander about, and wander about I did. Ate much salad. Drank much wine. The wine, I think, got me loosened up and receptive, when I had been inclined to be crabby and a little inward in my first few hours on the Dublin streets. Sat at the outdoor table where I wrote The Beautiful Johanna and began another play. The intermittent rain was just right. The crazy lady babbling across the street was just right.
After a brief, violent nap I went to the Culture Box to see Rough Magic’s version of Sheridan's The Critic. The drawing room part was in the Culture Box and the theater part was in the Ark, around the block, to which we walked through the distractions of the Temple Bar. The conception was daring, the execution superb (if not quite flawless), the overall impression magnificent. It joins the thin ranks of those plays, comedies or tragedies, which made me weep with gratitude before the end. Most wonderful, and yet most wonderful. I have never seen bad, or even mediocre, acting in Dublin. I have seen flawed conceptions, but the conception here was inspired and inspiring.
Loitered in the Temple Bar, then hiked on my sore feet back here, stopping in Foley’s for a nightcap, where I met Grace and Mark. Grace is a cardiac technician, and Mark is about the task of setting up a law practice. We talked about everything, understood one another, and I did not say to them, but should have, that it was the perfect top-off of a perfect evening.

October 3, 2013

Joy to discover that Kevin the Frog is still a citizen of his weedy pond. He went silent during the summer, and the tangle of pickerel weed covered his actions almost perfectly.

What do I want? I want for my mouth to be filled with praise. I struggle to permit that. It’s harder than I would have thought.

October 2, 2013

Paul the scamming hacker phoned forlornly all yesterday. I wasn’t here to pick up, but there were thirty-five failed calls, and after I got home several that said “unknown caller” which I didn’t answer. He did leave one message, “Sir. . . sir, please pick up the phone. . . “ What on earth did he want? Since his contact with my machine is gone, he must know I’m on to him. Since PayPal returned my money, he must know I’m on to him. Perhaps since I was so easy a mark the first time he thought he could convince me the second time. Odd sense of rootlessness without access to my main computer, though I did manage to transfer everything. Odd sense of insecurity, imagining he can get me somehow just by having my phone number. Cecily said she got a call like this in the Hague. What would the world be like if people didn’t try to take advantage? If people didn’t do every mean little crime they can get away with?

Dream before waking. My poems were part of an anthology, and all the contributing poets were gathered at a big auditorium to read from it.  I was assigned other people’s poems rather than mine. I was trying hard to do a good job, trying to figure out the odd syntaxes, the just plain bad lines.

Unusual agitation before heading to Ireland. What do I expect from this trip? My nerves expect something more than my mind does.

October 1, 2013


I feel like I’m already wayfaring; my table computer is far away getting scrubbed of viruses and invaders, and I’m using my travel computer, which looks miniature and forlorn in the middle of my vast desk. Yesterday was one of those days so full of crosses and problems and frustration that it might have been comic were it happening on a movie screen. One goes on, forgetting why, grateful for ingrained and stupid habit. Two agents requested Wyona, and I had to warn them afterwards not to look at the attachments, as my computer may have been compromised. I sensed their interest ebbing away across the miles. It is too hard. It’s a comic opera where the tunes are tired and the jokes aren’t funny.

Fought off sobs teaching Yeats today. I say that one teaches in order to learn, and it s true. I found myself fitting one more piece into the vast, unfinished dome, moved almost to the point of silence. Perhaps I should let go one day, and let them see the true and final effect of poetry.

Got a Thai massage; lying on a mattress on the floor reminded me of graduate school, my little room overlooking Syracuse, my much-visited second hand mattress.