Sheep on the coast of County Kerry - the American's romanticized view of Ireland
Instead of green beer and corned beef, my St. Patrick's day gift to you is a poem by Joe Weil, one of those poets whom we might call a 25-year overnight success. (Click here for a great NJNPublic Television piece on Weil's story.) His poetry is informed by gritty anger and unflinching realism, tempered by humor and humility. It seems to carry all the qualities we expect of "Irish" poetry, with something more - a kind of ferocious tenderness that is, I think, distinctly American.
Weil's most recent book is Painting the Christmas Trees. He teaches at SUNY Binghamton.
"The Dead Are in My Living Room"
by Joe Weil
The dead are in
my living room.
Uncle Ernie insisted he
be placed
in that toy outhouse he so loved:
you know: the one with the
little boy tinkling
with his ding dong out?
It seems appropriate.
My uncle was an obnoxious man
the kind of guy you see in Atlantic City
wearing a bright orange tank top,
black fur on his shoulder blades,
slapping his son in the face
in front of four thousand people
"to teach the kid a lesson."
My mother sits in a silver urn
on top of the piano.
When I had scarlet fever,
she played "Sweet Georgia Brown"
twenty-three times for me.
Towards the end of her life
she cut a tendon in her left wrist
washing out a beer glass
and couldn't play the bass parts anymore.
I used to watch her staring
at her bum hand
then at the piano
then at her hand again.
She had large dark eyes - like Madame Bovary
and thin pale lips.
And I don't know why I'm telling you this.
Suffice to say - the dead are here:
Uncle Ernie, Mom, our pet dog Rex...
I am what keeps them alive.
I keep their silence
palpable.
Often I catch myself
humming "Sweet
Georgia Brown"
late at night
when no one's listening.
You think I've gone mad?
Even Uncle Ernie deserves my strict attention
for I grab him by his lapels in dreams,
shout: Stupid, Stupid, Stupid!
Until he is a child again
with his mother's large dark eyes
and HIS FATHER is standing
over him
slapping HIS face
teaching HIM a lesson.
What are those lessons?
Fathers in orange tank tops.
Mothers with bum left hands.
I DON'T KNOW.
What is holy or memorable
or worth preserving over the whole of this earth?
I only know the dead are in my living room.
I can't just kick them out.
from Painting the Christmas Trees (Texax Review Press, 2008)
I can hear Joe in his gravelly holy voice talking us through this.
Posted by: Grace Cavalieri | March 17, 2009 at 05:54 AM
How do I change my email address? Below does not do it. And I don't want comcast vs. verizon to keep me from Laura
Posted by: Grace Cavalieri | March 17, 2009 at 05:55 AM
I can hear Joe's gravelly holy intonation in this. God Love 'em
Posted by: Grace Cavalieri | March 17, 2009 at 05:56 AM
Whoa!! This is GREAT. You mind reader, Laura. I have been thinking much lately about what happens to the dead when those who remember them die, too. Today's blog has the old neurons firing anew, even before caffeine. (Don't worry, tomorrow I will fix Grace's e-mail for her.)
Posted by: Maria van Beuren | March 17, 2009 at 06:26 AM
joe is just another irish-american jesus
"His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."
Posted by: Jeff Paggi | March 17, 2009 at 09:36 AM
a special Post for St. Patrick's Day people and I want to emphasize this blog Excellent my friends have lots of views in the comments that I feel great, keep in that way.
Posted by: Canada Without Prescription | October 28, 2009 at 08:26 AM
What do I need to know about the St Patrick's Day Parade in Savannah? I love poetry. The blog postings of such contributors as Bill Hayward, Lera Auerbach, Patricia Carlin, Laura Orem, James Cumming, Mitch Sisskind, Stacey Harwood, Laura Orem, Jennifer Michael Hecht, Terence Winch, Ken Tucker, are great and i know I mentioned Laura Orem twice. I'm planning to go down to Savannah, GA this year for the St Patrick's Day celebration. Apparently the parade is on Friday. I'm wondering what poets to read there. Can you recommend a Johnny Mercer song for the occasion? Any other advice?
Posted by: Victoria Genericola | January 07, 2010 at 08:55 AM
Mercer's "Too Marvelous for Words" is marvelously apt for any occasion.
Posted by: DL | January 07, 2010 at 12:52 PM
okay i'm in the middle of a debate, and my friend says it is b/c st. patrick ewing brought Christianity to Ireland, but i say it started as a feast day, and then was popularized, by the legend of st. patrick ewing getting rid of the sneakers on Ireland. so which is right? or are we both right?
Posted by: Stanislaus Joyce | March 17, 2010 at 08:51 AM