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      March 22, 2023Love! His Affections Do Not That Way Tend …David Butler

      … unless it was love of the bottle. Word was
      he’d drunk the family farm, acre
      by acre, till a neighbour took the shell
      of the house for a shelter. The smell
      of him: soiled coat and pants, face
      rain-cudgelled and ogre-fierce; he’d
      shout after those that taunted, loose
      foul words from whiskey stupors, spittle
      white lava round a cavernous mouth.
      He pitched for a while the bones of a camp
      in a copse, found it kicked asunder,
      found it burned out. His corpse
      was dragged from the Dargle last winter;
      drowned pulling his dog from the water.

      from #79 - Irish Poets

      David Butler

      “Poetry is most interesting when it engages the auditory imagination, so that I try to evoke, using the sounds and rhythms of English as it is spoken in Ireland (and, occasionally, the Irish language itself), what might be termed acoustic portraits of local themes.”

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