Poem of the week: Our Statues Go Unwatched by Katie Martin
The statue of James Joyce off O’Connell Street. Photograph: Cyril Byrne
Outside Trinity, Edmund Burke
removes his pocket handkerchief
to rub the pigeon droppings from his brow.
Oliver Goldsmith puts down the book
he has been reading since 1864.
Molly Malone, immune to fever, drops her barrow
and enjoys a stroll, no eyes on her breasts.
Daniel O’Connell descends from his granite plinth
to inspect the bullet holes in Courage’s chest.
Connolly meets Larkin at Liberty Hall to discuss
the next stage in the collective struggle.
Joyce retraces Leopold’s steps
but Barney Kiernan’s and Davy Byrne’s are closed.
The two Luke Kellys unleash a guttural punch
The Auld Triangle in unison across the dirty river.
The hair stands on the Talking Ladies’ necks;
they soon return to putting this crumbling world in order.
Countess Markievicz strides with purpose towards
the waking famine sculptures on the North Dock.
Oscar Wilde has seen death in Man’s eyes
and decides it is preferable to remain reclined.