dublinka

Crossing Dublin city on my way to lunch, I got caught up in today's riot outside the GPO on O'Connell street. Bricks and wire mesh were strewn across the street, and with people and police running all over the place, the going was a little tricky. Nevertheless, the essential thing to remember about any riot, is that there is almost always a reasonably jovial atmosphere: prolonged anger is always an act of theatre - as much as any genuine emotional expression. And, as long as you yourself are not being beaten, a curious sense of humorous detatchment prevails. Still, this feeling is seldom reported in poetry. Perhaps because the feeling is too transient, and the composition of poetry entails reflection. Then, over time, when weighing up the events on the scales of judgment, we are compelled like Yeats, to take it all so seriously.

Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great,
Had they but courage equal to desire?