Poem: Left Behind
An ode to Dublin City
By Caoimhe Weakliam
the heart of the body that reared me, befriended buildings that held heavenly tunes. the spaces in between that nurtured every wintery storm. every sun that split the rocks bathing on St. Stephen’s Green. a revisit to the place I’d mourned, but windows stare, forlorn, the air eerie. the buses are all yellow and no blue. the holy Trinity a stone façade with no way through, no youthful debate strewn within.
my city is sad as I walk through its heart. the tote bags, bright red heads, freckled familiar
strangers. clomping boots on cobbles of buskers, wanderers, dreamers; the water of a dried- up stream I’m thirsty to drink from again.
my city is sad. but then, it has been for a while, and there’s a vile taste in my mouth as the
only residue in this place seeming somewhat unchanged, the chain of still sleepers lining the ground of the wealthy quarter. perched by cardboard signs on corners. strained exhaustion filling the quiet void, in that bittersweet Dublin tongue. a failing emblem of what this heart has become.
the remainder on once blackened streets. bodies wilt in the alcoves that greet the capitalist machine, my privilege would sweep in and out of. frivolously add to the golden pile at the feet of the lords, the unholy rich. brush past quaking hands that ache to be granted just a bit. unrecognised in ever-presence, the vicinity of the spire in dire times holds their presence dear.
my city is sad. a melancholia that won’t be cured in time by bustling chimes, the re-pouring of pints. the climbing of a pyramid to stuff a few greedy mouths at its peak. my city is sad. but then, it has been for a while. my prayers are to witness it smile when all the freckled faces go home at dusk, tuck themselves in. kiss a modern plight an overdue goodnight.