A National Treasure

I regret to announce that this Saint Patrick's Day brought disappointment to my heart. It was neither the sleety weather nor my failure to escape to another country for the holiday (as I so often do) that saddened me so, but the snub from the highest office in the land. My late uncle, Gordon Fairflower, whose poetry was short-listed to appear on Glaoch – The President’s Call, was considered, well, too dead to partake in a showcase about modern Irish creativity. We assumed, of course, that his poetry would be read by an actor or poet, but the show's producers saw my uncle's poetry as relevant to the show as the poetry of W.B. Yeats or Patrick Kavanagh, and they excluded him from their line-up. Our arguments about him achieving fame and glory posthumously were ignored, and the large numbers of viewers who tuned in missed out on the verse of a poet who is best epitaphed as 'a druid of Celtic mysticism and magic'.
My uncle was estranged for many years, wandering across the globe in his caravan. Wearing the gypsy boy image during the early '70s, he longed only for pure, inspired verse and the warmth of  female body. Throughout his travels, he visited all the sex capitals of the world - Bangkok, Amsterdam, Hamburg, Las Vegas, Tijuana, Rio de Janeiro, Tokyo, Kuala Lumpur, and Tubbercurry, Co. Sligo - and he fornicated in Ibiza long before it was fashionable. His passions and sensuality grew over the late '70s and early '80s, and it flowed easily into the many stanzas he composed over those years. In poetry circles, he was known as a rogue and a libertine, a pirate among scholars, and a hero among those who valued a free libido. Since his death, both Road Down Man and The Marquee of Sadness have been re-evaluated as classics.

Shakira: a fellow champion of the gypsy spirit.

I last saw him five years ago at an awkward family gathering. Despite the alcoholism and visible symptoms of some unclassified STIs, he was bearing the years well. I know of few men who could wear a thin polo neck sweater so well, especially given his once burly chest had turned into two little triangular-shaped sacks. He left us two years ago, passing quietly from the sensual world which so enchanted him.   His departure from this world happened on a small Polynesian island, which meant his corpse was left to the locals to dispose of, and his ashes were swept away with the wind, much like the man when he was alive. We held a small ceremony here for him, and my father read one of his most eloquent poems to see him off. The sensuality runs through the verses, but its most notable feature is the poignancy of the choice words that strike delicate yet devastating chords at every turn. Critics expressed dissatisfaction at the mechanical contrivance of a couple of the stanzas, but my uncle knew well that the inspirational flow of words had to be tamed in rewrites. And so, I leave you with the poem that dampened eyes at his funeral and champions the misadventures of those who live to wander.

Unfinished Love Song #43

A pint of gee’s the best there is,
so take it while you can.
No matter who the owner is,
a pint of gee’s your only man.



Hairy, smelly, old or wide;
it comes in many ways.
You’ll always remember the gee you had


for the remainder of your days.



Lash it in, don’t take it out
'til satisfied you are,
regardless whether the trip is short
or if the distance’s far.



Vagina, box, fanny or gash;


the names are far from few.


With your dying breath, you won’t regret


the many gees you knew.



Inoperable as it may seem,


don’t succumb to gloom.


Just put it in and hope for the best. 

For error, there’s always room.



The ear is a potent organ.


The gab can get the gee.


Open your mouth, and she’ll open lips.


I speak not of her mouth, you see.



Some are blessed with a mighty trunk


and some with a dithering twig.


It’s never a problem of being too small,


but a problem of gee that’s too big.
 

Yet, a pint a gee’s the best there is.


So take it while you can.


The owner may not be the best,


but a pint of gee’s your only man.