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Pól Ó Lorcáin
Paul Larkin

Chroniclers are privileged to enter where they list, to come and go through keyholes, to ride upon the wind, to overcome in their soarings up and down, all obstacles of distance, time and place.
Charles Dickens - Barnaby Rudge, Chapter The Ninth

Viva Mexico

Over the next week or so, I will be presenting some of my notes/essays which were compiled as I travelled around Mexico some years ago. In my travels across this awe inspiring country, I was continually struck by the potential similarities between Mexican and Irish culture. Potential that is, if Irish people make a decision to go back to their native culture of cooperation, instead of nurturing greed and avarice.

'Faoi Scath a Cheile a Mhaireann na Daoine'

The poem below was written somewhere on a long bus journey where a group of indigenous travellers joined the bus, some to travel, some to sell their wares.

NATIVES

They came through the bus on a wind from another age.
Calm, watchful, wise.
Smelling of a wood smoked tar.
A sensation of el campo fuera de la ciudad -
The country outside the main habitations of man.
Some with fruits to sell.
Others to travel.
Passing through, always passing through.
Messengers for the angels.
For good
Or ill.
Bestowing signs upon us,
To which we are blind.
From which we would hide.
Pondering the transitory.
The eternal in their eyes.
Dark. Other.
Anointed with the grease of animals and arraigned in the
tendons and sinews which tie us to animals.
Claw of chicken. Neck of goat. Gut of deer.
The viscera that binds we sophisticates to the aboriginals.
The ancient bonds we would sever if only we were able.

Féileire

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