The poet podcaster professor prophet Pádraig Ó Tuama loves the sheer poetry of poetry. As he reads, his lilting delight pulls you in. You hear the words differently. Give him a listen. And then read the following poem slowly, preferably aloud, using the cues in bold as your guide. You can invite a friend to read with you or embody two voices: One, the Booming Voice of the Universe, the other, a smooth Irish brogue. You can do this.
A SONG ABOUT JUSTICE AND FEAR AS THE HOLIDAYS DRAW NEAR
(Irish brogue, with resolve) The halls are decked in the carol, but it’s getting harder to don gay apparel as I gaze down the barrel of 12-gauge defenses, barbed-wire fences, the assault on our senses. Fa la la la la. Don I must All this suffering is clearly unjust.
(Booming Voice, magnanimous) Gay apparel? Borrow Mine. Gay apparel so fine you won’t know who you are. You’ll burn like a star. An anonymous star.
(Irish brogue, prattling, aggrieved) Do I drop to my knees? Enter my plea? Guilty as charged? Am I selfish and cold, mean as a snake? Is this all a mistake? Who will save me when I need a hand?
(Booming Voice, challenging) Let justice roll down like waters. Take a stand, take the mic, or crawl under your bed where the living and dead all wait.
(Irish brogue, whining) So many terrors and phony excuses for the continued abuses of those starving, parched, or weak. We eat of the bodies indicted or shot. How do we find a way forward or out? There’s no escape route.
(Booming Voice, impatient) Bullshit and nonsense. I paved it Myself. The signage is clear. Get your rear in gear and be kind. No more fear.
(Irish brogue, freaking out) But…but...the fakers and takers, the willfully blind and cruel, the ignorant fools? Be brave? Be kind? This blows my mind. Instead, let us play, live for the day. for tomorrow we all may die.
(Booming Voice, placating) The days or the hours or years. All mirrors. Look deep in my eyes and you’ll realize nothing is actually yours.
(Irish brogue, confessing) The dreck on my hands is distorting my plans etched in frost that will melt by midday. The Beautiful Feet of those with good news are bruised and distended but fiercely defended by children at play in the street.
(Booming Voice, empathic) Pure heaven or hell. It’s hard to tell. Face into the swell of the crowd and give thanks.
(Irish brogue, a little giddy) The Hands on our faces are greenly and lilac, thistles in bloom making room for the bees, pinching our cheeks to bring out the pink so we're not led to our doom that fast. The last shall be first, the first shall be last.
(Booming Voice, laughing) The demons are dancing, reindeer prancing, angels raving, Fa la la la la, it’s a big fucking mess, but I believe it’s worth saving.
THIS COULD BE CONSIDERED THE END, but below is a version for those who wish to read this missive in their own goddamned voice without being bossed around by cues.
A SONG ABOUT JUSTICE AND FEAR AS THE HOLIDAYS DRAW NEAR
The halls are decked in the carol, but it’s getting harder to don gay apparel as I gaze down the barrel of 12-gauge defenses, barbed-wire fences, the assault on our senses. Fa la la la la. Don I must All this suffering is clearly unjust.
Gay apparel? Borrow Mine. Gay apparel so fine you won’t know who you are. You’ll burn like a star. An anonymous star.
Do I drop to my knees? Enter my plea? Guilty as charged? Am I selfish and cold, mean as a snake? Is this all a mistake? Who will save me when I need a hand?
Let justice roll down like waters. Take a stand, take the mic, or crawl under your bed where the living and dead all wait.
So many terrors and phony excuses for the continued abuses of those parched, hungry, or weak. We eat of the bodies indicted or shot. How do we find a way forward or out? There’s no escape route.
Bullshit and nonsense. I paved it Myself. The signage is clear. Get your rear in gear and be kind. No more fear.
But…but…the fakers and takers, the willfully blind and cruel, the ignorant fools? Be brave? Be kind? This blows my mind. Instead, let us play, live for the day. for tomorrow we all may die.
The days or the hours or years. All mirrors. Look deep in my eyes and you’ll realize nothing is actually yours.
The dreck on my hands is distorting my plans etched in frost that will melt by midday. The Beautiful Feet of those with good news are bruised and distended but fiercely defended by children at play in the street.
Pure heaven or hell. It’s hard to tell. Face into the swell of the crowd and give thanks.
The Hands on our faces are greenly and lilac, thistles in bloom making room for the bees, pinching our cheeks to bring out the pink so we're not led to our doom that fast. The last shall be first, the first shall be last.
The demons are dancing, reindeer prancing, angels raving, Fa la la la la, it’s a big fucking mess, but I believe it’s worth saving.
