The New(ish) Journalism peruses the Sundays. Broken promises this, prosperity that. The docile sincerity of Enda Kenny spits and coughs against the deviant malignancy of The League of Bertie. Who cares anymore? The maturity of the SSIAs shall out.
As The New(ish) Journalism prepares himself for the night of reckless degeneracy that an Irish bank holiday demands, a certain poem springs to mind. An eagerness to share it with you must be seized upon before Corona quenchs its flame. The zest of the lime shall prevail. Oh yes.
Read on if at times the ceasless flip-floping of election time can just seem too much...
Be Angry At The Sun
That public men publish falsehoods
Is nothing new. That America must accept
Like the historical republics corruption and empire
Has been known for years.
Be angry at the sun for setting
If these things anger you. Watch the wheel slope
They are all bound on the wheel, these people,
This republic, Europe, Asia.
Observe them gesticulating,
Observe them going down. The gang serves lies,
Man plays his part; the cold passion for truth
Hunts in no pack.
You are not Catullus, you know,
To lampoon these crude sketches of Caesar. You
From Dante's feet, but even farther from his dirty
Let boys want pleasure, and men
Struggle for power, and women perhaps for fame,
And the servile to serve a Leader and the dupes
to be duped.
Yours is not theirs.
- Robinson Jeffers.