Photo By Jools Thatcher

Photo By Jools Thatcher

The theme for this week’s JVG Radio Method poem is “ Jean “.

Good afternoon John
Over on the west coat of Ireland, County Mayo; spent a few days playing and listening to music and catching up with old friends in my favourite town in the world, Wesport – there are more pubs than people.

Climbed Ireland’s holy mountain, Croagh Patric, a three mile scramble up a sharp rocky trail, passed by pilgrims paying penance by climbing in bare feet – very bloodied bare feet at that – sounds like something Ed would do!

I paid my penance at the pub afterwards.

Middle of summer and I’m sitting here on Achill Island with three fleeces on – Achill is very harsh and mountainous, and I think the most beautiful place on the planet – and as far west as I can go without getting wet.

Unfortunately, tomorrow I have to head back to Dublin, but I will return and next time I may not leave – maybe we could move the show over here The JO’G Radio Method – doesn’t quite work does it?

To play this poem directly in your browser – just click the “play” button below:
[audio:JVG_Poem20110731.mp3]

Also have a listen to the tracks on the new EP “Once We Were Kings Of The World


Jean

Dear Jean, I’ve laboured long and hard in writing you this letter
It galls me to admit, for once, it seems you knew the better

Those Dundalk boys are feisty, but none I couldn’t best
But I’ve never met the likes of these idlers from the west

You warned me what would happen if I fell for a musician
Wild, romantic notions would over ride my intuition

I thought my Connie different, not like those wayward types
He won me with his smile and his set of Ulian Pipes

“Never trust a man” you said “Who has a way with words”
“The palaces of gold, he paints, will be a pile of turds”

But Jean, you’ve made mistakes, which seems a touch ironic
I seem to recall you were known as “Jean and Tonic”

I can see you as your reading this, a smug, self righteous, smirk
But he swore to me he had a job and was never short of work

Work he had, it’s true, but I had no idea
That meant twelve hours in the pub and his wage was paid in beer

Now to keep us both from freezing he has me cutting peat
While he survives on Guinness, needing nothing else to eat

When I mentioned I was starving, his response, I swear to God
Was to send me to the sound with his mother’s fishing rod

I do all the chores while that squanderer malingers
Always the excuse he can’t risk his precious fingers

Nights spent in the pub, days curled up asleep
While I mingle with our neighbours; a herd of feral sheep

Though I hate to say you’re right, I’m quite prepared to try
Even drooling at the thought of eating humble pie

I’m tired of Achill Island but I’ve nothing in my purse
The way most people leave here, so they tell me, is a hearse

Life with a musician can be dangerous for your health
Beer, without the skittles, as Jean, you know yourself

Could you send me out the bus fare, Jean; compared to me your rich
I’m sorry I called you a pompous, stuck up, bitch

I’m heading back to Dundalk, and that’s where I plan to stay
As for Connie, you can have him – he’s your husband any way

© Copyright 2011 Ian Bland

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