I followed Yeats to Sligo and Wordsworth
To Grasmere and paid my respects at their graves.
I breathed the late afternoon air at
Tintern Abbey and photographed a sunset
At the edge of Donegal Bay, where I paused,
Poised myself expectantly, my senses and my
Pencil sharp, my mind eager for an epiphany.
But they didn’t call my name. No bright
Whimsy beckoned. No muse revealed itself.
All was hollow and silent except the
Gusting breezes on The Cliffs of Moher.
And now, years later, filtered by
Pointillism in trendy galleries and the
Brash bad manners of TV sitcoms,
I see puny inspirations in the daily
Routine of freeways and fads, popular
Fiction and crosswords, microchips
And mass marketing, CDs and fast food.
My life is awash with layer upon layer
Of meaning seeking its own level. I dodge
Symbolism and am weary trying to catch
It all as it whirls by, like a too eager
Toddler dizzied by riding the carousel,
Drunk on the loopy sound of the calliope.
I think George knew it would be like this.