On Steve Harris

By David Jordan

Like Hendrix, you pushed your instrument

To the fore

And created a unique sound,

All your own.

 

Nobody plays like you.

 

Fast and melodious,

Full of sweet fills,

Your fingers tapping madly

Like a moth’s wings.

 

Slow and dulcet,

The calm exquisite hand

Only a real bass player

Can bring.

 

Fast or slow,

A true metal hero.

Proud:

You cut through like a sword.

Dubliners

By David Jordan

Close to perfection,179px-jamesjoycestatue

This word magic, alchemy of the word.

This complete word world spinning,

Wrapped in its grey, urban ambience,

Softly singing,

So fresh. So clear and fresh

Like a soft spring.

And characters that come to life.

These characters are the undead:

They will never die!

And always they will bring the ecstasy

Of instant recognition.

 

Yes, when every story hits the spot;

When every line glows and sings

You know you’re in Dear Dirty Dublin.

On Joyce

By David Jordan

A genius in the wood,179px-revolutionary_joyce_better_contrast

The wood of the postmodern,

A genius at play, dancing,

Lighting the way

With good laughter and song.

 

Scealai!

File!

The grey wood’s guiding light.

Star of Ireland:

Its angel and its eye.

Son of light,

O flower of the fair city

Won’t you show me again?

On Yeats

By David Jordanyeatspencil

Thoughts born out of nowhere

Like the goddess Athena.

Your mind flashing with intuition.

 

Or, under the sun, a sword

At play, flashing

On a perfect day.

 

With a blade that kept its edge

And its passion over time,

As the darkness came.

On death cast a cold eye

He dared to write.

 

The sweet sounds, rhythms

And repetitions:

Instinctual, musical, masterful.

And the imagination

Like a Titan, towering,

Watching the ever changing, soaring

Pleasure dome.

 

And the discipline of the

Craftsman, the technician,

Shaping the iron, ever cooling,

Working it into perfection:

The master at play.

 

A wordsmith:

This man was born to do it.

The Unreflected Life

By David Jordandionysos_on_a_cheetah_pella_greece

I awoke to muddy boots,

My clothes soaked and stinking of urine.

Reject of Dionysus I am.

 

I remembered everything:

Stumbling in the dark, on the grass,

On the riverbank, like a rat.

Reject of Dionysus I am.

 

I can hear his laughter.

Old habits and behaviours reappear,

Madness, danger and fear.

Wasted days, wasted years.

Reject of Dionysus I am.

 

Damn you Dionysus!

With your leopards

And your laughter

And your car!

 

I follow Apollo.

Gladly, I toss away my thyrsus

On the riverbank.

 

I awake from stupor

To reason and intellect and imagination.

To the spring of the muses,

So cool and clear and clean.

Yes, there is nothing better on this earth,

I tell you, than to kiss that limpid water.

One Day

By David Jordanriddaren_rider_by_john_bauer_1914

One day

When I’m out of bed, bad blood and

Curses, maybe I’ll smile under the

Cool moon.

 

See her wrapped in a

Cloud mantle,

Reveal herself,

Then cover up again.

 

See her hang there, full,

Like a silver pendant.

 

A calm unwinking eye.

 

See her radiate and glow

The way women glow

Sometimes.

 

See her move slowly and

Silently across the sky

Like a huntress.

 

What else can I do but try

To please her with my pen,

Solitary, romantic old fool

That I am?

 

The Citizen

 

By David Jordan

I swear these long nights

Stir my blood

And steer my spirit northward

Like a long boat headed home.

 

For the imagination feeds

On the darkness like a flame

And tonight I imagine myself as

A man of the North:

Cross countenance, long bones.

Leaping on to the sandy shore.

 

Bringing alien gods to the natives:

The loquacious Gael.

The nature loving, melancholy,

Aristocratic Gael.

 

After a thousand years

Surely the stranger is gone from the house?

 

Tonight, I swear I am a citizen

Of the imagination:

Emancipated.

In flight.

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