Portrait of St. Patrick as a Young Artist

 Portrait of St. Patrick as a Young Artist

 

Alexa, something Irish,

            Not bagpipes,

            I know, Alexa, 

            That’s Scot. Welsh?—

                        I was making sure you knew.

 

 Classic U2, Hey, Siri?

            Can you help?

            Where the streets have no

            Name, Sunday

                        Bloody Sunday, Without you.

 

 

Where are all the missing snakes?

Apologise.

Where’s the ol’ Irish ode wrapped 

            Around my wrist?

Where are all the missing mice?

Apologise. Apologise.. 

—Or is that the Pied Piper?—

            Around my feet?

 

Where are all the missing tunes?

            The lyrics? 

            And hummed melodies?

            Harmonies:

                        Cantors in monasteries. 

 

Hid behind Saxons’ signals,

            Symbols mixed,

            Lost to translation,

            Beowulf’s 

Grendel: and Grendel’s mother. 

 

Garb, thee, us Google’d rith’mers,

            In gilded

Search for Patricius:

Res’rector:

Sainted Trinities: sham-rocked. 

 

 

Dedalus, tell me thusly,

            If [it’s] thus,

            [] ask emphatically,

            Whence comes this

                        Thusness—you are the artist.