I suspect most readers can identify with this scene automatically. We all know the familiar smells and glances of establishments such as the quintessential Irish pub that features in Liam Duffy’s poem. And most of us will wince as we remember similar experiences.
It’s all the more appropriate that it ends on a semi-sweet note which hints at the heart beating behind such places. It’s not alcoholism or boredom that keeps them in business. It’s the basic warmth we crave in conversation. The looks that meet any newcomer aren’t necessarily hostile gestures. Maybe they’re inspired more by an interest in the character of the person who has just walked through the door.
Liam Duffy has chosen the minute-detail approach here. With that approach, when dealing with this kind of subject, there’s inherent humour. This, too, relates to character, as it reveals the nature of the poet, and helps us laugh along with him. That is, as long as the reader isn’t too overcome by revulsion. I think the balance is about right here. Which is more than we expect of a customer’s balance when he gets off his stool.
The Local
The door couldn’t
shut
fast enough,
they all look
at me intrusive and
troublesome.
The bar man
with a face
like a wave
broken rock
doesn’t say a word,
barely takes my money,
in exchange
for the grubby jam jars
full of some foreign beer,
indigenous to this pub though.
An exhausted head
crowns the brown
liquid,
which suspends
chewy specks of mildew,
swimming happily
in my glass.
I take a seat
a table,
abandoned by the locals
littered by
betting slips, crisp packets
and the transparent
cigarette box jackets.
I’d best keep my eyes
on my drink,
that burly brute
at the bar
with the chowder
hanging out
of his mouth
is watching me,
his nostrils flare red with suspicion.
On my way
to the toilet,
I see
a decrepit old man
with hair
on his nose
slapping
the washed out buttons
of a poker
machine
stopping to take a drink
of his long stale pint.
Toilets,
humid
with urine.
a cubical conceals
a cracked bowl
holding a stew
of toilet paper and excrement.
The flush is missing
and a pint glass
of what might
as well be piss
rests on the cistern
graffitied with phone numbers
advertising mysterious
and romantic rendezvous.
The urinals burnt yellow
I choose the one
without a beer bottle in it,
a local enters
struggles a breath
at the sight
of me.
I go to the sink
where a stiff
tap chokes out some
water, only the outlines
and fittings
of the soap dispenser are present
and the hand towels,
I remember
are floating in the toilet.
Best dry my hands
on the back of my pants.
The man behind me
trying to keep posture
a face
immortally drunk
and a body
fleeting with corrosion.
He mumbles
“How are you”
I reply, “Fine now, yourself”
“I’m hanging in or hanging out,
whatever you want to call it
but we’re alive and that’s the main thing”
About Liam
I am an Irish writer living in Copenhagen, with work published in Ireland, the UK, USA, Finland, Denmark and Germany. I would describe my writing’s genre as social-realism, with nuanced caricatures of the urban, rural and the places in between with a dollop of romance.
I am influenced by T. S Eliot’s elevation of everyday life, J. P. Donleavy’s hedonism in cold places and Margaret Atwood’s love in desolation. My poems often strike off from things overheard or through verbalising actions we don’t normally give words to.
Literary achievements: I edited and published the Artistic Atlas of Galway in 2013, was shortlisted for the Over the Edge New Writer of The Year Award 2012, the Red Line Poetry Competition in 2013, read at the West Cork Literary Festival 2010 under the auspices: “Irish Poets: a new generation” and the Poetry Ireland Introductions series in 2013. I have also competed in the finals of both the North beach Nights and Cúirt poetry slams. I blog and post writing news at http://lmtduffy.blogspot.dk/.
Interview
Was this poem based on an imagined scenario, a particular experience or even a number of experiences in similar Irish pubs? Tell us about the process between the initial inspiration for the poem and the actual writing of it.
I would say most of my poems are threaded together from a collection of similar experiences. It can start with one line in one pub (or anywhere else) and as it grows the events of the poem fall into other places and other times. I then piece the sequence together in the most interesting way. Though I will say a lot of this poem can be contributed to one pub and you could be lucky enough to experience all of it on any day if you go visit. Though the chowder may be cold by now.
There’s a strong sense of getting down and dirty here, as regards the imagery. Did you hope the reader would recoil or be somewhat attracted to the images you used? (For me, “a stew/ Of toilet paper and excrement” somehow manages to do both.)
Recoil is not the reaction I was aiming for. However, that is understandable if the reader has never been to the “gents” in an Irish pub before. Attraction – more so. I believe there is a certain amount of celebration in acknowledging the more unsavoury parts of our lives. And I think that we are better off having more to celebrate.
Why do you think there’s a sense of interrupting or being unwelcome when a stranger steps into a bar such as this? Is it because the regulars think of it as their own private-yet-public sitting room or some other reason? And would you venture to offer us any thoughts on the play of private and public in relation to writing poetry?
These places can be more about routine. A stranger can either be another contribution and perspective to the very important talk and shit-talk that happens there, or they can disrupt the flow and comfort of the place. I would hope that any stranger can find place for themselves anywhere if they can read the flow. Then some places are just full of ass-holes. But it’s better they are all in the one place.
On the play of private and public, I think poetry, like any art-form, can offer us insights into how we manage our private selves in public. I think we do well to share more of our private selves in public, as we all survive a little through relating to each other.
Poetry and other works provide this experience, in a measured and engaging way. If it’s not engaging, perhaps it’s therapy, and if it is not measured you haven’t written it down yet.
This is gonna sound pretentious, but anyway…I get a sense of the hero’s journey in this poem. The speaker could be a local Odysseus, while the others are generally monster-like, with piercing stares like the cyclops that Odysseus faced. I’m wondering if journeys (and heroic journeys in particular) feature much in your poems.
Well, journeys for sure, but I would think heroes are mostly absent from my poems. There are monstrosities in the pub, but like most monstrosities, they are just a product of fear. I feel that’s what comes through in the final encounter of the poem.
But again, I think we can enjoy ourselves more if we allow ourselves epic narratives in our day-to-day lives. Though I would avoid driving a stake into anyone’s eye.
Why do you write?
Poems because I can’t sing or rap.
If you had one piece of advice for a writer, what would it be?
Always write things down, don’t be afraid to talk about writing with others (remember the whole surviving through relating thing?) and if you can rap or sing do that, too.