An Ode to a Bottle of Tullamore Dew

If thou being philosophical were an oil painting
    wrested of nazi crates, a stolen treasure
a carafe discovered, a hidden artefact
    one piece of art, the beauty of it’s naked shape
what discreet charm you full employ
    to speak of virtue by such stoic facade
your neck drawn haughty, slender as yon
    mystical okapi not lengthy like blonde giraffe
twere not an antelope nor elixir to travel so
    it’s Irish folklore carried through with history
skills of craft honed from within thy distillery
    uisce beatha taken out thy gaelic hame
by waters of the Shanon, the country lanes
    where the factory is built, in morning light
there falls the d.e.w. so pretty, a welcome sight
    lads n’lassies in their chatter, taunt n’flatter
off to thy work to earn a euro eu deux, it is a job
    that wee girl worth the fight for a night with you
the purpled sequins of the meaning we hold
    by Tullamore in Offaly in the Leinster valley
submit thy discourse by yon concourse,  take
    the tour, learn once more the unpleasantries
suffered, the tale n’dramas of Sir John’s barleycorn
    breath the aroma from copper stills ever warmed
and sip thy warmth by taste of malts preferred
    the sampling room is all you may have gathered
in your secret journey aloned by barroom thoughts
    Sir John won your tongue, leaves thee but naught
yet still remains a noble slake who double taunts thee       
    cares not how you spell your choice a’ whuskey
the rack, the burn, all connoisseurs addiction spurn
    around the teeth, thy gums, thy palette blessed
expunge memories o’ saddened, o’ manic depressed
    take the trains to Gallway Bay or roads to Ballyboy
Kilkormak, Clara, Edenberry I still hear you listening
    at the crossroads by Molloy’s Tinnycross Quarry
or in the glistening by the cement factory at Cloncollog
    a picture grows of a united Ireland, united in the north
at Giants Causeway through Tullamore all the way to Cork
    united dreams, o’ the apple o’ my emerald eye, fair
glas isle, where all disputes concerning sacredness of Ulster
    the complexities of faith are drownded by this holy water
from Cork to County Antrim, on to Tullamore n’silkie Donegal
    bring thy stooks down from thy mythical wagon
there winnow, sort an’ drowned then laid upon the malting floor
    turned to germination, baked in kilns then ground
mashed wi’ boiling water of this isle to cool, to wort
    with yeast thy wild congeners left to settle for a while
it waits the stills and distillation, till bound and gagged
    in stained barrels wound by iron hoops, there it stays

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                                          ©edenbraytoday18.11, 2021

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Author’s Extensive Notes

I read Keates ‘Ode to a Grecian Urn’ and was inspired to write 50 lines me-sell .. . that is the story

This could as easily be entitled – ‘An Ode to my Green-eyed sister – the sister I never had – my Roisin – born from the land o’ my mythical birth where my bonnie wee grandmother earned her clogs and danced a jig for me – for evermore my Irish Grannie you travel now with me an this bottle of juice – this water of life – I lift the glasses arse to thee my Adeline who spread your legs an’ bore me’ father – who spread his seed and birthed this Eede – o’ donkey bray and o’ asses brain and my poetic confusion – edenbray your poet – I curtsey, bow and lift my Irish kilt high for thee .. ..

Uisce beatha’ – literally “water of life”, is the name for whiskey in Irish. It is derived from the Old Irish uisce (“water”) and bethu (“life”).

edenbraytoday18.11.2021
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