Between Paddock and Pub (v.2)

A song-inspired poem.

Version 2 Note:

I write most of my poems in a rush.

I always want to spend more time with them, but I struggle to, part of my personality, I think.

This one kept dragging me back though, so I finally revisited it.

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POEM NOTE

Music is a significant part of my existence, and I am far more deliberate than I let on.

If I’m chasing a particular emotion, travelling to a place, or trying to write a certain piece, I will spend far too long deciding what I’m listening to.

Below is an extension of this, with the desire for a while to try an capture how a song makes me feel through a poem.

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A Sailor’s Bonnet

I was solo travelling through Ireland a few years ago and was completely taken by the pub culture, quiet, but full of life.

Two- or three-piece bands played intimate sets in dimly lit rooms, pulling at heartstrings thick with history. Guinness and whiskey were the only choices. The drinkers were hardened by rain, mud, and cold.

If you truly want to be close to that feeling, turn the light off.

Light a candle.

Close your eyes.

Take a deep breath.

And listen.

A Sailor’s Bonnet

I was solo travelling through Ireland a few years ago and was completely taken by the pub culture, quiet, but full of life.

Two- or three-piece bands played intimate sets in dimly lit rooms, pulling at heartstrings thick with history. Guinness and whiskey were the only choices. The drinkers were hardened by rain, mud, and cold.

If you truly want to be close to that feeling, turn the light off.

Light a candle.

Close your eyes.

Take a deep breath.

And listen.

---

Between Paddock and Pub

*A poem inspired by the song A Sailor’s Bonnet

Here in this old veneer tavern
where thick polish has oiled
the cracking of worn-out elbows.

Wax pools and drips from candles,
their warm light washing the dirt
from the faces of weary farmers.
Shadows quiver across the trenches
that burrow into each generation.

In the distance from paddock to pub,
strong forearms sway from crooked spines,
blending from their cattle
the sunset musters the final few.

And as orange trades with calm blue
the local violin beckons his strings.
Breath deepens and shoulders stoop,
slowly the hardened feet soften
and start with the tune. 

A spell broken only by the light thud;
cracked throats did not need call.
Rising stouts meet hunched brows,
returned with the soft clink of coins.

As men gaze upon the virgin pour
they briefly pause, enthralled,
but as cool glass strikes the lips
the swallow thickens, soothing,
and glues back together 
the fracture of the day.

and here —
 tomorrow's men mend.