Epitaphery

TRANSLATE
INTO OLD OR MIDDLE ENGLISH
FOR MY EPITAPH

Mother used to listen to the B.B.C. news
transistor awry on scattered bed clothes,
on in the morning when we came in
to see if she was still alive. Now
I am glued to the World Service at 3 AM,
two Irish nationalists, this is what we like.



TRANSLATE
INTO THE STREETS OF SAN FRANCISCO
EPITAPH

I saw the sun dance, the Virgin Mary
came by, she was cool Buddha eyes,
I poured a drink. Catholic. Necking started:
love and sex both thoroughbreds
galloped past the post. Which lost,
which won? Lost sex sweet sex.



KEROUAC

(Tender romanticism is our Vietnam.)
The friend of your friend
is a drag queen is you buddy
in the coffin. The neon
has come on, it's time for coffee.



TRANSLATE
INTO THE DUBLIN ACCENT
FOR MY EPITAPH

In my mother's womb I sipped
the potion of nationalism and words.
Her boyfriend in her mind Yeats
gave me rhythms. Joyce sent language,
Ginsburg bestowed liberation.
In Hodges Figgis the City Lights books,
I was devoured by Howl. I began
hyperventilating. Bars of Dublin
turned into jammed paradises
with wandering disheveled starlets.


James Liddy, Dublin, San Francisco, Milwaukee, 1934-2008.