Reading Nazim Hikmet in County Clare

It seems almost unfair
to be losing myself in the beauty
of Nazim Hikmet's Moscow -

when behind me
the irish sky is singing
its song of clouds
as the fishermen chatter
in melodic brogue
and the wind ripples
across the water.


The grey stone
and the bright green
of The Burren
parcel out the sky and the sea
and a small robin
with a bright red breast
sets down next to my dark beer and stares.



It seems almost absurd
to ponder Prague and its rain
when the old Golden Lab
with the dark sad eyes
(as dark as the beer in this glass)
is laying down with his head on his paws,


and my auntie is leaning on her freckled arm
and gently nodding off -
birdsong and windsong all around us.


Surely there's enough poetry
right here in front of me
that I shouldn't need
to marvel
at a Turkish poet's love -

and there is,

but I do.