National Poetry Day

It's National Poetry Day today in the UK - not that you'd notice so here's my contribution.

Written about 10 years ago, which I used as a prologue to my first novel - yes it's a pastiche of the opening to Portrait of the Artist. Let's see how many more will follow with their poetry:

The Man with the Pen
Once upon a time, and a long time ago
It was, in the city of Dublin,
In the land of Ireland, there was a man
With a pen; and this man with the pen gave it
To a little fella who wrote many
A poem, limerick and story;
And the poems, limericks and stories
Spread to the four corners of the world, it was a square world;
And the poems, limericks and stories
That spread to the four corners of the world
Made the earth round - into a great ball -
‘Surrounded by clouds’ as the great man once said!

Near the ball there was a moon, which added
Romance and imagination to the poems,
Limericks and stories; and around all this
Were stars and planets and they formed a system
Called the solar system;
And it was solar and alone;
And writers came along and looked to the moon,
And beyond, to the stars and planets
In the solar system for inspiration:
And when they got the inspiration they needed
They used the pen to write; for that is what a pen is for.
And the man with the pen looked down at the writers,
Whenever they were in their blocks,
And gave them the start that they needed
And this is how the writers of Ireland
Told the people of the world the absolute truth –
Which they had found on the wall
Of Bewley’s Coffee shop in Grafton Street Dublin;
For there were many in Bewley’s would put the world to right
In an afternoon’s confabulation.

But the writer was always the little fella;
The little fella who had to meet the big bad bullies
When he was at school; the big bad bullies
That made him take part
In their big bad bumpy games,
Which would frighten the poor little fella,
At that very early and tender age
When all the boys had to learn to head the greasy orb
Which they called a football;
Had to go into that big bad world
Which they called a school;
Had to find out that most of the bullies
Were the teachers: teachers who took great pleasure
And unnatural delight
In striking many a young child across the backside
With their canes and slippers;
But the little writer would get his own back
On the big bad bullies for he would write about them.

Sometimes, but not often, the big bad bully
Would read what the little writer had written
And knock the be Jesus out of him;
Break his glasses,
Knock the pen out of the little fella’s hand
And burn his books:
At four hundred and fifty one degrees Fahrenheit.

But there was always somebody
To pick up that pen and look up,
Up towards the stars in the heaven
Where they would seek the same stimulation;
And the man with the pen would look down and give it.