The Book Table

Spending time at home in our apartment in Skerries, north county Dublin, is always a real treat. I commute during the weekdays to and from work into the city center, which I really enjoy; I wrote a poem cycle about it, see link below Commuting with Baudelaire. However, as some of you are no doubt more than aware, commuting everyday really can take its toll. I have been on the go, pretty much none stop, since January without any real significant break, and I must admit I am struggling now. We take holidays, thank god, in three weeks time. Corfu, Greece!

I haven't felt the sun on my skin, in any substantial length, since the summer, last year. We went to Crete for a week, it was our first time in Greece. I fell in love with the island, the food and of course the people. My dream, one which figures in the dreams of many people I am sure, but particularly artists, historians and of course writers, is to be able to retire someday, in the not too distant future, in a little fishing town. I know just the one. I saw three bedroom houses selling there for 140 K, overlooking the sea! That's a realisable dream, compared to the mere pipe variety. That's what keeps me motivated to keep working on that novel!

Which brings me to today's poem.


The Book Table



It is called a book table, as it opens
Out like one, but perhaps also as it
Contains some of the chapters of your
Life. Chapter 1, you are a young Manager

And you walk proudly into the furniture
Store, Scandinavian of course, with your
Beautiful young wife who picks it out
For you. Chapter 2, six years later and

You are celebrating the birthday of your
Daughter with some family and friends,
You gather around the table ablaze with

Laughter and candles. Chapter 3, you are
Sick and unemployed and translating whole
Sections of Les Fleurs Du Mal by Baudelaire.