Comes to mind as another small
upheaval
amongst the rubble.
His eye matches exactly the bubble
in my spirit-level.
I set aside hammer and chisel
and take him on the trowel.
The entire population of Ireland
springs from a pair left to stand
overnight in a pond
in the gardens of Trinity College,
two bottle of wine left there to chill
after the Act of Union.
There is, surely, in this story
a moral. A moral for our times.
What if I put him to my head
and squeezed it out of him,
like the juice of freshly squeezed limes,
or a lemon sorbet?
...The Frog by Paul Muldoon, born in County Armagh, residing in County Mercer at the big university.
Although Paul Muldoon is a great poet, please do not squeeze any frogs after having read this poem, okay? (Look. I'm not sure that I really understand this poem. Help me out if you have any ideas. sometimes poems are just for words and fun. Is that it?)
Keep reading and writing,
Maureen
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