My sister Celine presented me with a book of poems for my birthday. I have never heard of Pat Ingoldsby, their author. He lives and works in Dublin, writes prose for newspapers various, and puts together some irresistible poems;
There are two signs
At O’Connell Bridge,
Both pointing
In exactly
The same direction
Down Aston Quay.
One says-“The West.”
One says “The South.”
I love that.
Then there’s the poem entitled;
“Sometimes under certain controlled conditions, a release of flatulence in your backyard can lead to spontaneous prayer.”
I sometimes like to sit outside
On top of my coal bunker
At four o’clock in the morning
And let fly with a fierce
Ripsnorter of a fart
Which resounds with a deep full
Metallic boom.
Some of my neighbours
Who are lying awake in their beds
Sit up suddenly and exclaim-
Good heavens- that must be some
Fog at sea. God bless all mariners
And bring them safely back to shore.”
Blessed are those who fart on top
Of their coal bunkers
For they shall be called foghorns.
Mr Ingoldsby deserves greater investigation.