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My body ballooned in the bathtub. My scrotum was a magical sea creature. I watched it bob before annointing myself with oils.

Then I ate a plate of bigos. No two plates.

Then I entered the house of zabka and said pa prush sha do va LM na bel ski. That means two packs of cigarettes. The lady who served me was missing her eyebrows.

I want to be an interesting story like a bowl of tangerines.

We are waiting for the first star. It is 16.03. It should arrive at 16.40. When it arrives we will break bread wafers. And then the carp will arrive. Spineless. At the table.

It's Christmas Eve in Poland. And other places. Too.


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Another Ireland: Part Two
Maurice Scully, The Basic Colours. Durham, UK: Pig Press, 1994.
Geoffrey Squires, Landscapes and Silences. Dublin: New Writers' Press, 1996.
Catherine Walsh, Idir Eatortha and Making Tents. London: Invisible Books, 1996.

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I began the first half of this article (Notre Dame Review #4) by mentioning some of the limits to the legendary hospitality Ireland has shown to its poets. If you arrive in Ireland from any point of departure outside of Eastern Europe, you will indeed find a public far more willing than the one you left behind to grant poets the recognition all but the most ascetic secretly crave. However, this hospitality has never extended to Irish poets w…