“A Duplex Only Turns 43 Twice,” “Accidentally Down and Out in Dublin,” “Here and There on a Triple-Helical Journey to the Islands and Highlands of Scotland”

“A Duplex Only Turns 43 Twice,” “Accidentally Down and Out in Dublin,” “Here and There on a Triple-Helical Journey to the Islands and Highlands of Scotland”

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Photo by Gaelle Marcel on Unsplash

A Duplex Only Turns 43 Twice

In memory of Chadwick Boseman

More insatiable than the desire to hoard,

Your fans say death’s a foreign coincidence.

They also say a forgotten coin’s never

Spent, but its odyssey costs us a day.

In 42, you slid like theodicy.

In Get on Up, you put an omen’s plaything

In women’s clothing, happy in your powers.

The side effects of too much love are having

A moment. Gratuitous special effects

Walked off the set, each in an understudy’s

Mood. If only they knew a boulevard

Of blood could undo all of our bridges,

They’d see that your desire to break a leg was

More insatiable than a marvelous horde’s.

Accidentally Down and Out in Dublin

“In Dublin we’ll be spiffy

When a-bubblin’ goes the Liffey...”

- Heard being sung near a gateway arch on Fishamble Street (lyricist unknown)

Corri says something to the effect

That Trinity College came to collect

What we hide in our hearts. My intellect

Would tell Brian Boru’s harp to get plucked,

But the Old Library’s long room is strict…

“This colossal ossification walked

With those antlers!” My father-in-law’s shocked

As Sfera con sfera makes time reflect.

The potato farls on Grafton Street

Distrain my attention until I eat

One or two. Whilst the buskers compete

With foul weather, the poet Tony Kitt

Points at the sun with his magic flute

And the way to St Stephen’s Green’s made bright,

Bright as what nocturnes can reignite.

Women and swans near The Three Fates sit

For a picture. Words can sting like a midge.

But I imagine if Ha’penny Bridge

Said “You’ve crossed me for the last time” that fudge

From Butlers Chocolates could blunt that knife’s edge.

Maddie watches the Four Courts allege

That the Custom House is a Georgian smudge

On the quay. Tiny G and I pledge

Those sympathies all memorials fledge

To the famine’s. Pours of Jameson Black

Barrel improve her cough and my black

Coffee immensely. The rain’s attaque

À outrance regreens St Columba’s book

In our minds. We say sláinte and toss back

Any pride that might dampen our craic.

The tin whistle and the fishmonger’s truck

Outside of O’Riordan’s help us lose track

Of time. On “Cockles and Mussels” we feast

Our hearts (“If guitars be the brewer’s yeast

Of hearts, don’t stop!” cries the unwieldy beast

In me), our stomachs on brown bread and roast.

With my eyes on Molly Malone, the bust

Of James Joyce rolls his. A bewildered gust

Carries three of us westward to Christ

Church Cathedral, where two from the past

Still play cat and mouse. That very same breeze

Takes both Keith and me through The Liberties

To the Guinness Storehouse. Bram Stoker’s knees

Are heard knocking as a few banshees squeeze

By us on Marrowbone Lane. We gaze

Down at creamy heads and out at the frieze

By O’Connell, where Fidelity bays

Like an Irish Wolfhound about to sneeze.

At the Aran Sweater Market, I drag

Oliver Goldsmith over to brag:

“That’s her – that’s my wife! Does she lift the fog

Or what?” “Does Filíocht wear like a fugue

Gold torcs? And do unicorns hope to flag

Her presence by stooping?” There in her bag,

All that I see is the smallest sprig

Of clover. “The Wicklow Mountains might beg

Her pardon,” he adds as we take our leave.

October gets mushy peas on its sleeve

At Iveagh Gardens. The winds there deceive

The day by speaking in ogham. No slave

To fashion, Kilmainham Gaol can’t forgive

Itself. We all listen as walls relive

The Easter Rising. I try to revive

My joy in the giftshop by autumn’s grave.

Here and There on a Triple-Helical Journey to the Islands and Highlands of Scotland

After “Octomore,” by Bruichladdich

“It is really a perfect misery to be alive when we have always to be going about like men with enemies at their gates, who cannot lay aside their arms even when sleeping or eating, and are always afraid of being surprised by a breaching of their fortress in some weak spot.”

- Teresa of Avila, Interior Castle

On Islay, I learn to drive on the left

And all the sheep look at us like we’re effed

As we make our way to Bowmore. Adrift

On Loch Indaal is a dram of the roughed

Up past, but Ned from the Co-op is daft

About Buckfast, so, when my neck’s too giraffed

By the top shelf, he points down. More bereft

Than “The Round Church” is of the devil’s craft

Is my vision of the sea eagle’s flight.

But on Cnoc-na-Faire, the WIFI’s tweet

Above the krex-krexing corncrakes at night

Can’t be heard (their cries outshine every street-

Light on Flora Street). For peat’s sake, I quit

My Scotch egg and at Port Ellen debate

The stars as they twinkle in triplicate.

When we land in Glasgow, we exfiltrate

Ourselves from yesterday’s coppery quilt

And heart-shaped hardships. “The Hebrides felt

Like a handsome hindrance to Rome’s assault

On everything. Glencoe, however, built

Amazement in less than a day.” We melt

All our boredom between the Great Glen Fault

And Ben Nevis. Five boobries catapult

To Glen Affric every gaslit gestalt

In the car. By Kyle of Lochalsh, where three

Great sea lochs meet, the sea eagle’s esprit

Behind Caledonian clouds from me

Stays hidden. The Old Man of Storr waves bye

As we trek towards Portree. There, a café

Serves the best Cullen Skink on all of Skye,

Or so we’re told under a chieftain’s tree.

I make of the Quiraing a bronze donee

When my pin from Achtriochtan is lost

There. I thole it with the spirited rust

Called Irn-Bru in my veins! Wanderlust

Flies to Inverness when I need it most;

When my meteorism bites the dust

At Culloden. (“Thank you, Lactulose!”) Just

As the beech trees at Clava Cairns untwist

Their branches, the hairy coos spot a ghost

From across the street. “Its surface might shrug,

But wind like a scherzo is sure to bug

Its monster.” We fail to get Nessie’s mug

On a JPEG; I mean to geotag

Them, but when our boat – like words in a brogue –

Gets accented, I press delete. We bag

Zero Munros, but each peak’s a drogue

To the heart of a luftmensch! Rhyme-fatigue

Sets in, so to Speyside we go. I write

To the unco guid, “Are my rivers not

As wet as are yours?” before we depart

For Leith. Time suddenly seems like my stout

When we get there: cask-conditioned just right.

After coronation chicken, we doubt

Any curry-free courier’s legit

Until my steak pie and the bagpipes transport

Me outside of St. Giles’ Cathedral. There,

I forget the Lothian sky and stare

Inward, where the sea eagles always bear

A quaich. On our way to Stirling, a pair

Of Kelpies distract us. I say a prayer

By Midhope Castle: “Dear God, please prepare

My soul for arriving late. Savoir-faire

Would help me if Afternoon Tea’s deferred.”

About the Author

Jake Sheff

Jake Sheff is a pediatrician and US Air Force veteran. He’s published a full-length collection of formal poetry, “A Kiss to Betray the Universe” (White Violet Press), along with three chapbooks: “Looting Versailles” (Alabaster Leaves Publishing), “The Rites of Tires” (SurVision) and “The Seagull’s First One Hundred Seguidillas” (Alien Buddha Press).