Because he was Irish

My heart sobbed out a poem
’bout the place that in dream stole my wits away,
as Arabia stole de la Mare’s.
It emptied itself, shaking out some of the dearest,
tenderest corners glowing secretly within.
And I dared show it to a fellow poet—
for he was Irish.

He dismissed it
as one does a cobweb,
blind to the silken glints;
as if it wasn’t allowed a stranger
to feel for his motherland. As if
all that really counted
was not soul, but stark reality. Novelty at the cost of spirit.
He was coolly harsh, and it felt all the harsher
because he was Irish.

Bleeding within, I stared out the window,
stared at that stabbing, aching yellow of the new-sprung hotel across the street
looking as if all the mangoes on the dark-awake tree before it
had splashed out their inmost selves over those new
brightly indifferent walls.

A friend sighs: It’s just an opinion, silly girl.
—Cold, you say? . . .Another point of view.
But smile! An Irishman took the time to judge your work.
True enough.
It took a while, but I finally saw
he was just trying to help; he wasn’t a bit cruel. Only
it seemed so at first, because he was Irish.