Gabriel Fitzmaurice: Three Poems
Epitaph for a Poet
You didn’t hide your talent
But spread it as you could,
A gift out of the ordinary.
At least it did some good.
Gabriel Fitzmaurice
The Inspector Calls
The inspector calls, we all stand—
“Tá fáilte romhat”, I take his hand,
He flaunts his Irish (mine is better)
Then turns to English. Like a debtor
I fawn upon him while he goes
Through the books, then strikes a pose
As he probes my class to find out if
I’ve been doing my job, and, by God!, he’s stiff.
I’ve done my job, no thanks to him
And those in power who, on a whim,
Deprive us of the things we need
To teach our kids because their greed
Broke this country and now we
Are in debt for all eternity;
And still I come here, day by day,
To teach these kids to live and pray
But prayer is now frowned upon
By the commissars of education.
The inquisition over, it seems I’ve passed,
Myself and my faithful class,
He turns to Irish once again—
To me Irish is a friend
But…
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