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…