Kissing the Blarney Stone
David Stephenson

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I once spent a whole week in Ireland,
following an old guide-book tourist trail
past endless quaint stone-fenced sheep pastures, and
eating bangers and mash and drinking ale.

At Blarney Castle, I waited in line
and climbed the stairs to kiss the famous stone
and get the gift of gab, although I’m fine
without it, since I spend most time alone.

Back home, my Irish neighbor shook his head
when I got to that part of the story,
and flashed a little bemused grin, and said
The Blarney Stone is fine to go and see,

but I would never plant a kiss on it.
At night, local teenagers piss on it.

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​David’s notes: “I went on a week-long family trip to Ireland in the summer of 2012, when my mother-in-law turned 80. The poem is largely a factual account of the trip, especially the fourth line. As shown in the photo, I did indeed kiss the Blarney stone. When I got home my brother told me about the
rumor that local kids pissed on the stone. In the poem I attribute this revelation to a fictive Irish neighbor to make it sound more authentic. I’m not sure if it’s actually true, or if my brother was just yanking my chain.“

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David Stephenson is a retired manufacturing engineer from Detroit, and the editor of Pulsebeat Poetry Journal.

 

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