Desperate to get Irish poetry noticed, Pól Ó Muirí considers the tradition of going into battle wearing nothing but a gold torc
A few years ago, poetry was being described as the new rock and roll. It was fashionable, hip, cool. Even Kylie got in on the act as she read the lyrics from one of her songs at a poetry event in London. Poetry was, simply, sexy.
Alas, pity this poor Irish-speaking poet who fears he has missed the boat on the rock and roll phenomenon. I'm doing my best to catch up but it's not easy. When, oh when will I be famous?
With the exception of TG4's weather presenters, fashionable, hip and cool are not the adjectives that spring to mind often when speaking of Irish.
Worse, Irish-language poetry for a couple of generations is Máirtín Ó Direáin, Seán Ó Ríordáin and Máire Mhac an tSaoi - the sort of stuff that no youngster wants to be associated with.
Never mind the life of the mind, musings on mortality and the decay of the Irish soul, those old ones lacked image. And image, these days, is everything. I'm desperately seeking a solution; I'm looking for an angle, a gimic that sets me apart from the rest. Performance poetry seems to be coming into vogue with its emphasis on doing more than a simple reading. You've got to put on a show; blind the audience with a song - or better still - a rap or two.
Regrettably, I don't play any instruments. I did once have fitful mastery of a tin whistle.Should I incorporate that into my act? I fear that the tin whistle, however, isn't, well, cool, man. All that spit and saliva and you have to clean it, discreetly, or you lose your sound.
There are other choices. I could get a bodhrán; everyone has bought a bodhrán at some stage. But I think the poor goat has probably suffered enough by being skinned without me lacerating its dead hide some more.
My hair, too, is very unmusical. I don't have the flowing locks of, say, a Hothouse Flower. My mop is red, wiry and grows straight up. Were I to leave it to its own devices, I would look like a ginger-version of Marge Simpson.
Being from Belfast, I'm toying with the idea of starting my (very infrequent) readings off with a binlid, a nod to the mean streets and mean times when the "people" alerted "the community" to incursions from the British army - aka the Brits. I like the thought of that, slamming the binlid up and down to get the audience's attention before letting rip with a few poems about the invaders and all the harm they have inflicted on Mother Ireland.
I could be a poetic Wolfe Tone; a man who gives the people the songs they want to hear and damn your concessions, England. It has a sort of bohemian/radical/working-class chic about it but, being married with children and having a salary, I'm not sure I could carry it off convincingly.
And what to wear on such occasions? Fashion is an important part of any show. Look at Madonna's constant change of costume. I'm not sure I'd suit the conical bra thing and I haven't got the readies for the designer outfits. Should I go back to the Celtic custom of the warrior going into battle stark naked, wearing nothing but a gold torc around his neck and a sword in his hand?
It is, you must admit, an angle - Pól the Pagan Poet: this show contains material of an adult nature. But then, there's always the worry of people being offended and ending up in court. Worse, they might just laugh. How does one keep one's dignity as an artiste while in the buff? I must ask Colin Farrell the next time we meet up.
Perhaps I could be fashionable by being unfashionable? I'll just be myself and do what I always do - read a few poems and say thanks at the end of the night. It's worked for generations of poets. Mind you, if Seamus Heaney ever plays the banjo for an encore, I'll definitely consider getting that tin whistle out of the bottom drawer.
Pól Ó Muirí will be live and unleashed at Oideas Gael, Gleann Cholm Cille, Co Donegal, at 8.30 p.m. tonight. He will be wearing clothes.
