This poem is reproduced by kind permission of Terence Browne
Mulligans of Poolbeg Street by Terence Browne
Reels of film flying over a dusty lens
the hot bulb the whine
fast images of conspiring men
from McCairns Motors
rolling in a silent quick-step
smiling at the camera in nineteen fifty
their soft hats cocked to show a light approach
over to Mulligan’s golden facade
flickering briefly on the silver screen
This honeyed portal is unique
the two swing doors their friendly squeak
combed in an exaggerated yellow grain
one to a wholesome saloon
the other to a side-bar
an altar to the deity of heavenly drink
It is a cathedral made for a working congregation
it took centuries to construct
this extravagant faith
medieval men’s ambitions
drawn in the smoky air
the neat stack of Afton
the simple chair
There are two back-rooms
one a spacious area filled with a modest light
big broad tables from the kitchens of the kings
the walls shining with pipe-smoker’s paint
a place to drink pints of Guinness
without any time constraint
The other back-room is a place for bishops should they come
their own waiting inner sanctum
its stained-glass doors are locked
some people must have been ordained in there
the table set for a meeting of some hierarchy
The men from the Irish Press
grey in Fred McMurray dress
for years these oily men from printer’s ink
set a discreet tone with knowing nod and willing wink
talking to each other sideways
The window seats in the main bar
are light-filled alcoves made for the high art of intimate talk
the sun that finds its way down into the narrow street
is magnified by the pearly glass
warming the back of the neck
like a magic scarf
Two pints of stout
snug into the half-keg with a companion
a holy communion
served by men in aprons the size of horses
they rub the counter-top with a grey wet rag
sweeps of temporary varnish
preparing the dry altar
Mulligan’s of Poolbeg Street
a pro-cathedral for the working man
where generations of altar-boys have learned how to drink porter
to respect a home from home
where prayers and promises are offered to the gods
where decent sinners can extol
dressed protected in the very place itself
a golden navvy-jacket for the soul.