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Pól Ó Lorcáin
Paul Larkin

Chroniclers are privileged to enter where they list, to come and go through keyholes, to ride upon the wind, to overcome in their soarings up and down, all obstacles of distance, time and place.
Charles Dickens - Barnaby Rudge, Chapter The Ninth

Christmas homage to Copenhagen

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I am abroad early in København,
gateway to ancient Baltic waters
her hallowed streets waiting for winter
quiet and wreathed in mist
mazing me through cobbled lanes and canals
the dark red hush of brick at the university



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strange that in fog
we feel the mechanics of things
Tycho Brahe’s whirring mental cogs
Copernican spheres and trajectories
softly rending the thick air above me
planetary charts over Denmark and Sweden



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By the wise library facade in Fiolstræde
its windows in their quiet element
I am ushered about to Paludan Books
thus facing windows face to face
where Ibsen’s revenants emerge in the glass
reflections of whiskers, whispers and angst


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Hans Christian Andersen’s horsey laugh and
gangly gait lead me into Vor Frue Plads
the doleful clang of Our Lady’s bell tower
weirdly hovering on a dancing cloud
tolling me to swirl on. Its percussions suddenly
populating figures and shapes in the misty streets


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Dead ahead of me the rise and fall of Kierkegaard's
pukkelryg - his hunched back dancing through Joerck’s Passage
into Vimmelskaftet where I hear him chuckling to himself
at the crank shape of the street, thoughts of his favourite Conditori
strong black coffee and patisseries goading his chronic ache
to dispute the Either/Or of life, the delights of Danish cakes


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I am at his shoulder but he turns into a cloud with glee,
me caught by his leap of faith, his alacrity,
following him now only by the regular tap of his Stok
his ceaseless muttering, the greetings of the populace,
due reverence for this Nordic Socrates, then his raised hat
and hushed again where I sense eternal Regina pass


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I lost him by the elbows of the fishwife at Gammelstrand
where I met Denmark’s Dostoevksy - Henrik Pontoppidan,
his arresting blue gaze dismissing all fog, all uncertainties,
asserting the sanctity of human fortitude and grace.
I am their humble disciple and will follow their paths unto death
for resurrection, for all too human heartache, for Danish coffee and cake



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Paul Larkin
Carrick
Gaoth Dobhair
Nollaig 2012
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