I just had an encounter with the street
poetry dude. I'll give you a little bit of background on him: When I first came to
Ireland, two years ago, he was one of the first people that I actually
spoke to. He occupies a corner of
Grafton Street, and you might recognise him by his
long hair and
glasses.
Street poetry dude writes poetry, on the street. He uses
chalk to write it, and then sprays over it with some sort of
lacquer that protects it from the rain. He self-publishes
pamphlets of
poetry that he sells, mostly to
tourists. As well, his
hat is always next to whichever
poem he has inscribed, and passerby often drop
spare change into it. To be quite honest with you, the poetry isn't all that
good. It's not as though he's a bright
flame, waiting to be
discovered. Or, if he is, his discovery will not be in the realm of
poetry. Interestingly, though his
poetry isn't exceptional, he still has no trouble
pulling young women. They drop their names and numbers into his hat, an image that has always struck me as
amusing. A sort of
lottery for those so inclined.
I like street poetry dude. I like that he has the
balls to just write on a
sidewalk. I like that he is
relentlessly pursuing his
dream, and I'm sure that he will
improve in time. I like that he never
complains about how the
Garda lob him in prison every few weeks for
defacement,
loitering and
panhandling. He mentions it only in
passing, to explain his absence.
Street poetry dude and I saw each other almost every day during my first
summer in this country. We'd always
chat for a bit while I was on my smoke breaks. We shared a mutual interest in
poetry, and when we first met I was being highly
discouraged by my then-
agent who had recently informed me that
poetry won't pay the rent. Two people with an interest in
poetry can speak for days on end about how there's not enough
interest in this
dying art form.
Towards the
winter, street poetry dude wasn't around much. I ran into him here and there, shared a couple of
joints with him when we bumped into each other at the
bars. It was always nice to see him, and he actually wanted me to join his
band, completely undeterred by the fact that I have no
musical talent whatsoever.
In my second
Irish summer, he re-surfaced and we resumed where we'd left off with our casual, undemanding friendship. I'm in my third summer, now -- I arrived midway through the first -- and I was starting to worry that I wouldn't see him again before I left for
Canada.
He walked past me on the street when I was on my four o'clock
smoke break, and didn't miss a beat. It was back to
old times. He introduced me to his
girlfriend and we chatted a bit before he ambled away to do some
busking. I said my
farewells and we both expressed a hope that we'd see each other again before I left.
I
node this because I don't want to
forget all about him in a few years time, and because I thought that maybe you'd all like to hear about my
relaxed, casual
friendship with a young man who is one of the warmest people I've ever had the pleasure to meet.