St. Patrick's Day

[Rievan]

Why do assume that everyone celebrates St. Patrick's day by getting drunk and doing racist things? Not every one does that, some people spend quality time with their family. The Irish rock.

[Rooster]

My most loathed day of the year.

Context: I'm Irish. As in, I was born in Ireland, raised in Ireland to an Irish family that, as far back as we can see, have lived in Ireland. Pretty gosh-darned Irish. I'm very proud to be Irish.

Then, once a year, the Plastic Paddies come out in force. Around the world, fiddles are taken out and jigs and reels are played to the shamrock-wearing, green-Guinness drinking, leprechaun-cosplaying idiots in a dubious celebration of Irishness that, for all intents and purposes, would be the equivalent shoe-polishing your face, making some tinfoil necklaces and dancing down Harlem singing NWA songs in a folk styling.

And people slap me on the back and expect me to join in.

On St. Patrick's Day, the Western World becomes the big school bully that relentlessly mocks and humiliates a smaller kid and then, when the teacher scolds them, gets away with it by saying they were 'only kiddin', like, jeez, it was all in good fun'.

St. Patrick's Day. Have a care.

Hey pants you, at least YOUR patron saint day is recognised...when was the last time you saw anyone celebrating St. David's day?

[superFRO!]

I celebrated St. Davids day, but I guess I would being Welsh and all.

I say the Irish should make a St. [insert random redneck]day in protest, where we can all adopt badly impersonated redneck accents and say God, Jesus and America excessively and have sexual relations with our sisters and stuff!

But all in good fun of course!

[rabid_fox]

My most loathed day of the year.

Context: I'm Irish. As in, I was born in Ireland, raised in Ireland to an Irish family that, as far back as we can see, have lived in Ireland. Pretty gosh-darned Irish. I'm very proud to be Irish.

Then, once a year, the Plastic Paddies come out in force. Around the world, fiddles are taken out and jigs and reels are played to the shamrock-wearing, green-Guinness drinking, leprechaun-cosplaying idiots in a dubious celebration of Irishness that, for all intents and purposes, would be the equivalent shoe-polishing your face, making some tinfoil necklaces and dancing down Harlem singing NWA songs in a folk styling.

And people slap me on the back and expect me to join in.

On St. Patrick's Day, the Western World becomes the big school bully that relentlessly mocks and humiliates a smaller kid and then, when the teacher scolds them, gets away with it by saying they were 'only kiddin', like, jeez, it was all in good fun'.

St. Patrick's Day. Have a care.

Hey pants you, at least YOUR patron saint day is recognised...when was the last time you saw anyone celebrating St. David's day?

Miracle On St David's Day

They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude
The Daffodils by William Wordsworth

An afternoon yellow and open-mouthed
with daffodils. The sun treads the path
among cedars and enormous oaks.
It might be a country house, guests strolling,
the rumps of gardeners between nursery shrubs.

I am reading poetry to the insane.
An old woman, interrupting, offers
as many buckets of coal as I need.
A beautiful chestnut-haired boy listens
entirely absorbed. A schizophrenic

on a good day, they tell me later.
In a cage of first March sun, a woman
sits not listening, not seeing, not feeling.
In her neat clothes, the woman is absent.
A big mild man is tenderly led

to his chair. He has never spoken.
His labourer's hands on his knees, he rocks
gently to the rhythm of the poems.
I read to their presences, absences,
to the big, dumb, labouring man as he rocks.

He is suddenly standing, silently,
huge and mild but I feel afraid. Like slow
movement of spring water or the first bird
of the year in the breaking darkness,
the labourer's voice recites "The Daffodils".

The nurses are frozen, alert; the patients
seem to listen. He is hoarse but word-perfect.
Outside the daffodils are still as wax,
a thousand, ten thousand, their syllables
unspoken, their creams and yellows still.

Forty years ago, in a Valleys school,
the class recited poetry by rote.
Since the dumbness of misery fell
he has remembered there was a music
of speech, and that he once had something to say.

When he's done, before the applause, we observe
the flowers silence. A thrush sings,
and the daffodils are flame.

Gillian Clarke


Ah, Clarke. I love the line, "I am reading poetry to the insane".

[anthony]

Kiss Me, I'm An Irish Protestant

Kiss Me, I'm An Irish CATHOLIC

Saint Patrick was catholic too...

[Baconsticks]

Fun Fact: St.Patrick was born a Muslim.

[rabid_fox]

I was born beautiful, but I grew out of that.

[Baconsticks]

You sure have.

You really set yourself up for that.

[rabid_fox]

Willingly assisting your efforts (laboured as they may be) with a new, contemplative sort of avatar.

It says, "I'm may be ugly, but I've got the bottle opener."

[Baconsticks]

I still have the cork remover.

[rabid_fox]

Enjoy your wine, Frenchy. I'll be over here enjoying the brews.

[A dude named Vince]

Just about all of the school year(except on the rare occasions when it's too hot) I wear my army camo jacket, so I didn't have to worry about wearing green. I also forgot that today was St. Patrick's day. Anybody at school who didn't wear a bit of green was pinched by the people who were, so most drew a little green on themselves with a marker. Somebody pinched me and when I asked why, genius said "I'm colorblind" (which he isn't). It was quite pathetic.

[Baconsticks]

Enjoy your wine, Frenchy. I'll be over here enjoying the brews.

That's really funny, considering I have a can of this next to me.

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[rabid_fox]

I see and raise you:

[Baconsticks]

That's sissy juice.