Arts and Letters


Dream Job

 Terrible pleased altogether to be asked to host this year’s Bloomsday Twiterature, The Definitive Indefinite Article’s 10,000-year project to broadcast the entire of Ulysses 140-characters per year.  I even borrowed Tony Balfe’s drape from when he was in the Showaddywaddy cover band – closest thing I could find to Edwardian garb at short notice.  Anyway.   Last year’s Twiterature was a huge success.  It is nice to get away from the box and watching the Copa America and the Euros and it was great to give the new intern Cidney something to do to go into town and get a copy of Ulysses and keep her out of me hair for a while.  Jaysus she has me driven up the wall complaining about not being able to get Hamptons Houseshare Hell on the telly below at the house or something but that is a whole other day’s work.

martello tower sandycoveSo without further ado, as the many says, I give you Bloomsday Twiterature 2016, a genuine cliffhanger, if I may say so.

then covered the bowl smartly. Back to barracks! he said sternly. He added in a preacher’s tone: For this, O dearly beloved, is the genuine

During a recent tidying up we found this manuscript fragment by the late unsung Dublin poet T. S. McGelligott who died in 1908.  We believe his work may have circulated in manuscript from among the Symbolists.  The Editorial Board of The Definitive Indefinite Article felt it would be appropriate to share this before April is out.

The Waste Ground

By T. S. McElligott

  1. The Burial in the Shed

April is the cruellest mott, breathing

Rothmans all over the gaff, mixing

Smirnoff and Cointreau, dyeing

Brown roots with “Spring Rain.”®

Super Ser kept us warm, covering

Earth in headacheful fog, feeding

A Jack Russell with dried raisins.

Assumpta surprised us, coming over the other Sunday

With a shower of lads; we stopped in the head shop,

And went on in sunlight, into the Brewgarten,

And drank pints, and talked for an hour.

Tá sé mahogany gaspipe feasta gan adhmad man

And when we were youngflas, scutting on the bread vans,

My cousin, he took me out on a Honda 50,

And I was frightened. He said, Maire,

Maire, hold on tight. And down we went.

In Tamangos, there you feel free.

I walk, much of the night, finally get a cab on Dorset Street.