Poem Of The Week: Facing The Music By Mairéad Byrne
Facing the Music
It's not frost; it's snow
It's not backfire; it's gun-fire
It's not fun; it's alcoholism
It's not a tantrum; it's violence
It's not witty; it's abuse
It's not marriage; it's divorce
It's not anger; it's rage
It's not nothing; it's a lump
It's not fear; it's reality
It's not sleep; it's death
It's not au revoir; it's the end
It's not frost; it's snow
It's not backfire; it's gun-fire
It's not fun; it's alcoholism
It's not a tantrum; it's violence
It's not witty; it's abuse
It's not marriage; it's divorce
It's not anger; it's rage
It's not nothing; it's a lump
It's not fear; it's reality
It's not sleep; it's death
It's not au revoir; it's the end
The linguistic games we play in order to avoid painful truths, or to soften the blunt certainties of human conduct and endgame, are worked into a series of increasingly dark, and sardonic, diptychs whose responses entirely overturn each proposition, as if to assert the value of sincerity over the thin gruel of palliation.