Liam Miyar-Mullan currently attends Ruth Asawa School of the Arts in San Francisco. At this school he majors in Creative Writing. He enjoys Flann O’Brien and his favorite novel is “The Poor Mouth.” He has read at many shows around San Francisco and has a segment on an 89.5 KPOO radio program entitled “The Future of America” in which he plays Irish rebel songs and speaks briefly about their history.
By Liam Miyar-Mullan
On a Gaelic day in April, A day where He himself was soaked, The grass lay close to the earth in wet lethargy, And the clouds were impermeable. A place not far from Ballynascreen Where the auld man lay under a cross: Harry Mullin, a drunk, dusty farmer, With a red and irritated face Of the Baileys that sat in his belly. He gave me this little money tin, a two-piece ceramic cup with auld cigarette ash stuck to its bottom, “Irish Writers” it read in paint along the edge: O’Brien, Behan, Yeats, Joyce.
In cigarette smoke and ash did Harry Mullin lie Drunken on whiskey brown, A dirty, filthy couch supported his auld body Pink from the black stuff in a glass Bushmills mug, Like the auld money tin, Read ‘round: “The old triangle went Jingle Jangle.”
In youth Harry Mullin was sturdy and loud, Ran a ball across the field and delivered the news, Cycling tall Antrim Glens: Slemish, round and wet. Saw fire and smoke take rest on Ballycastle bridge for the Scouts, the green, the Dáil. Now fire and smoke only takes rest on the end of a white fag. Dripping whiskey covers his cabinet floors and puddles around auld Easter Cadbury.