The sounds of this city echo,
I hear the shattering of windows at Dublin Castle 

by left-handed warrior Hanna Sheehy Skeffington.
The eternal silence of St. Michan’s crypt, 

mummies whose stories never die.
As above so below, Dublin. 

I hear the bullets ricochet off Daniel O’Connell.
I hear the explosions at the GPO.

I hear the words of Countess Constance Markievicz:
her anthem of freedom, her fearless retaliation

and calls for equality:
“I do wish your lot had the decency to shoot me”.

I love watching the wind through the leaves
of your ballroom dance trees along Cunningham Road

the first glimpse I get of your rusty bike,
abandoned traffic cone ocean

dividing North and South.
I love your nighttime.

Stepping onto your quays,
breathing in the cat food aroma

black trickle potion
of your Guinness-soaked Liffey.

I wear Dublin on my hands,
and Kildare in my knees. 

You’ve seen me through school and college,
my drunken soles have slapped your streets.

I’ve cried in your corners
and danced in your greens.

I was not raised here,
but I was born here.

This is home to my granny’s family
and her mammy’s family.

The stories my mam has told me
about dismantling her buggy,

hopping the old 72 Bus on her own
outside the front step of their house on Oxmantown Road,

much to the panic of her mammy,
my Granny, at the escape of her three-year-old. 

The bus driver simply said “she’ll be grand,
I’ll be back ‘round again in half an hour”

I sit still amongst the chaos,
listen to the lazy laps of Liffey’s lips

against the O’Connell Bridge base,
note how it remains unchanged,

unaffected by the hustle and bustle
of busy bodies, the stampedes

of rush hour suits, sneakers and pencil skirts,
How very New York of you.

A city for the elite,
six cranes on one street.

Dublin, you are an echo chamber of good intentions,
but I still enjoy our conversations.

You’re all seagull screams,
Dart brake squeals and boardwalk drug deals.

The deep breath and sigh of kneeling Dublin buses
And the shimmy of high heeled giraffe legs

on cobble streets, clinking glasses and cheers of ‘sláinte!’
filling the streets of Temple Bar.

Turn the corner on Henry and O’Connell
and it’s Jesus on the mic!

Who knew we could all be saved
if we just condemn the sick and unrighteous?

You’ve become a mixing pot
of oil and water bubbling over

sometimes it seems your river
runs backwards,

reversing its flow, like you’ve gone too far,
you’re trying to go back to what you know.

This should feel like home.
Dublin, you are my home away from home,

but I know I’ll never live here.
I can’t afford to return to my family home on Oxmantown Road.

You’ve become a vampire
sucking life from your own wrist.

But the tourists don’t see this,
in Viking hats on City Splash Tours.

I still see your beauty, Dublin,
but it’s hard to ignore the sound of cracks widening,

tenants leaving, rents increasing.
The salt spit winds that whip the sides of tents,

that sound so similar to the flags down the quays,
echoing the cheers of Dublin matches

and the annual parade of rainbow Pride:
boasting we are you, and you are me.

It’s hard to ignore the sounds of doors closing:
Filmbase, Token, but our rí-rá ruaille buaille spirit,

keeps getting louder, drowning out the whispers:
“Sorry ma’am, have you got any change?”

Dublin you’re all Scania truck face,
fading Moore Street Markets and Saturday Fleas

stained yesterday’s jeans,
don’t forget your story.

Feel your shame pour out of bullet holes in statues
when the prince comes to taste your nectar.

You boast the largest park in Europe but just for fun,
try to spot the stag between the sea of tents

lined up on the president’s front step.
Your tallest building is Liberty Hall

in her green hat, caped in politics.
Don’t forget where you came from.

I date each poem from your broken places,
see faces that appear in circles of smoke,

then disappear through back turned doorways,
soaked in flames and battery acid.

Race past crowds drowning spirits,
that soothe these souls,

these sodden forgotten fools,
uniformed ghouls in bowler hats and shiny shoes.

I don’t stay for long.
I’m lost amongst the people,

eager to go home to their satellite towns
in time to eat, sleep, repeat and do it all again.

I’m on the bus, gone, zoom.
I won’t forget to say thank you.

---

Melissa Ridge is a poet and performer based in Maynooth whose work explores the space between the confessional and the performative. Her writing appears in Literature Today, DoubleSpeak, Poetry Ireland’s Trumpet, The Blue Nib, The Sunday Business Post, Solstice Sounds Volume IV, and featured on RTÉ 2’s Reverberations. She is currently working on her first collection of poetry.

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