County Mayo, 1975
By George Franklin
Nov 15, 2025
Nov 15, 2025
I poked the peat fire in the tourist cottage,
Bought chops and carrots from the local
Butcher, and drank too many pints of Guinness
At the town’s only pub. When I threw up,
My new wife was disgusted. We took the bus
To Ballina and discovered there was nothing to do
That afternoon but see a movie and drink
White coffee in a café—it was raining.
I’d married because I didn’t know what
I wanted or who I wanted to be. My wife
Had a life plan. She was an actress
And certain she’d be famous. Now,
Certainty seems like a bad joke people
Play on themselves. Goethe prayed to his
Destiny, but mine didn’t seem carved
From stone or standing with candles burning
In front of it. I poked at the peat fire and read
Paperbacks I’d bought at the airport. As he cut
The chops, the butcher, whose left eye drifted
In a different direction from his right,
Nodded toward the window facing
The North, where the grass and hills glistened
In afternoon sunlight, and said, “You wouldn’t
Think there’s a war going on over there.”
I didn’t know what he wanted me to say.
Bought chops and carrots from the local
Butcher, and drank too many pints of Guinness
At the town’s only pub. When I threw up,
My new wife was disgusted. We took the bus
To Ballina and discovered there was nothing to do
That afternoon but see a movie and drink
White coffee in a café—it was raining.
I’d married because I didn’t know what
I wanted or who I wanted to be. My wife
Had a life plan. She was an actress
And certain she’d be famous. Now,
Certainty seems like a bad joke people
Play on themselves. Goethe prayed to his
Destiny, but mine didn’t seem carved
From stone or standing with candles burning
In front of it. I poked at the peat fire and read
Paperbacks I’d bought at the airport. As he cut
The chops, the butcher, whose left eye drifted
In a different direction from his right,
Nodded toward the window facing
The North, where the grass and hills glistened
In afternoon sunlight, and said, “You wouldn’t
Think there’s a war going on over there.”
I didn’t know what he wanted me to say.
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George Franklin is the author of eight poetry collections, including the recent A Man Made of Stories, and a book of essays, Poetry & Pigeons: Short Essays on Writing (both Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, 2025). Individual poems have been published in Solstice, Nimrod, Rattle, New Ohio Review, and One Art, among others. He practices law in Miami, is a translation editor for Cagibi, teaches poetry classes in Florida prisons, and co-translated, along with the author, Ximena Gómez's Último día/Last Day.
Website: gsfranklin.com Facebook: facebook.com/george.franklin.31542 Instagram: @gsfrnkln |
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Author’s Note:
In “County Mayo, 1975,” I’d just gotten married and had no real idea what to do with my life. This probably isn’t unusual, but that wasn’t comforting at the time. County Mayo in Ireland is a stunningly beautiful place. It’s sad to me now that I didn’t appreciate it more. The contradictions posed by the terrible violence happening not too far away and those incredible landscapes were, like the contradictions in my own life, simply more than I could reconcile. Now, I think that poems come to us often because of all that we aren’t able to understand. They become a way of understanding.