Bloomsday 2022

by David Betteridge, with image by William Murphy

Dear language-king,
you crafted sovereign treasures
that we glutton readers crave.
Dire digger in the rib of too-too-solid, sullied flesh,
thanks for the blessings and the bliss
your mintings gave.
Unflaggingly, your Yes-wells
spring.

Wharnow are alle your brainbairns, say?
Not gone to Kingdoom come, thank Gud!
think Gutenberg! but no,
few fadoms down, where een-one goes,
there, in Joycesome mined, full-lexiconed,
they gab and grow.

Ex-centric and rebellious son,
you split the etyms of our Umpire's tongue,
and loosed on us

                  your lovely Merrydance and Meaningsong:

They gyre their gear's gimble
through funs fair and nimble,
crying factions and fictions,
believe, be live, O!
crying rusings and raising,
be kind, be care, O!

Joyce, your words, sonorous
in Space-Time, sing and ring.

Kind cosmos-maker, earth-quaker,
you put a blessing and a Bloom
on everything.