Dingle Races

When Andy and I were in Ireland, we stayed in Dingle for a couple of days. We were fortunate enough to be there when the Dingle Races were being held, actually, right across the street from the hostel we were staying at. I wrote this poem in remembrance of that day and the races. I've attached a couple of pictures from the races.


“Dingle Races”
The cars line up along the road aside the rock hewn walls,
On rising hills and in the dirt.
Trucks and trailers side by side beneath graying skies alive with rain, being held
In honor of the day when boys become men in colored silks and
Tight white pants with boots right to the knee, holding crops like their breath.
They’ve been waiting for this day to break from stables and quiet fields;
To round the corners with shouts in their ears of Irish near and far,
(And a few Americans come for holiday). Being seen by girls on
Father’s shoulders hoisted up to see them run in the shadow of
Brendan who journeys still, blessing this and that and all who come
To see the races in makeshift bleachers or standing near metal posts
Where they’re an arm away from horses decked out for this day, like warriors
Getting face paint when headed into war.
With braided manes and soft brushed tails.
They race on grass, still waving in the wind until trodden down by hooves flying
By and as quickly as it was all begun, it ends with horses being loaded home and
Jockeys slapped on the back until Brendan stands alone and smiles at Dingle’s race of man.