May 24th, 2013

How the fuck could you ever root for a juggernaut? Born in Philadelphia, I was taught to walk through a city far from it’s prime with chin held high, inherently rooting for sports teams that had a reputation as the nations biggest losers: it’s been ingrained in my blood to hate the consistent winner. I’m four thousand miles from Philly and I’ve never been more comfortable.

In 1801, just seven years after the birth of the traveling Irish poet, Michael Moran, the kingdom of Ireland was annexed to Great Britain. Known locally as “Zozimus” and, “The Blind Bard of Liberty”, Moran inherited an underdog persona when childhood illness left him blind at the age of two. His parents sent him in the streets to hustle coins from the beat-down poor folk of his community. In exchange for change, he excitedly recited poems and songs, often condemning the British rule that suppressed his people. He did so with little respect for authority, and his irreverent wit made Moran a local legend.

It’s hard to imagine a drunk blind beggar standing on the Essex Bridge, shouting to passerby’s, “Ye sons and daughters of Erin, Gather round poor Zozimus, yer friend; Listen boys, until yes hear, My charming song so dear”.

There’s an apparent push toward a cultural renaissance all over Dublin, a reawakening of Irish culture,  of Celtic pride, home-grown artists of low and high, but would the Dubliners of 2013 pull out an ear bud  to listen to the vagabond for a moment? I’ve seen fat piles of change in the resting hats of many street musicians, but no bold individual rapping away, essentially naked: flowing fragments of poetry erupting from his mind.

Prowling blogs pertaining to Dublin’s art scene have shown me that the art of spoken word lacks popularity with the young, vibrant army of college educated kids that are battling a recession to bring Dublin back to economic glory and cultural awareness. It seems as sensory overload is as apparent here as it is in Philly; Starbucks on every corner, Burger King next to McDonald’s, fast walkers, fast talkers, junkies jingling Insomnia coffee cups, automobiles ready to run you down if you hesitate; is there a haven left for the poet?

Despite an apparent Westernization and consumerist craze, Dubliners still appreciate a dark twisted humor, reminiscent of their 800 year history as the underdog. Zozimus lies in Glasnevin’s Prospect Cemetery, long dead but not entirely forgotten. His epitaph must still resonate with those holding Dublin’s dark past with pride, “My burying place is of no concern to me, (what’s the point of vanity after death), In the O’connell circle let it be, as to my funeral, all pomp is vain (don’t give me grand burial or grave), Illustrious people does prefer it plain” (I was known, but I was drunk, poor, sad and blind; that’s how you should remember me after death).

Citation

“Michael Moran, Zozimus.” Mypois.ei. N.p.. Web. 27 May 2013. <http://www.mypois.ie/mpoi.php?n=michael-moran-zozimus&i=159842>.

Deasy, Jamie. “New Book Recalls an old street poet of Dublin.” Dublinpeople.com. DublinPeople, 05 Mar 2012. Web. 27 May 2013. <http://www.dublinpeople.com/article.php?id=927>.