The Swearing Lady is an ex Galway, now Cork blogger, mid twenties and the
most genuinely exciting female writer on her generation blathering todau i
reckon, as she tells it as it is, in her own unique and inimitable way, true
comedical grace one could claim she had been born with, and now the gifted
moo'er is practicing, on the page writing the funniest of any cpollim
written by a wimmin in the aul sod today.

This situating in the irish tradition and exile is all about balance and
reality, and the link i make between Boland Byrne and Meehan, is the glaring
fact of a dublin backdrop being a primary "undreamt accident..that made me,"
as yeats eyeing the truth of ones trained aesthete i in tripple I glimmer
and glow, flitting the island way, Dublin, for some reason a city frull of
natural born prophets of poetic utterance.

And whilst this line weights tongue in cheek por moi ms Byrne, a genuine
thread i detected is just how much inherent confidence the native "there"
can muster when the trick of naming itself is executed, mainly by accident,
for andrew is right about meehan, she is the one all her sisterly
competition have been pumped with as the resident ms star on the domestic
change for life readings.

I witnessed Boland and Meehan on the final night of the bank of ireland
poetry do, theo dorgan did a very moving spiel, paula and evan read, and two
realities both involving poets of immense poetical gravitas, one
representing a different poetic reality, the American dream of triple A
amergin occuring in a native way on the ground of "there," ones mirror of
exile and return is all one has an as an irish "windbag" as the island's
real top red rag queen of immense poetical I in cork calls her competition.
"A nation of windbags" and whilst one would never dream of calling meehan
byrne and boland windbags, the hint is enough for a context to out, that
a=of basic reversel, when the mind expands when it finds a home, natives in
exile non native domestic skaters strapped up, whupping ass and silent in
the liffey green dance of spacer and magi, archest claim of silliest origin,
alls fair and witnessing this speacial event at the arts centre on the final
night of its incarnation as one, i thought that Byrne represents the best of
both, a meehan who sings in her own note, a dubliner in the best classless
way of being a straight true gas, and yet ruling the roost as the inheritor
of the american-irish mythos of pure fair play and re-invention.

Outside the native culture of her conditioned utterance, Mairead is the
natural star, pass herself off as a national new yearker in no time at all,
imagine carol duffy hitting the streets of doorty aul dub, seeking to nut a
bohsfan in Cabra, it aint gonna happ[en now is it, for mairead has combined
both a love and passion for live proving why she is punching well above her
weight as a poet whose cream, chance, accident and graft, brought her
current to a contemperoray valancy, in an aggregate of language streets
beyond the quotidian, and though Boland be queen bee, byrne is the low-key
ollamh, stilletoe of pure craft and shiela e murphy in the mix as byrnes
natural native lore, american paula at ground zero in the notial of national
Love, as the island mob raider proclaim it methinks, the ism that just is,
each in the wood chissled on taupe granite, flitting in the sidhe fey way of
rann and lay, air and failing gracefully, mairead does all five and more, a
natural fawn of oisin and etheral when she reads, boland after a six months
reading tour of non stop live appearance, all brittle or mettallic huw honed
off in the live arena, for byrne, like michale longley, shines humanity from
every poere, and behind all three, i would put, paul the male meehan and
real durcan, arch of all moment, his "I am the centre of the unoiverse" poem
at kennelly's tribute, an otherworldy affair, same as paulas reading that
night. When the greats gather, its always natural and cream rises, eeven
thought the field and fray of litearcy be - especially in dublin - immensley
populated the most talented natural windbags on earth, the island queen of
memory fans singing for a drea of justice and freedom to speak of fair play
in a transparently poetical way, Mairead Byrne for a new title of Herr Most
Online of Spacers singing her own way, the song all myth nutters know, the
nation of "there" "other" and failure, swung the soul open, incredulous yet
not blown asunder in the gasp for air and freedom to be ones singular
poetical presence in reality, be it sydney, boston, london or cork, we are
all sidhe, with rite and duty to claim our right to be born as whoever we
be, sidhe i say, is the new s/he, po-mo moany not, a lanacashire rose,
Brigante red, pricked the utterance of a brythonic goidel, mairead byrne
does not fail without a rare natural wit and grace when spinning the dream
on her seaboard fiefdom in the united states, an ear cocked to Love and
tongue of pure honey, mimesis itself she is, with casey as MC, amerin in
tigh fili, Aine;s munster sidhe trip from tree top to bare bole stem above
Hades, who'll cross with me blind and beleive MB makes her own way and is
first for today, sing to us again in the call and return please byrne..