Dun Laoghaire-Rathdown could reasonably claim to be Ireland's poetry capital, home to the country's only festival devoted solely to poetry and to the only poet-in-residence.
When I was appointed poet-in-residence last November, I expected the red carpet treatment wherever I went. I stepped into a pub on the main street, trying to find a room for a little group I was getting together. I am, I told the man behind the counter, the new poet-in-residence for Dun Laoghaire-Rathdown County Council.
"The wha'?"
"Poet. County council. I was wondering if . . ."
"No way."
"It would only be . . ."
"Definitely not. Now if you don't mind . . ."
What do I do? Everyone asks that. I get to help programme the annual "Poetry Now" festival, picking some of my favourite poets in the world. And mostly that's the nicest part of what is a really nice job.
Trouble is, I live in Dundalk, the last town on the planet to get the literary gossip. So I invite X to read with his old pal Y. Then, a few days later, someone says: "But didn't you know they're sworn enemies?"
No, I didn't actually. Last I heard, X was best man at Y's second marriage, and Y was godfather to X's firstborn. A week later, there's a familiar brogue on my voicemail at home: "Message for Colm. I'm sorry, I can't do the thing with X. I'm run ragged. Bye." Yeah, sure.
What else? I run book clubs. I teach classes to aspiring poets. I answer calls from punters who want to chat about poetry (as opposed to actual poems). I do scary remedial interviews with community radio:
"So, Colin, what's it like to be a poet?"
"What?"
And I get to share an office with four women who are gorgeous and great fun and think I am a weirdo. No, really. It's something you get used to. I spent all my 20s desperate to have others think of me as a regular guy who wrote a bit of poetry. Now I am happy to take advantage of the freedom my perceived eccentricity affords me. I can tell people where to go down the phone, in language not customary for council employees. I can wander out of the office at any given moment, for a pint or an hour's window-shopping. Why? Because I am a poet. Mad.
Whenever I need to seem slightly more normal, like in a workshop or a book club, all I have to do is let them know that I have kids of my own. The facial expressions change visibly. They obviously reckon that if someone trusts me to mind two small children from time to time, then I can't be a total psychopath. Once a woman asked me my kids' names.
"Tommy and Eve," I beamed.
"Gosh," she replied. "Very normal."
THE other thing about a residency like this is that nobody thinks of you as a real writer. And the truth is, you scarcely have a chance to put pen to paper. So gradually, temporarily, you stop thinking of yourself as a writer at all. One of the first calls I got last November was from a guy wanting some pointers on how to become a writer-in-residence.
"What kind of stuff do you write?" I asked in all innocence.
"Tall tales."
"Okay. Do you publish?"
"Not yet. But I want to be a writer-in-residence."
"Brilliant."
Last week I spoke to someone who wanted details of the Poetry Now festival. I told her who would be reading, to come along and to tell all her friends. She said she thought it must be exciting for me to meet real poets. I wanted to scream down the phone: "What the hell do you think I am?" But experience is teaching me diplomacy (first cousin of hypocrisy).
"Brilliant," I said again, and hung up.
It will be brilliant. We have survived (touch wood) the ignominy of becoming the first poetry festival scuppered by foot-and-mouth disease. We have even overcome the drama of having our prize poet call on the day the programme was due back from the printers, to say that he was going skiing instead! If nothing else, I hope this weekend will prove to a few more people that poetry is no longer (or no longer, merely) the preserve of fat men with BO and Aran sweaters who mumble crap poems about saving the hay out the wesht to an audience of six people, four of whom are family and two of whom are asleep.
When it's over, I shall re-learn that monumental selfishness essential to all artistic endeavours. My in-tray will pile up with letters and the red button on my phone will pulse its tailback of unanswered messages. I want to return to that original state of suspicion. I want to end my residency the way I began it, a shadowy figure flitting through offices to heaven knows where, the one the porters call after as he passes their desk:
"Hello, excuse me, where do you think you're goin'?"
Events at the Poetry Now festival continue throughout the weekend, including a Children's Day today from 11 a.m. For booking and further information, contact Dun Laoghaire-Rathdown County Council at tel: 01-205-4719/01-205 4749 or e-mail: arts@dlrcoco.ie