Martello Tower

july has been a month of forts ... (i write out my self-imposed exile) from central park to sandy cove belgrade's citadel to old dubrovnik (but maybe now i'll write a modern poem disregard historical valour) i like the way joyce twisted facts made buck mulligan & the other one appear more evil than they truly were (although there's something of deceit in that as well of malicious intents behind that sorrowful eye patch ...) i prefer the fort that's crumbling whose original enemy remains unclear the one that oscar wilde's father had a hand in shoring up on the aran islands its stones sprawling now over acres of tourist-stamped ground mystical as the ancients (napoleon never did invade ireland) & now the martello tower's a museum but dubrovnik still remembers bombs medieval chic ... where is history hiding now? the pigeon squats in the shade picking at stones in the hope of a stray pistahcio shell ... likewise the cameras line up with the tower in their trigger sights & postcards have replaced the living meanings & reasons - the artefact (as the unreal reconstructed world)

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