Someone reminded me of a poem I wrote 17 years ago, when the most newest thing out of Drumcree was not a world-beating tennis player, but a terrible tragedy. Eddie Izzard decided to go there anyway and lift spirits: something for which he should be lauded.
It may not be a traditional ode format, but so what…
ODE TO IZZARD ©Perry McDaid 1999
In the wings, ganglia run on the spot;
fuelled by a few deep desperate breaths
as inner attention drifts to Drumcree,
only to be reined in by professional discipline.
He must entertain.
Too long have these people been denied
Plunging onto stage he accepts his lot
for, even amidst sorrow and death,
the victims need their dose of levity.
Applause cascades from balcony, met by heartening din –
like sweet summer rain –
of fountainous ovation supplied
by eager, grinning stalls.
Appreciation crashes at his feet
like a great Atlantic swell, a stark test
of cool. We love his pert, droll anarchy;
we are grateful this extravagant comic paladin
chose to come again:
to bring laughter where we weep and sigh
‘neath welcoming raiment.