Finnegan Awake

Am I daft? I wonder as I shake myself awake from a dreamIn which I've seen a photograph of James Joyce's family,At least that's what the faint handwritingOn the white border claimedBut as my eyes traveled up from there,I was puzzled to see only darknessWhere I thought I would find the kind of portraitPopular at the time, from which people stared gravely,As if daring the photographerTo capture what was only a small glimpseOf the bitter fruit we call kinship.Perhaps there was no mystery after allAnd I'd been sent a message from beyond by Joyce himselfTo help me learn what he knew all too well.Family is heaven and it's hell so entwinedYou cannot tell one from the other,But must dwell forever in the dark eternity between the two.Yet, I knew that wasn't quite what he had in mind.I imagined it was because my surname's Finnegan,But then again what difference does that make,I wonder, wishing I could divine my dream runes like some DruidWho knew it would do no goodTo unmask what should stay hidden,To "develop" the negative.Better to take a sedative as I doAnd sink into a deeper kind of sleepAnd not dream, not finally understand the "meaning" of things,Which after all are meaninglessOutside the context of life, death, sex and the rest of it.Yet, as I wake a bit hungover, late for workAnd hearing my helpmate, child and Rover Beginning to take their placesAt the breakfast table and beside it, I'm glad I failedAt my attempt at divinationAnd lived to tell the tale.When I go to breakfast, my girl, Maggie, tells meShe's got something to show me.It's her latest watercolor which lies upon my plate,But all I see is a large black square of paint,So I ask, "What is it then?"She answers, "Jonah swallowing the whale,Or it's you setting sail for Panama in a gale.Aw, it's silly."But I say, "No, it's our lives reduced to ashes."When she asks, "How do you know?"I say, "A great Irish writer told me so."