The newly appointed Bard writes a poem about a man raised in Dublin I am still in shock at being asked to write this column. As an angsty millennial who’s writing often borders on whining, I was hardly expecting to be chosen as the tenth Manx Bard. Yet here we are, because everyone loves an underdog.

When I received the news that I had been appointed I was at Creamfields, bopping around in the Steelyard tent to CamelPhat’s funky beats, with around 10,000 other sweaty festivalgoers.

Sadly, this meant I missed my inauguration ceremony. I’m the second ever bard to miss their own shindig, the other being the first bard - great Manx poet T.E Brown - who missed his because he was already dead. If not literary genius, at least we have something in common.

I am an avid music fan, and I recently went to watch the brilliant Coldplay – for the second time - in Dublin. Obviously, I had to sample the iron-rich offerings of the Temple Bar beforehand.

The excitement and anticipation were palpable in the city, but amidst the joy and joviality I couldn’t help but notice the sadness in a man’s face as we locked eyes while I walked across O’Connell Bridge. This poem is for him, whoever he may be or have been.

I would love to think you’re all thrilled at the idea of reading more of my poetry in the near future. Alas, I know for some of you, it will be like eagerly awaiting your next dentist appointment.

Nevertheless, I do hope that my poems resonate with you and make you feel something. So, buckle up, because until the 11th bard comes to liberate you, my words will be gracing you every month. You're welcome in advance.

O’Connell Bridge

He was a son, raised by his adoring Mammy and Da.

Bonny baby, babbled happily at all those who bent down

To coo at him in his cot. Never a nuisance or a bother,

Tiny tot with a big future.

He was a teen, bit of a tearaway but not too troubled.

Chasing girls when he was a hot-blooded boy.

Easy on the eye with his sharp jaw stubbled,

They were coy, but he had the charm.

He was a worker, well paid, lived the life of riley.

The others in the office congregated daily at his desk

For a laugh and lengthy anecdotes. He was spoken of highly.

No shortage of invites to parties and people’s beds.

He was a father, the devoted dad and family man.

Always at recitals, never missed a school nativity.

Then the love of his life died, reliance on whisky began.

Happy memories quickly became history.

He was a drunk, daughters grew up, didn’t care to stay.

They disowned him. Years of futile attempts to get him sober,

All their efforts in vain. His brain fogged, in a state of decay.

Jaundiced skin and a stale odour, closer to death than life.

He was a man, full of spirit and love. First with a joke, gag

A kind word. The world bright for him, until his light became dim.

Now he’s just a faceless ghost buried in a sleeping bag,

Lying on the footpath over O’Connell Bridge.