Written for Eureka Street in May 2018, on the first anniversary of the death of Brian Doyle. Some poets submit their work carefully presented, bio-lines attached, picture perfect. Other poets send a cache of new expressions with commentaries, back stories, a dozen bytes of miscellanea, sometimes regardless of the submission guidelines. A handful treat the submission email address as an opportunity to mailbox every new poem that fits the bill. The late, great Brian Doyle was one of the latter. Unlike some other poets of the compose-dispose school, however, Brian’s poetry was anything but a matter of diminishing returns. No sooner had all the components of his latest composition clicked than it landed in the editor’s Inbox with some remark in the Subject line like “this one might tickle your fancy.” Frequently it was the one word, ‘and’. The poetry just kept on coming. The evidence, from line one onwards, was unmistakeable Doyle. Imitation was impossible,...