Day 4,075—Bloomsday 2025!—

 

Last year it was both Bloomsday and Father’s Day on Sunday. I remember I ran a marathon to celebrate. I asked AI what it knew about Bloomsday and it said this: “Bloomsday is an annual celebration held on June 16th, commemorating the life and works of Irish writer James Joyce, particularly his novel Ulysses. The day is named after the novel's protagonist, Leopold Bloom, and the events of Ulysses all take place on June 16, 1904, in Dublin.”

         I always forget the book is so old. I would love it if we had a book that attempted to provide a comprehensive day in the life of someone from a specific culture. I purchased an edition of the book that is a reproduction of the original printing, featuring annotations on the outside of the book. Inside each page, there is a part where the book ends and the annotations begin on the outside. It isn’t the first book I have seen do that, but it is nice to have both things. The original book and the annotations.

         The first edition of the book isn’t necessarily the best edition, but the timeline is interesting. I have to this day never reread it with the annotations, but I have spent some time looking through the timeline that it starts with. Maybe, this Bloomsday I should commit now to reading some!

         I found this sign today that almost says “Bloomsday.” The full sign says, “Bloomsdale,” but that is still pretty close. I cannot say I have fallen in love with Rolla, but it was fun to spend time on the beach and get to take some pictures in a different area. They have a really impressive park!

 

I asked AI to write different versions of poems written in homage of Bloomsday and this is what I got:

 

Absolutely! Here's a Bloomsday 2025 poem reimagined in the voices of four great poets — Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, Langston Hughes, and Walt Whitman — each with their distinct style and cadence.

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1. Robert Frost Style

(measured, rural-tinged reflection with symbolic forks in thought)

The Man Who Took the Longer Street

He wandered down by merchant stall,
Where shadows clung to Dublin’s wall,
And wondered if the soul grows sweet
By turning corners on the street.

He passed a man with hat askew,
A priest, a girl in stockings blue,
And thought of home, and thought of bread,
Of Molly’s song, and things unsaid.

One could have stayed — just bought the wine —
But something drew him down the line.
Not haste, not fear, nor glory’s bloom —
Just walking through the afternoon.

There’s something Joyce knew deep and right:
That life is not the path but light
Upon the bricks, upon the air—
The bloom we never knew was there.

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2. Emily Dickinson Style

(short, punctuated stanzas with slant rhyme and metaphysical wonder)

Today — Upon the Pavement — Bent

Today — upon the Pavement — bent —
A Man — did trace a firm Descent —
Through Dublin — like a whispered Name —
Too Bold — for Time — too Soft — for Fame —

The Window held a Single Loaf —
The Church — a Ringing — faint and Oaf —
A Woman — singing just beyond —
A Yes — as wide — as God is fond —

I think — if Books — had Breath — and Bone —
They’d walk — as Bloom — does — all alone —
And in his Pockets — folded tight —
The Ordinary — holds the Light —

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3. Langston Hughes Style

(bluesy, rhythmic, straightforward with deep cultural undercurrent)

Dublin’s Got a Soul, Man

Dublin’s got a soul, man —
Old streets hum and tap their shoes.
Leopold Bloom walks quiet,
Thinkin’
Feelin’
Singin’ the Dublin blues.

He ain’t no hero,
Ain’t no saint.
Just a man with a paper
And a smell of paint.

Molly at home with dreams in her bed.
He walks. He wonders.
He hears what’s said.

The city’s rough,
But the city’s fine.
He walks that line
Like it’s almost mine.

James Joyce — he told it.
Told it loud and true.
Now Bloomsday’s risin’
With a whole world in view.

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4. Walt Whitman Style

(expansive, celebratory, bursting with catalogues and democratic exaltation)

I Sing the Soul of Dublin Walking

I sing the soul of Dublin walking!
The cobbled arteries, the trams and tins, the boy with the bun in his pocket!
The laughter of Molly, the curved stir of her Yes, echoing across oceans of ink!
I see Leopold — the everyman, the thinking man, the man of meat and motion —
Stride past the butcher, the banker, the poet, the priest —
He, who carries time not in clocks but in consciousness!
The novel blooms from his very feet —
Each step, a sentence! Each breath, a body!

O Joyce! O June! O jubilant journey!
Bloomsday, you great democratic text of dust and dream!
Let the readers gather, in bowler hats and bright-eyed love,
With pages worn like flags —
And toast the city, the citizen, the book —
The long, lilting, leaf-rustling life of it all!

 

Have a goods Bloomsday!