Religion embedded in the machinery of war

I think  it was the late seventies. I turned on the  news one evening, and there was a report showing a priest, along with a minister of some other Christian denomination, blessing cruise missiles before they were deployed in Europe.

The wording has stayed with me, the justification for carrying out a Christian ritual on instruments of mass destruction. It struck me as almost surreal. It seemed to me to be an abuse of the religion, to use one of its rituals in this context. No doubt, there are those that'll say the prayer below is appropriate, but can anyone really believe that Jesus would have blessed cruise missiles? 

 

 

 

Cruise Missiles          

Jesus, the padre prayed,

direct these missiles onto the heads

of our enemies.

 

Except that’s not what he said. He said,

we pray that these missiles will be efficient

in their function.

 

Then. Up Jesus,

ride them clean down their throats.

Except, of course, he didn’t say that either;

 

but blessed them with holy water.

After that, the missiles were dispatched,

American missionaries to Europe.

 

 

In Mayo

 

The sky:

 

            rags on bushes

            in a wintry gale.

 

The barbed-wire fence:

 

            a lunatic's music

            sprinting down the valley.

 

The mountains:

 

           tossed heads

           with their silvering sheen.

 

Telephone wire:

 

            daisy-chained voices

            humming out of tune.

 

The lake:

 

            a shirt that blew

            off a line.

 

Rowan tree:

 

            tongue on the mountain

            shaping high C.

 

 

 

Reading at Strokestown International Poetry Festival

 

It’s almost May. It’s almost Strokestown Poetry Festival time. The festival is on from April 30^th to May 3^rd. This year featured poets include Iggy McGovern, Peggy Gallagher, Paddy Bushe, James Harpur,  Eva Bourke and Vincent Woods.There is also the launching of a new collection, The Boys of Bluehill, by Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin. I’ll be reading with Gerry Boland at 4.15pm on Saturday, May 2^nd.

It’s a fantastic festival with a very pleasant and laid-back ambience. Most of the events are held in Strokestown House, home of the Famine Museum, a visitors’ attraction of national (if not international) importance. Added to that , a few great pubs and you’ve got a really enjoyable weekend.

Festival Programme: http://www.strokestownpoetry.org/?page_id=1538

The following weekend, I expect to be reading with a group of poets as part of Canalaphonic Music and Culture Festival in Rathmines. Details of this should appear on the Canalaphonic website.

Canalaphonic Music and Culture Festival:  http://canalaphonic.com/category/latest-news/

At Sartre's Funeral

This poem has little to do with Sartre or Simone de Beauvoir, but the image of her sitting in a chair above  his grave got me started. I didn't see a photograph, so it was easier to envisage her as, almost, sitting by her hearth.

It is one of a number of poems that would not have been written if I had seen the image as it actually was. I wrote a number of poems on the subject of the felos in Galician carnaval (published in a chap-book, Felos aínda serra, by Amastra-N-Gallar, 2004; see link in side panel); I saw the images in black and white; had I seen  the many photographs which were in colour I would not have been able to write them.

They Gave Me A Chair.

 

They gave me a chair

so I could sit beside the grave,

like a woman painted in

after the funeral crowds had gathered.
 

 

And I, his lover, was looking down

as though this earth was some sort of heaven,

thinking

I'd prefer it south-facing

or he could do with a bit more space

or some other such nonsense.
 

 

Then alone again, I found,

fixed above all my memories,

the picture of a coffin

on the floor of an empty room

as seen from above.

Trap

I can't remember the circumstances in which this poem was written, and that's probably a  good thing.

 

Trap

 

I was in a hawthorn,

trapped in its branches;

all arms, hands and fingers

prevailing on me not to struggle. 

I was an exhibit in a jar

ragged and shock-eyed,

praying for a passer-by

where ravens perch still for hours. 

I was a storm-blown tatter

caught in another’s stitching;

my cries drifting into the sky

nonchalant like dandelion seeds.