Country Childhood

I was blessed to have a country childhood. The freedom to come and go without the constant monitoring for safety. We had the run of the town and surrounding countryside. I would like to think that it's still that way now, but probably not.



The Country Child.

 

The country child

runs in and out of rain showers

like rooms; 

sees the snake-patterns in trains,

the sun's sword-play in the hedges

and the confetti in falling elder blossoms; 

knows the humming in the telegraph poles

as the hedgerow's voice

when tar bubbles are ripe for bursting; 

watches bees emerge from the caverns

at the centres of buttercups,

feels no end to a daisy chain, 

feels no end to an afternoon;

                     walks on ice though it creaks;

sees fish among ripples and names them; 

is conversant with berries

and hides behind thorns;

slips down leaves, behind stones; 

fills his hands with the stream

and his hair with the smell of hay;

recognizes the chalkiness  

of the weathered bones of sheep,

the humour in a rusted fence,

the feel of the white beards that hang there. 

The country child

sees a mountain range where blue clouds

are heaped above the horizon,

 

sees a garden of diamonds

through a hole scraped

in the frost patterns of his bedroom window  

and sees yet another world

when tints of cerise and ochre

streak the evening sky. 

He knows no end, at night

he sneaks glimpses of Heaven

through the moth-eaten carpet of the sky.

Notice to children

The Aos Sí (Sídhe), the fairy folk of Ireland are alive and well and are living beneath the sídhe, fairy mounds dotted all around Ireland. They are reputed to be the Tuatha Dé Danann who retreated underground after defeat in battle by the Milesians.Though sometimes referred to as a beautiful race, and always ready to dance, they are also associated with carrying out a range of dastardly deeds,  particularly the stealing of babies, and sometimes people not so young.

 

Children’s Song 
                                     from Above Ground Below Ground
 

The piper’s notes come whistling clear,

as in the days of yore;

they leap and prance to the piper’s tune

as wildly as before. 
 

For still they dance, the fallen ones,

beneath earth’s prison door;

for still they dance, the fallen ones,

enraptured by the score. 
 

A child that plays among the stones

might tempt them from their lair

to substitute a grey-haired imp

for a boy with golden hair. 
 

For still they dance, the fallen ones,

in the heat of the molten core,

for still they dance, the fallen ones,

beneath our earthen floor. 
 

Now children who must pass the mound,

respect this ancient lore;

and when at last you curl to sleep

be sure you’ve locked the  door. 
 

For still they dance, the fallen ones,

to this endless encore;

for still they dance, the fallen ones,

and will for ever more.

 

 

 

Bird of Paradise

 

 

One of my abiding memories from a visit to the Skelligs, too many years ago now, is of gannets moving to and fro in the air between us and the islands. Of all the scenes I’ve ever witnessed, this was the most magical; it seemed we were approaching an enchanted place, a rock fallen from Paradise. Apart from the spectacular beauty of the spire-like Skellig Michael rearing heavenward out of the ocean, the gannets,  white scarves drifting on thermals, gleaming in sunlight, looked like mythical creatures freed from gilt cages to mesmerise any would be invaders.

To soar, shining, across the heavens is an image of divinity. To waft effortlessly is an attribute of a creature whose divinity is so ingrained that it is taken for granted.

I came across a gannet, its head disappearing into the sand, its wings broken like a wrecked ship, yet its beak still pristine like a perfectly forged dagger, and got a strong urge to write a poem about it. Not a very original idea: the pointlessness of vanity when all too soon our beautiful heads disappear into the soil.   

 

 

 

 

 

The Wake

1

When Katy Tyrell’s eyelids were closed,

they stopped the clock,

covered the mirror,

and she was waked. 

Entwined in her hands, a rosary beads,

‘Je suis L’imaculée conception’

was embroidered on her shroud;

everyone said she looked every inch a Cherokee.

2

 

After she was laid out, with the ticking stopped

and a sheet blocking the devil’s door, 

he said, “ Let’s sit down to a game.”

“Shuffle the cards, dale herself in.”  

“Lay’ve the window open

and mind, don’t step in her way”

Jane Clarke's collection 'The River'

I am delighted to hear that Jane Clarke's collection The River, published by Bloodaxe Books is now available and will be launched at four different locations around Ireland in the coming weeks.
Anne Enright will do the honours in Dublin, in Hodges Figgis on 24th June at 6.30 pm. Marie Heaney will launch the collection on the 26th June in Bridge Street Books, Wicklow; it will be launched on the 1st of August as part of the Boyle Arts Festival and in Charlie Byrne's Bookshop, Galway on Friday 14th August.
                     
                      You can learn more about Jane Clarke at her website: http://www.janeclarkepoetry.ie/