The Irish Curse

The Irish language is famous, from bardic times, for its curses; a poor host  got a verbal flaying. Likewise praise can be most eloquent an elaborate.  Declarations of love: off the scale.

James Stephens gives a fine example in  the following poem of a blood-curdling curse.

The Glass of Beer

The lanky hank of a she in the inn over there
Nearly killed me for asking the loan of a glass of beer:
May the devil grip the whey-faced slut by the hair
And beat bad manners out of her skin for a year.

That parboiled imp, with the hardest jaw you will ever see
On virtue's path, and a voice that would rasp the dead,
Came roaring and raging the minute she looked at me,
And threw me out of the house on the back of my head!

If I asked her master he'd give me a cask a day;
 But she with the beer at hand, not a gill would arrange!
May she marry a ghost and bear him a kitten and may
The High King of Glory permit her to get the mange.

Dylan Thomas Reading "A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Fire, of a Child in London "

What an amazing resource the Poetry Archive is! Here Dylan Thomas introduces his poetry in that high-blown way that was the fashion. At the age of 16 he declared himself to be exceptional. He was, but I wonder how many listeners threw their eyes up to heaven, and turned the dial. In truth, listening to many of today's poets, I wonder how many still do.

 

  http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/singlePoet.do?poetId=7091#

The Day Room

 

This is where the old men sit,

sacks of coal against a wall;

time to dream

and all their dreams defunct.

A slant of sunlight through the window

like a beam from a projector,

as though, not only heat,

but life itself is somewhere else.

An Interview with Harold Bloom

Vincent Woods interviewing Harold Bloom for RTE's Arts Tonight. Absorbing listening; Bloom's encyclopedic knowledge of literature is jaw-dropping.

http://www.rte.ie/radio/utils/radioplayer/rteradioweb.html#!rii=9%3A10161915%3A0%3A%3A

Flesh and Stone

This painting by Andrea Mantegna was reproduced in our family Bible. As a boy, I used to look at it and marvel. I still marvel.

    It is monumental yet intimate, sculpted stone yet flesh, cold and warm simultaneously. The Lamentation of Christ dates from  about 1480. I imagine Mantegna must have been satisfied with the painting.

    It reminds me of an argument I had, in which I maintained the mental process for artist and poet is very similar. Both are striving for a striking composition, new angle, a different perspective; something that make the whole greater than its parts. 

    This image achieves it from the torn holes in Christ’s feet to the expression on His face, dignity and torture.

Life is short

The River Took Me was first published in the Prairie Schooner, Irish Number, December 2011.

 

The River Took Me 

Once, in a sodden flaggered field

beside the river,

the current took me;

not a canoe but a trout,

a water’s flint smoothed by its flow,

a ripple’s almond. 

All sleekness and fluidity,

all instinct;

a lidless eye running,

seeing and discarding,

gorged on movement,

passing all argument.

Pub Yap

First published in THE SHOp Poetry Magazine:

Mrs Clancy

Mrs Clancy pulling a pint,
asking John Quinn about Kate Nealon’s
accident the other evening outside Lawlor’s
when Tadhg Foley comes in,
says, “How’s Tadhg. A pint Tadhg?”
“Hello Mrs Clancy”

“Here y’are John.” She takes the silver.
“She had to leave the bike in Mulhall’s,”
“William Featherstone’s gone over, Missus.”
“Not the first time, Tadhg” she says.
“No, nor the last either” says Tadhg
 with a bit of a chuckle.

“Mike Deegan has the rest of it in anyway”
says John. “And how’s Breege?” she asks;
“A lot better than yesterday, but she’ll hardly be right.”
“I suppose not.” says Mrs Clancy
climbing up on her stool at the end of the bar,
“I suppose Maeve will have to do.”

“Wasn’t Maggie Deegan related to the Nealon’s?”
quizs Tadhg. “ She was, and Brennans in Clooncraff.”
Terry Watchorne comes in. “How’s Terry.
A pint Terry?” Climbing off the stool,
over to the tap, lifting her arm, she says
“Wasn’t that awful about Kate Nealon.”

Billy Collins Makes You Want to Write a Poem

This TED talk by Billy Collins is essential viewing for poets who are drying up, school-goers who need to be convinced that poetry means anything and anyone who has ever said they don't like poetry. A very entertaining 15 mins.

Jesus The Aviator

Jesus the fighter pilot

has served in Iraq and Afghanistan:

6,000 flight hours; 1,800 combat hours. 

Described as cool-headed, aggressive;

when asked for his opinion, he says

he backs America all the way. 

The much decorated F-18 pilot claims

he’s come a long way, his teachings are smarter;

“follow the dollar gospel” he says,

  “In God We Trust”.

A Visual Jolt

Sometimes an unexpected glimpse trips a mental switch that triggers  understanding. It maybe the shock that jolts clarity, or maybe the novel view of something familiar.

  

Seeing, through

this patterned pane,

 

your face: 

whole but distorted

like our love.

My Úna Bhán

One of the great Irish love songs love songs was written by Tomás Láidir Mac Coisdealbha (fl.1660s) from Moylurg, Boyle. It will feature in the forthcoming Roscommon anthology.

Tomás was in love with Úna Ní Dhiarmada, but her father considered him less than suitable and forbade her having any contact with him. She, grief-stricken, became very sick and eventually her father relented and permitted Tomás to visit her. On leaving, he vowed that if a messenger sent by Mac Diarmada did not reach him before he crossed the river, he would never return nor speak to her again.

He rode slowly and delayed at the river, even in the middle of the river till eventually, goaded by his servant, he crossed. The messenger arrived but too late. He killed his servant with a single blow.

Úna died heart-broken and was buried on Trinity island on Lough Key. On his death, his request to be buried beside her was granted; it is said that a tree above his grave inter-twined with a tree above hers.

WB Yeats, on visiting the island, searched for the inter-twined trees but failed to find them.   

It not generally known but I, myself, have endured as sad an experience in my own past - it is well known that you must not look back as a lover is leaving. On that dreadful day, I said goodbye to my love and very purposefully turned from her and walked away. However, I had just gone a short distance when it began to rain so I went to open my umbrella. A sudden gust of wind caught the opening umbrella and wheeled me round so that I found myself looking directly at her. To my horror, the clothes she was wearing  now hung on a block of stone that had her likeness. It was standing exactly where I had left her; the index finger of her right hand frozen in the act of removing a tear.

The eyes have it

 

 

These images by Lucas Cranach the Elder are very arresting. Despite being 600 years old there’s something very fresh and immediate about them. The eyes are compelling, the depth of emotion they convey; it looks as though they are seeing all the world’s sorrow to the end of time. The paintings give me an urge to write, and that is one of the reasons I am always interested in the work of painters and photographers.

 

 

Trees like..........................

Elaine Leigh's painting brought another painting to mind, and so this poem.

What The Artist Sees: 

 

these trees like the ladies of Avignon,

shamelessly flaunting  themselves,

streaming earth to heaven,

arms thrown upward, presenting  so fiercely. 

In their assemblage: formidable, fearsome,

the usual meaning is altered,

(a shared purpose outside today’s understanding),

their collective nakedness guarding some primeval dogma.

 

Those Marches

 

When  they play those marches

and the drums tip away, 

I think of Brendan

alone in his sitting room,

flicking channels,

news to news;

dinners collecting on the table. 

When they play those marches

and the drums tip away, 

I think of Peter

who hated cameras;

his reflection

in the mirror

between the bottles. 

 

When they play those marches

and the drums tip away, 

I think of Tom

who asked for a present

on his death bed;

I didn’t have one,

no one else came. 

When they play those marches

and the drums tip away, 

I think of John

who asked me to visit,

gentlest man

I’ve ever known;

I didn’t.  

When they play those marches,

play those marches;

when they play those marches,

the drums tip away.

What the camera saw

They often  tell lies, but sometimes the camera catches a moment of truth. This isn't a classic poem but it catches a poignant moment.

The Photograph.

 

You, longing for another

who wasn’t there. 

She was leaning against me

but I didn't care. 

That sunny day

I was looking at you, 

confident my feelings

were not on view. 

But now I see

as the camera saw, 

that moment’s disappointment,

a lifetime cannot thaw.