poems by brian power · where akhmatova with food parcels . waited in line, ... what was his name?...
TRANSCRIPT
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Copyright © Brian Power 2006 Cover Design: Alice Campbell Printing: Leinster Leader, Naas, Co. Kildare ISBN 0 9527922 1 6 First published 2006. Bayleaf Publications, c/o Sue Ryder House, Dalkey, Co. Dublin. [email protected] All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author is grateful to the editors of publications in which some of these poems have appeared or are due to appear. They include News Four, Riposte, Spirituality, and various parish newsletters. Readers of Riposte, who voted a piece from a previous collection by the author as their first choice for the year 2005, merit a special mention. Several people gave much appreciated help with suggestions, selection and compilation. Foremost among these are the members of the Bayleaf Publications team who have continued to provide the advice, practical assistance and encouragement without which this collection could not have been completed. They are Paddy Morton, Gerry and Winifred Jeffers, and Doreen Browne. Brian Power is a retired priest. On leaving school he worked for three years in the Electricity Supply Board. After theological studies he was ordained in Rome, then served in hospital and university chaplaincies and in parish ministry in Larkhill/Whitehall, Inchicore, Bray, South Boston (when pursuing graduate studies at Boston College), Dun Laoghaire, Rialto, Sandymount, Ballybrack and Killiney. Having had two short story collections published by Egotist Press and Tansey Books, he received a Hennessy Award in 1973. After that he collaborated in social research and the production of reports, sponsored by Dun Laoghaire Drugs Awareness Group, the Medico-Social Research Board, the Society of St. Vincent de Paul in Ireland and the National Council for the Elderly. His article and stories have appeared in newspapers and magazines, including Travel Express, Eirigh, Caritas, Reality, The Furrow, The Irish Press, Arts in Ireland, Aquarius, The Sunday Independent, The Remnant, The Sunday Tribune, Intercom, The Journal of Irish Literature, The Irish Catholic, The Catholic Standard, Link-Up, Spirituality, Doctrine and Life, and Books Ireland. This is his fourth collection of poems.
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Table of Contents
New Rain on Flags 7 Tragedy in the Livingroom 8 Dying 9 Burial of a Freedom Fighter 10 Waiting 11 Grey Rock 12 After All these Years 13 On Retreat in Marianella 14 After a Blizzard in Dun Laoghaire 15 Hope for Russia 16 Morning Prayer 17 Striving 18 Wrong Place Wrong Time 19 Clearing Shelves 20 Rich and Poor 21 Prayer? 22 Fly 23 Vanishing Angels 24 Jesus 25 To a Friend in Dementia 26 Stumbling 27 Rejection 28 Death of a Young Poet 29 Mighty Words 30 Scandals 31 To a Young Friend in Prison 32 Faith 33 Jesus Saves 34 Dear Suburban Dweller 35 A Silver Anniversary 37 A Poem for Noel 38 Victims 39 What Can One Do? 40 The Final Horror 41 Where are the Clowns? 42 Silver Wedding 43 Frailty 44 For Pope John Paul 11 45 Twilight 46 Early Morning 47
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Tuesday 8th June 2004 48 The Hedge 49 Mission Sunday 50 Transit 52 Walking the Strand 53 For Sheila Calling 54 For Csezlaw Milosz 55 Running Out of Witches 56 Lighthouse Blinking 57 Night Prayer 58 Some Thoughts for Rock Fans 59 Greeting Old Friends 60 The End is Consolation 61 Wings White on Black 62 September Sun 63 Vocation 64 Finding the Healer 66 A Bardic Nurture 67 Welcoming Sparrows 68 Remembrance 69 The Man Who Believed the Newspaper 70 Was it a Moorhen? 71 A Sort of Sharing 72 Memorial Letter for Bishop Des 73 A Sociologist Looks Back 74 January Morning 76 Near Thing on Lesley Avenue 77 Holy Thursday 5.30 a.m. 78 At Sandycove 79 No Lasting City 80 CHILDREN’S CORNER To a Grandnephew 81 Children’s Corner: A Christmas Story 82
Back to top
7
New Rain on Flags
Some moments freeze for us.
Half a century ago
after Compline in Roscrea Abbey
a farmer sniffed the dampness and said,
There’s no smell on earth more wonderful
than new rain on flags.
I looked sideways. What did I expect
to see? Angel eyes beaming
in that weather-beaten face?
What I saw was eyelids closed
and thick lips curled round
the stem of a drowning pipe.
The voice goes on echoing when
challenges besiege the mind. Back to top
8
Tragedy in the Livingroom
We grew up carefree
or miserable in private sorrow.
The young seem nobler now
and since television exploded
dark secrets in the livingroom
they organise collections
to relieve famine far away.
And yet – last night I saw
a soldier bayonet a boy
who died there at our feet
and nobody screamed
or rushed to block the scene
and still I am not sure
whether that death was real
or merely entertainment. Back to top
9
Dying
Sometimes death seems a friend
too slow in coming. I recall
a boy thin as a cane
chest heaving in effort
to breathe. He found the strength
to whisper, ‘I don’t want to die’
and I longed to have the power
to say, ‘You need not die’.
The young cling to life
as nature dictates they should;
but is it the pain rather than
the passing that most of us fear? Back to top
10
Burial of a Freedom Fighter
In the graveyard of the saints
at Clonmacnoise
on a cold clear day we buried
Lorcan’s father
who had suffered too long for tears.
Beneath the cross
his wife lay waiting in the sand-fine clay.
Boy soldiers fumbling
with rifles and bayonets firing
poorly timed volleys
reminded us this coffined body fought
an almost forgotten
foe. From marshy lakes
the trumpeter’s reveille
stuttered back a hesitating echo. Back to top
11
Waiting
I wanted to parcel her in my arms
and undo the laced mysteries at her throat
but the Spirit of the Lord said, Wait,
wait until Adele invites you in.
So, I waited
and waited. Back to top
12
Grey Rock
A roomful of landscapes
was what you left your wife to sell
when you and your future died.
Your grey rockface with a ripple
of blue sea beyond it –
that kept one buyer trustful
of the co-creative power
of hymns to honour the earth. Back to top
13
After All These Years
At once I know her –
that face unforgettable
though in a crowd.
She knows she’s still attractive.
I like that.
Lines people call crows’ feet
cannot scar her
but serve to sprinkle pleasantries
on her admirers
who form a ring around
her epicentre
oblivious of perils
that lie within. Back to top
14
On Retreat in Marianella
Three people in a field
strangers to each other
with independent pursuits -
a woman with unleashed terrier
at her call, a listless boy
striking hurley to leather ball,
and me soul-stirring.
Chestnut king, you’ll bury
all three if you’re not levelled
to make room for a conference
hall. Familiar shrubs
have been gobbled by builders’
blades. Wildcats still
crawl in long grass watching
for winged feeders dropping
to insects from the seeming
security of your embracing
branches. Do those others
know someone is watching
with benign intent? Back to top
15
After a Blizzard in Dun Laoghaire
A bluebacked magpie, satin belly fat,
lights on bare branches in an apple tree.
Below a cat is making furtive tracks
in search of food – no arctic play for her.
The snow gown on the far-off head of Howth
is ragged, muddied; thawing has begun.
No sign of the ferry mooring (the crew’s on strike).
The bay lies placid, pale in winter sun,
nothing stirring save confetti squalls
of gulls on reconnoitre. Television
and radio chronicle yesterday’s losses
but our window greets the splendour of today. Back to top
16
Hope for Russia
Can you describe this? a woman asked.
Akhmatova said, I can.
A clinical sun dissected
the cloud above the prison wall
where Akhmatova with food parcels
waited in line, savant eye
recording the moment for a day
when people might dare leave poems
lying open on kitchen tables. Back to top
17
Morning Prayer
A voice from three thousand years ago
warns of the shortness of life
that we may gain wisdom of heart.
Knowing is one thing, understanding another.
When he finished writing Psalm Eighty-nine
did the poet stay quiet for the rest of the day?
He’s not around for us to ask how he felt
about a job well done. What was his name?
Did King David commission his work?
Give success, he prays, to the work of our hands.
Whatever your name was, dear scribe,
the work of your hand has endured. Back to top
18
Striving
Poems I write
when dreaming
leave no trace
beyond a feeling
they have pierced
the dark more keenly
than any I completed.
Straining to retrieve
my masterpiece from
the vault of perfectibility
I face another failure
and garner a redeeming
joy from the heroic
act of striving. Back to top
19
Wrong Place Wrong Time
I felt I was in the wrong place at the time –
who knows if it was really the wrong time?
I knew that people in a time of war
or famine had reason to feel this way
and was aware that nothing like war or famine
had ill-starred my life. War never
came closer than my father being called
for air raid protection duties on the night
a short-sighted German pilot dropped a bomb
on a Dublin suburb.
But when it was proposed the Gothic church
where I was titular director be restored
and I agreed because it seemed so noble
to preserve a thing of beauty, I murmured
‘I’m in the wrong place at the wrong time’.
But who knows if the time was really wrong?
All I knew was this time and place could never
seem right again to one who had forsaken
book-keeping for shepherding a segment
of God’s good people. God needs
accountants too but an accountant
turned shepherd and turned back again
can only grumble quietly to his soul. Back to top
20
Clearing Shelves
Too much sorrow too much pain my eyes have seen
but anyone alive has seen as much
now that the world’s encompassed in a box.
From the dark November void, where those have gone
who were my intimates, quiet voices speak.
But other voices whisper from the shelves
whose timbre I recognise from reading
history and fiction. No matter which
they tell of worlds and aeons of grief and loss
until my heart cries out to God in protest.
Now I who’ve sprinkled dead pages with useless
tears must entrust the world to Jesus
crucified and risen. Save for that Holy Book
my books I must in sacrifice sweep
from their shelves. May others cherish them. Back to top
21
Rich and Poor
Am I brother to the rich man Dives
watching Lazaruses by the thousand
struggling to survive?
Worrying not acting
sometimes I cast crumbs
more often plan for others
to bring justice. Any time
I throw open my door
danger comes in with Lazarus
for Lazarus cannot be relied on
to behave in genteel fashion. Back to top
22
Prayer?
Is this prayer? I asked the air
or am I praying to myself
seeking an undeserved rest
putting off washing the delph…
What is the test of real prayer?
Is it where God approaches
through an immensity of listening
for my too rare silences? Back to top
23
Fly
You cling winter fly
to the sunlit paint
of the window sill
your life filtering out -
perhaps you do not know ?
When human life is ebbing
we know it as we cling
to the loves that warmed
but cannot hold us. Back to top
24
Vanishing Angels
Where were the guardian angels when the mushroom
cloud descended on Nagasakai?
Where was the Angel of that city?
Where were the guardians of the little ones?
Why did they not turn the cloud back in its course?
Perhaps the angels of the scientists are teaching
mighty minds what happens
when atoms and such tiny forces are split.
Everyone needs a guardian angel.
Especially the scientists.
Maybe even more so politicians.
And theologians.
And I must not forget myself.
Yes, all of us.
We must not let our angels disappear. Back to top
25
Jesus
Sometimes it’s like loving a ghost
the torment of absence being as great
as the fervour of the first emotion.
Theologians distinguish the historical Jesus
from the Jesus of faith. Either way
you can be equally elusive.
Yet I know I cannot rouse myself without you
know there’s an Evil I can’t face without you .
Jesus, pointer to the stars,
sign me through the mire. Back to top
26
To a Friend in Dementia
You knew not only Christ
but many of his saints
about whose lives you wrote
thousands of pages.
You have forgotten them all
even Christ -
but surely Christ will still
remember you. Back to top
27
Stumbling
As a child will offer a daisy chain
to the mother who helped him make it
so I offer gifts to the hidden
creator who bestows them
and waves as through a window
at me trying to stumble upward. Back to top
28
Rejection
Dear Editor, I wrote, no need to apologise.
If my work’s not up to standard
you should not dream of printing it.
What I wanted to say was difficult:
Old friend, you’ve always encouraged
my efforts; I realise I’m straining
to preserve my mind as my body
fails, and descend to writing
for the sake of writing, something
we both know a writer should not do.
29
On the Death of a Young Disabled Poet
Physically challenged?
One way of describing a condition
that demands surrender or the will to fight
to conquer limitations.
And it’s true we all have those to overcome;
we can acknowledge that though deep inside
nothing contradicts
the facts – inability to walk, to prattle
as other children do. Communication
was the great challenge
and with parental care you achieved that
in ways that were subtle and unexpected,
poignant now poetry
remains as reminder of the difference
that after years of perseverance became
your strength.
For everyone who loved, suffered and cared.
30
Mighty Words
Transusbstantiation and Transignification
are mighty words that encompass
separate worlds of meaning.
The one who receives the wafer
that falls light upon the tongue
asks no question about meaning
as she entrusts her life to an eternal
simplicity she does not seek to define.
31
Scandals
The wind last night blew down a sycamore
whose dominance, we assumed, would last for ever.
Looking back, seeing so much brittle
valour, acknowledge the well meant lives
of many castigated by youthful judges.
The pity of intentions undermined
by human flaws should stir us always and
remind us once we choose to mount a crate
someone is bound to throw a rotten orange.
Platforms need to be solid in construction
to withstand assault. Throw away the crate.
32
To a Young Friend in Prison
Remember this carefully.
The crimes you were sentenced for
were no greater than many committed
by magnates at boardroom tables.
Yours were public; there’s the difference.
Never lose awareness of your value
and know you’ll have a life to steer
again. Thirty seems young
to a septuagenarian.
33
Faith
Faith is a feminine flame
fanned by the breath of the Spirit
who on the waters of gentle Jordan
celebrated the wonder of Jesus
as God’s begotten for all time.
See, she said, Mary’s joy
and saviour. With Mary
stay close, and listen.
34
Jesus Saves
‘Jesus saves’, Jimi Hendrix wrote
drafting the lyrics of ‘Purple Haze’.
Before he overdosed he was reading
two books – one on flying saucers,
and a Bible open beside his bed.
And I too believe, dear Jesus,
you whom we call the Lord,
that you went with full consent
into the void that swallows
all human loves and dreams.
You lived and died to free us
from blind life without purpose
placing beacons to light a road
that our sin-dimmed eyes might follow.
35
Dear Suburban Dweller
There is a world around the corner
where your rules don’t hold
a world you barely notice
pregnant with discontent
waiting to engulf you.
Ignore it at your peril
respectable citizen.
Have you not noticed how the bodies
are falling closer to your door?
36
A Silver Anniversary
‘It couldn’t have happened to a nicer person’
the postman said.
He was of course a concerned parent
grim in pursuit
of juvenile crime. His dismissive sarcasm
comes to mind
when someone mentions it’s twenty-five years
since Luke crashed
skidding on a frozen spill on the coast road.
His mate walked
from the passenger seat, unable to believe
what had happened.
‘I never saw Luke crash a Merc before’, he said.
Could anyone mourn
a young man who created so much mayhem?
Two days beforehand
Luke had called out to me from a cafe table
in the shopping mall
where he sat with Mandy and a circle of friends
in his new grey suit
(probably off the peg of the establishment)
while security guards
cavorted to protect mouth-watering fancies.
‘Join us for breakfast’.
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Luke waggled a jewelled finger for attention,
and I found myself
entertained to sausages and eggs by
this five foot Capone
who was so agreeable and so chatty
I remember him that way.
‘It couldn’t have happened to a nicer person,’
the postman said.
But before he crashed the Merc Luke contrived
to be nice to me
and I’ve always remembered the lad that way.
38
A Poem for Noel
When frantic hope is slain
peace comes alive
and little things bring joy
in the unexpected –
a little girl strains high
to cast the Star
to the top of our Jesse tree
and a grandnephew
presents me with his poems
showing me how to rhyme.
On the path from Killiney Hill church
red fuschias are in bloom
and I think of friends at rest from
the fret of buying baubles
in this season of new birth.
Christmas 2003
For Anne Clear, Rory, Alan and Conor
39
Victims
Humanity knows it’s flawed
and looks for scapegoats to bear the blame.
A boy has died
needlessly in a drunken brawl.
Jail his killers?
Yet he might have lived to stand in the dock
and one who kicked him
senseless might have taken his place
in a premature grave.
Who should be called murderers?
Those who lavished
free drinks on the young? Jokers
who spiked the drinks?
Those who built a society that allows
children to run riot
until the more guileless guilty are old enough
to be locked away?
those who satisfy a crowd clamouring
for a crucifixion?
Forget the questions. A victim
has been found -
the boy who came nearest to telling the truth
about that terrifying night.
40
What Can One Do?
What can someone like me do about little ones
in Iraq? Others see an old man drooling.
I cannot see my spent state so. Although
not fooling myself as to my weakness
I know that strength lies in our trust. We travel
blind always and sometimes screaming towards
where Christ will make clear what’s hidden
and restore tortured bodies with his vitality.
As for this world, it goes on turning, one regime
following another. Cyrus conquers Cyrus
but a modern Cyrus having read the Aeneid
may yet try to make amends (late for some)
and console a little those who march for peace.
41
The Final Horror
To die elegantly
is difficult
unless nurses are in attendance
someone to hold your hand
someone to bless your going.
The final horror of war comes
when no one’s left to care.
42
Where are the Clowns?
Salute those who dare to be funny
in a world of chaos. We need
comedians to protect us
from life’s absurdities.
Yet have you noted on the screen
the eyes of Ronaldhino
the ever-smiling playmaker
emitting a flash of pain
as he jives his way towards goal?
43
Silver Wedding
As the band was playing SWEET CAROLINE -
honestly, that’s the farewell tune they played –
I remember your friends cheering clapping
YOU as you danced from the floor of the hotel.
Men looked stolidly towards Killiney Bay
while mothers wept and sisters smothered tears
of joy for your hoped for happiness
of sorrow for your breaking the circle
of anxiety for you setting out
on your journey of exploration.
Now that you’ve arrived at this renewal
of promises easier to make than keep –
perhaps! – look back in wonder at what
you’ve achieved, and scan the scene
ahead with the serenity of trust.
But we who love you harbour wishes
for your future that flow beyond the bay
of blessings where your dance began.
May your dance continue happily with all
who’ve been drawn into the music of your love
44
Frailty
Three o’clock in the morning.
It’s time for the obligatory
leak. The spirit’s willing
but the flesh – yes, you have it,
it’s the flesh that’s weak.
A tweak from the memory
strings and the history
of the failure of all humanist
endeavour is reconstructed
as sleep regains control. That’s the way
we were fashioned from the genesis
of the race. Resolve gives way
to sleep despite intentions
of staying awake and alert.
45
For Pope John Paul 11
Some said you should retire
and maybe they were right.
Yet the faith your persistence showed
brought solace and strength to many.
It’s true you grew too old
to steer a rudderless church
but to the outside world
you were a Christ figure
stretching arms to embrace
suffering, serene in your role
at the centre of a maelstrom.
46
Twilight
From the veranda this twilight
a lone sail can be seen
crossing the horizon
and a prayer rises softly
from someone’s lips:
Kyrie eleison Christe eleison
may God be with all
who travel alone tonight.
47
Early Morning
The cross-channel ferry is passing Howth
on its way to open spaces
but at Bullock Harbour the only stir
is a man tentative in rubber boots
descending steps to join a youth
who whips an outboard engine to life.
A dog barks encouragement from the wharf
as the boat departs on a placid sea.
In its wake the remaining boats toss
as if restless at having no one to power them
image of a dispirited crowd
longing for someone to set them free.
48
Tuesday 8th June 2004
Venus crossing the path of the Sun
a dot mirrored on a TV screen
meant no more than the News or Morse
until Mary came - she who lives
poetry rather than write it down.
Mary raced from her office desk to watch
history on a monitor on Sandymount Strand
courtesy of Dublin Sidewalk Astrologers.
‘This wonder, it dawned on me,
would not happen again for two hundred
years. And I wanted to burst into tears.
Venus is tiny, the same size
as the planet we live on. If Venus
looks like an ant creeping across the face
of the Sun, what does that make us?
Less than little worker ants who rush
to finish one job so that we can start
another, while astral beings pursue
their charted course. Regardless.’
Yes Mary you’re right…
go on looking at the stars.
For Mary O’Neill.
49
The Hedge
The escalonia hedge is being clipped
even as red blooms begin rejoicing.
It was swallowing the grass plot it surrounded
and obstructing neighbours’ views of - something.
Pruning may be needed when living things
outstrip set limits of aggrandisement
but I walk from the pain of gaiety disrupted
to watch finches fuss around a feeding table.
50
Mission Sunday
In old age little is left
but selfish tears
and a longing to be nobler
than we realise we are.
Today I went to the short pier
where weather-walloped trawlers
taking Sunday rest reminded
me of many things. Gulls
grey and dusky white
and flocks of excited
flutterers looked the same
as birds did more than sixty years
ago, and strollers much the same
including a pair of mites who asked
my name as if it mattered.
Rows of matchstick masts
looked no different than those
that invited to venture on the seas
boys like me whose sporting world
was ruled to be the tennis club
tucked away in safe green havens.
How little I have learned
and so much unexplored.
Perhaps a generous impulse
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can be indulged on Mission
Sunday even in a time
when mission stands in need
of being re-defined.
52
Transit
In sixteen hundred and thirty-nine
Jeremiah Horrocks in the Lancashire village
of Much Hoole made the first observation
of a curious black spot, Venus,
crossing the Sun (as Kepler foretold)
and died two years later aged twenty-two.
But was not more wonder crammed
in that life than in many prolonged?
He reported he left his telescope
a short while to tend to higher duties.
Who are we to make rapid judgments
about time?
53
Walking the Strand
An anniversary reminder
made me search for you.
They told me you were out
walking the strand with your dog
- and your acid-sweet memories?
I followed and missed you
yet you made me take a walk
along Sandycove promenade
saluting sentinel herons
on their seaweeded rocks
transmitting messages
of stark endurance.
I imagined you come running
towards me with your collie
but had to settle for James Joyce
starting his journey to eternal fame
from his tower in Sandycove
to his rock at Sandymount
where he listened for the bell
of the Star of the Sea benediction.
For Carmel in February 2005
54
For Sheila Calling with the Poems of
Milosz
I was watching when you came
the millions continuing to flock
to be able to say they filed
past the body of a famous
Pope they’ll style the Great.
Poor man he selected a public
disintegration
no less total than awaits all
who stretch to touch his bier.
We’ll take courage from these poems
of one who witnessed with Wotjyla
the scarlet doom of Warsaw
and escaped to mourn and sing.
What has he left a generation
that wonders if earth’s hymn
may be poisoned and, untimely,
end?
But neither great-hearted spirit
has chosen to leave us orphaned
of hope.
Czeslaw Milosz received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1980. He died in 2004 A.D. Karl Wotjyla became Pope John Paul 11 and died in June 2005 A.D.
55
For Csezlaw Milosz
You crossed the long divide
between poetry and philosophy.
What is poetry you asked which does not
save nations or people?
Poetry alone cannot save;
does that detract from value?
You were right about books remaining
on the shelves even after burnings.
I hope you were right in thinking
they will always be on the shelves.
Their spirit at least should survive
if only on the Internet
just as rains will continue to fall
as long as humans keep pulling back
from the final act of destruction
of their own environment.
56
Running out of Witches
Have you ever known the weirdest thoughts
and for a while believed them natural?
Pause if you’re thinking of saying yes
for the Inquisition is alive and well
flourishing somewhere near you.
Some people are by vocation
thought police. They search for targets.
Close to you a pyre is being prepared
for paedophiles, a team recruited
to tend it who must find victims
to cast into the fire. It would be wise
not to appear friendly towards children –
nor towards adults who may have latent
unorthodox dispositions and like the rest
of humanity struggle with their complexities.
And remember - should the fire start dying
new categories of victim must be found
to keep it blazing. Theologians
may come in handy…but not to worry,
thought police are very inventive people.
57
Lighthouse Blinking
The Kish lighthouse is blinking
from the far side of the bay
as if warning sea lovers
there are no trees to hug
beside this salted water.
We know now a serene bay
can turn into a sea wave
that destroys its devotees.
Practical evangelists work
to wring good news from disaster
but we must love not trust creation
remembering with the apologist
our hearts won’t finally rest
until they rest in their creator -
a hard thought for young adventurers
still longing to ride breakers.
January 2005. For all who have died in recent catastrophes
58
Night Prayer
Lord of creation
for fear our angels forget
let us recount our good deeds
to make merciful judgment
more merciful. Recital
of our sins can be left
to others. We ask you
be merciful, Lord,
as in too rare better days
we tried to be gentle
to the tedious and the troubled.
59
Some Thoughts for Rock Fans
Your compassion is sincere
and lasts throughout your rain-soaked Glastonburies.
We’re all impressed
when Geldof shouts at powerful cabinets.
If the bullying tone
grows tiresome we can see that his statistics
are beyond dispute.
Bono may be careless to whom he gives
his Stetson but seems
to know that yelling makes targets
duck out of sight.
The stars’ attentions merit praise but
a truth less palatable
is that less visible politicians are those who’ll count
in shaping policies
to make poverty history when shows are ended
and wristbands perishing.
60
Greeting Old Friends
Contracted within two rooms
life can proceed happily
sea sounds close at hand
and shouts of playing children.
Yet something feels ignoble
about flickering rather than blasting
out. Not the way a youth
might envisage the culmination
who saw himself expending all
for love. No grand gesture
can be demanded now, I think.
I had a friend who elected
to espouse declining causes –
a football club going down
a language heading for extinction
the thoughts of forgotten philosophers.
He died early of a heart attack. To me
it seemed he’d spent himself nobly
not lingering to see whether chosen
flames spluttered or flared at the end.
No matter. Breathing at any stage
is precious. I wish you whose choices
coincided with mine many years ago
some persistence of young élan
until we’re ready to explore new life.
61
The End is Consolation
In these amber dwindling days
the urge remains to console.
Always people seeking consolation
floated within my orbit.
Not those seeking truth
not those seeking a personal
love they did not expect of me –
and if they did I failed to notice
in time. Souls surrounded me
who’d lost truth and love
everything but hope. They hoped
for someone to listen to tales
of loss. Perhaps I was better then
at listening. I still can’t say
what love is, and truth dangles
high above comprehension.
But I know such things are there
and arms reach out from the wood
and a voice says, Rest and learn
to receive my consolation.
62
Wings White on Black
In June the month of boundless love
John’s border at Carraig na Greine
shines with alyssum, marigolds,
lupins looking down on primulas,
and perfumed stock. A butterfly
orange fringed, wings white on black,
alights. The gift makes us long
to linger. Should we be rushing
to save rare species from death?
But who has energy to love the world
so perfectly? Rock stars
who have their millions made
and ask: What else to do?
Maybe the world will listen again
to them in their wisening maturity.
For Sean McDonagh SSC, author of THE DEATH OF LIFE, also Bono, Geldof and everyone trying to avert catastrophes
63
September Sun
In heavy weeks of humidity
lethargy ruled and mechanical
tasks made us cease to notice
things. Today an autumn breeze
draws me to watch a bee sucking
the hearts of late marigolds
whose golden orange lights the shade
of a crimson fuchsia. For a moment
it becomes my fuchsia - until a drone
murmurs that nothing can belong
to any creature breathing an allotted
time and space. Ownership, if not
an illusion, belongs on heights
impossible to scale or scan.
For the Bayleaf team
64
Vocation
There was an era when
people had Vocations -
yes, with a capital V;
ready to die for Empire,
Faith or Working Class -
Tom Kettle, I think,
almost certainly managed to die for all three.
All that was pre-nuclear,
pre-Vatican Council Two,
pre-unisex, pre-telly –
well, anyway, before everyone
got educated enough to know
everyone is equally noble
- that is, of course, potentially.
And a good thing, too,
cheers my egalitarian soul;
now everyone has a vocation.
Yes, and no one is so
presumptuous as to suppose
hers matters more than his –
let’s shun, at all costs, that temptation.
65
Now people who eschew
the absoluteness of Vocation
have discovered Community.
They run meetings about meetings
so that no one need be alone
and are ready to die to make everyone
keep meeting everyone else continually.
Oh, you’re never satisfied,
groans my egalitarian soul;
a little loss must be borne.
True. I did not say
things in the past were better
but- great goals conflict.
And that, I think, is what I really mourn.
66
Finding The Healer
On reading my poems a friend said
‘I never realised before; there’s a note
of melancholy running through what you write’.
That saddened me. I’d wanted always
to help people laugh, make people happy.
But few things in life turned out
a laughing matter. Even comedians
seemed to jest through hidden sorrows.
And I was helpless, unable to do more
than bandage wounds or add more pain.
Yes, a source of easement could be found
but even there was terrifying pain - until
I accepted I was not born to be The Healer.
67
A Bardic Nurture
Poets shaped the contours of my life.
Shakespeare proclaimed and never went away.
With Omar Khayam, Keats, the Golden Treasury
I dallied a while in melancholy youth
before breaking into solid Chesterton,
Bernanos, Mauriac, Green, witty Waugh,
wringing from the muddle a vocation
that mingled moods of Gerard Manley Hopkins
with T. S. Eliot’s nostalgic wasteland
succumbing at length to Yeatsian complexity
while finding relief in the measured tones of Hardy,
the cubby-hole endeavours of Emily Dickinson,
and Kavanagh’s native florae and simple wisdom.
Age brought discovery in Anna Akhmatova,
Milosz, and the voices of a multitude
of scribblers like the voice that nagged within me.
The best, Browning might add, is yet to be.
68
Welcoming Sparrows
Not so much an epiphany as a restoration
the bramble bush burned as I was passing
a-quiver and a-twitter with a gladness of sparrows.
For timeless moments I waited realising
how rare the common sparrow had become.
Reluctant to rejoice alone in this appearance
I longed to tell someone but was unsure
how many might simply think ‘gone off his rocker’
so resolved to tell friends who might read verses
that reverence the joys as well as the heartbreaks
of a world the human mind can’t understand.
For Maeve and Ailish
69
Remembrance
‘We’re all here for the long haul’
was her greeting in the common room.
We never talked much after that
but sat in what might be called
companionable silence save for
my sense we were never alone.
Once I asked about her former life.
‘My husband, a wonderful man,
liked to write poetry in Irish’
she said, and the gates to speech
swung open. Other residents arrived
and quietly she smiled at them.
Now she’s gone, I’m glad that once
just once I broke our silence.
70
The Man Who Believed the Newspaper
A friend of mine believed everything
he read in his daily newspaper.
Does that sound impossibly naïve?
Well, have you heard of Marie Antoinette?
Full marks! The young Queen of France
who said when bread was in short supply
‘Then let the poor eat cake’, for which
she was, justifiably, decapitated.
But who said she said it? The gutter press
in order to sell papers and topple
a throne. Their invention became history.
My friend bought a Sunday newspaper
on Saturday, which made him a prophet
of sorts who knew all that would happen
before it happened. He always purchased
the same daily, but one day bought
a different paper and sustained
a mini-stroke on finding a contradictory
account of who caused economic chaos.
What finished him was a practical
joke when he read his obituary
in his morning paper and believed
himself to be dead. He stares
all day at a Gauguin print on the wall
and has never again read a newspaper.
71
Was it a Moorhen?
Was it a moorhen
or some other water bird
we watched as it crossed the pond
that sunny day in Winchester?
My memory is fading, but this I do
remember: The moorhen didn’t matter!
It was you who mattered, Betsy,
it was you.
72
A Sort of Sharing
What have we in common
we who pay our annual pittance
to a poetry broadsheet?
Some write on tabletops
some on computer screens
some on steering wheels
locked in traffic jams.
All want someone to read
what they have wrenched
from their subconscious
someone to share feelings
to approve or to respond
to say, ‘You’re not alone’.
So what have we in common?
The readiness I think
to reflect and comment
on the way things are
raising them above
the brittle ground we trample.
73
Memorial Letter for Bishop Des It seems to me I should write something
to honour and lament your going
since you insisted that I was a poet
and what are poets for if not to celebrate
what matters in life? And you mattered
even as our encircling ocean mattered
(all right, I know, the sea’s for swimming in
but you should see the creamy froth of it today);
you mattered to me in adolescent dawn
and later we were to worry about the same
social evils and plan a brighter future
‘til younger minds took over the process
of benevolent diagnosis, still slow
to grasp the human mind cannot encompass
the range of all may happen. My prayers,
even as I, follow you into the unknown –
more or less unknown, you must admit;
but did we not petition the Lord to give light
to all who live in the darkness of death’s shadow?
February 2006
74
A Sociologist Looks Back
Seasons change years plod on
problems remain much the same
but they’re all gone, those quiet elderly
whose lives we scanned thirty years back
who lived alone rarely felt lonely
would have liked improved washing facilities
appreciated someone keeping
a discreet watch merely to ensure
they would not disappear from view.
How moderate now seems their desires!
Gone or grown the teenagers we studied
who drifted on seafront and city streets
and to the horror of kindly hearts
shelved all worry of tomorrow
by needling poison into their arms.
That generation would benefit little
from our arguments and interpretations.
How intangible now seem their desires.
And where have the committees gone?
Those assortments of expert volunteers –
young civil servants feeding computers
tobacco company sponsors and academics
and a Jesuit slapping mud spattered boots
on top of a polished boardroom table
75
while a whispering pensioner declared himself
Representative of the Common People.
Did researchers and respondents share a longing
to be noticed in a crazily unbalanced world?
76
January Morning
Quiet and grey the little harbour at low tide
shelters three boats only, the rest being moored above it.
Small blackbeaked seabirds pick
with long orange beaks at the edging mud
while sharp-eyed gulls glide slowly in the shallows.
This privilege, this misted peace I share
with sentinel gannets perched on lofty rocks.
Just being, we stay still. At last I stroll
to a recently painted seat. On the bench
lies a bouquet of wilting roses. A card
dated Christmas says, Dear Jim my thoughts
are with you always. And I think of many gone
with whom I choose to share this morning
somehow blessed, an unearned astonishing gift.
77
Near Thing on Lesley Avenue
As I crossed a pathless road
to admire primroses on a wall
a gliding car skimmed my ankles
leaving me indignant. The image
somehow rose of a death on screen –
a boy soldier raising his head
above a trench to stroke a butterfly.
How fair a death mine too
might have seemed, a final effort
to caress beauty… My angel snapped,
Rubbish, he’d have left you lying
mangled but not dead. How aesthetic
that would be! You’ve little enough
time to come; why rush it?
N.B. This poem is dedicated to the residents of the Sue Ryder complex, Dalkey. In the interests of accuracy, it should be noted that there is no Lesley Avenue in Dalkey. Along one side of a street that may sound like it, however, runs a very narrow footpath, so narrow that pedestrians, and more especially joggers, need to take care not to fall off it.
78
Holy Thursday 5.30 a.m.
Without moving from an armchair I had witnessed
an arcing goal from the foot of Mark Viduka
read a FURROW article by a woman catechist
and talked with several friends over airwaves.
But forgive me Lord for beginning to grow wise
only in dying flashes of the night.
Midnight wisdom, if worth anything, won’t reach
those it might have nourished in the past
but comes from surprising sources
television Samuel Beckett sporting stars
whose dedication and conjured grace amazes.
Sometimes I waken crying ‘That is it!’
and in the morning open a gleaming page
and wonder what it was I wanted to tell.
At the root is this: I’ve seen my younger self
lit in more cruel yet compassionate light
than any shone on maelstroms of activity
and have realised such music as U2’s
has more to tell a mysterious new generation.
79
At Sandycove
Retirement is like beginning again
engendering a restless yearning
that resembles the aspirations of youth
but sadly lacks its burning
intensity. Now comes a periodic
peace whose source is knowing
targets must be made to adapt
to a need for upstream rowing.
In the cove a mother fills a plastic
bucket with sand for her child
and I am grateful for the chance to doze
and observe such sights, filed
for further reflection on love
and what it might be composed of.
80
No Lasting City Grieving I wrote poems
to say what never could
be said and it remained
unsaid. Half-empty pages
laughed at one who'd learned
why Beckett wrote a play
without words.
But is the tragedy of a poem
that snatches from its author
the decision it must stop
anything like the sorrow
of mortals born to be unheard?
81
Children’s Corner
To a Grandnephew Poetically Disposed Dear nephew, you’ve received a gift
that scarcely dares to say it’s there
and that I who share it cannot name
for fear it might in dudgeon flee.
What matters is to cherish it
for life, never overrating
its value, for remember this:
you’ll hardly make a living from it
and may have to suffer to retain it,
accepting it must coexist
with whatever else you’re called to do.
So boo-hoo-hoo this poem’s meant
to give you a few thoughts to chew.
One extra line will make fourteen –
almost a sonnet? Stop!
82
A Christmas Story
That Santa Claus is very old
Is something we have all been told.
Born over a thousand years ago
In Turkey, where there is no snow
All kinds of weather he’ll endure
Children’s happiness to secure.
Christened Nicholas, when very young
His parents died and he was brung
Up by monks. Skilful scanners
Of character, they taught him manners
And Christian virtues. He became
Bishop of Myra. He assumed the name
Santa Claus, his kindly acts
Preserved in legend; these are the facts.
Italian merchants brought Santa’s bones
To a shrine in Bari. There were no phones
So three ships came with banners flying
With bands and heralds loudly crying
That here the Saint’s remains would stay
And inviting people to cheer and pray.
A tale they told of a destitute lord
Whose daughters, three, were never wooed
Because local men could not see how
Their dad could manage a decent dow-ry.
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But Nicholas had inherited wealth
That enabled him to do good by stealth.
Through the window a bag of gold
Rescued Daughter One from spinsterhood
And he threw in another for Daughter Two.
The father wondered who would do
Such a generous deed. He boarded up
The window. Late he supped
To catch the stranger off his guard.
But no fool Santa – clever he
Climbed the roof and for Daughter Three
Threw gold down the chimney chuckling ‘Hee
hee hee’. Coins filled the sock
Where it hung drying - a lovely shock!
With money about the suitors tarried
And all three girls got happily married.
Santa had found the ideal way
To offer gifts. He decided to stay
On earth forever. Angels complained,
Saying, This mortal must be restrained,
But the Lord God said, It seems to us
To interfere would be ridiculous.
If we stop him now, children might
Make blasphemous protest in our sight.
So saints and angels bowed their heads
Leaving Santa with his elves and sleds