As a person with a passion for poetry, I suppose it was bound to happen that I would want to identify the greatest love poem of them all. I have been thinking a good bit about this recently and then yesterday I read a fascinating post by David Milligan-Croft called Top 10 Love Films of all time? http://thereisnocavalry.wordpress.com/2012/10/27/top-10-love-films-of-all-time/. It really inspired me to write about love poems.
I know that there are hundreds , if not thousands, of love poems that could be considered the greatest. However, for me there is but one. It was written by W.B. Yeats:
In September 2011, I started a poetry thread on the Linkedin Group ~ TED: Ideas Worth Spreading in which I asked people to share poems or lines of poetry which had profound meaning for them. The thread has been weaving a wonderful tapestry over the months and has now reached almost 7,500 postings. For me, it has been a social bridge in many, many ways. As well as being introduced to lots of new poets and poems, I have ‘met’ with interesting and inspirational poetry lovers from all round the world.
One of these, Jenfred Sams, an art history student from America, recently presented us with a wonderful blog post in which she put together the words of Will Allen Dromgoole’s poem The Bridge Builder with artwork and quotations about bridges. I would love to share this jewel with you now and hope that you enjoy it as much as I have.
National Poetry Day, October 4th, dawned to perfection here in Co. Waterford. High tide was at 8.30am and Woodstown Beach sent out its whispering call. I arrived there shortly after 9.00 with my swimming gear and was greeted by the the most welcoming sea imaginable.
Tropical blue with sweet little waves embroidering the shell-strewn sand. While I had been thinking of John Masefield’s Sea Fever, on my way there, the moment I ran onto the beach John Keats’ On the Sea immediately took over:
On the Sea
It keeps eternal whisperings around Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell Gluts twice ten thousand Caverns, till the spell Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound. Often ’tis in such gentle temper found, That scarcely will the very smallest shell Be moved for days from where it sometime fell. When last the winds of Heaven were unbound. Oh, ye! who have your eyeballs vexed and tired, Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea; Oh ye! whose ears are dinned with uproar rude, Or fed too much with cloying melody— Sit ye near some old Cavern’s Mouth and brood, Until ye start, as if the sea nymphs quired!
As I floated in the sea, it was as if I could see poetry being written by nature. The moon had decided to stay up for the occasion and was gleaming across the water at the rising sun.
A woman, who was walking her dogs, called out to me, with a smile: You’re crazy.
As I smiled back, saying, Oh, it’s bliss, lines from Brendan Kennelly’s poem Hope came flashing into my happy and connected mind:
Our skies are brightening up today. I love your company, dear friend, and always will, come what may.
I dream of being the living song everyone would love to sing. Impossible? No. That’s me. Let’s keep walking
Seamus Heaney and his poetry have been weaving in and out of my life for over 25 years now. I remember celebrating wildly with my mother in 1995 when news came through that he had won the Nobel Prize for Literature.
It seemed so right that he was star poet reading at the Kilkenny Arts Festival in 2009, just a few short weeks after Mother had died. Kilkenny was the place where my parents first met in the early 1940s and I felt their happy youthful presence all round me as I made my way to St. Canice’s Cathedral for the performance.
Nothing could ever have prepared me for the impact which Seamus Heaney and his poetry had on me that balmy August evening. It was as if he knew that Mother had just died and was trying to comfort me by telling me that I was not alone in my sadness. The emotion with which he read about his own mother penetrated my sorrow and his words were like empathetic arms around me:
From Clearances 3
In Memoriam M.K.H., 1911-1984
When all the others were away at Mass I was all hers as we peeled potatoes. They broke the silence, let fall one by one Like solder weeping off the soldering iron: Cold comforts set between us, things to share Gleaming in a bucket of clean water. And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes From each other’s work would bring us to our senses.
So while the parish priest at her bedside Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying And some were responding and some crying I remembered her head bent towards my head, Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives– Never closer the whole rest of our lives.
Last week, I spent a few days in Co. Clare which was my father’s native county. He had been thrilled to hear about my expedition to Kilkenny in August 2009 and he talked of how complicated and time-consuming it had been back in the 1940s to get from Kilkenny to Kilrush, especially when one was the junior in the bank. One of my reasons for visiting Co. Clare last week was to go and see some of the ‘special’ places that Father told me about before his death in September 2010. I was also inspired by Seamus Heaney to take the time to visit Flaggy Shore in the Burren Region, just a few miles from Ballyvaughan.
And some time make the time to drive out west Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore, In September or October, when the wind And the light are working off each other So that the ocean on one side is wild With foam and glitter, and inland among stones The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit By the earthed lightning of a flock of swans, Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white, Their fully grown headstrong-looking heads Tucked or cresting or busy underwater. Useless to think you’ll park and capture it More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there, A hurry through which known and strange things pass As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.
(from The Spirit Level)
The swans were just as he described and more than anything I knew that Seamus Heaney would fully understand when I felt, yet again, my heart being caught off guard and blown open.
I’m a great believer in the importance of rewarding oneself when a tough task has been completed. Today has been one of those days when I managed to post off a project I’ve been slaving over for the last while so I indulged myself with a long sit down with the programme for this year’s Kilkenny Arts Festival. Sheer bliss!
The Festival, which is due to run from August 10th-19th, looks like it will be an absolute cracker and, as usual, ‘arts’ is taken in a very broad sense so there is a huge range of different shows, exhibitions, concerts, talks ….. and poetry readings.
To my absolute delight I discovered that Paul Durcan, who has to be Ireland’s most entertaining poet, is returning to Kilkenny this year. I was fortunate enough to hear him read, or watch him perform, when he was last at the Festival in 2010. The mere thought of that evening still makes me chuckle.
I bought a book of his poems after the reading at the Watergate and here is one that I especially like.
Little Old Lady
Mummy shrank as she grew older.
After Daddy died, she became so small
She began to look like a little girl
And, after a period of grief,
To disport like a little girl – the little girl
In the photograph album of 1927
Making hay in Mayo, raking, tossing it,
In the summer before her twelfth birthday.
At seventy-three she beat her way out of the lethargy
Of old age and she began to hop about
Not only the apartment but the city streets,
Beginning conversations with strangers at bus stops
And hanging out in the new space-age shopping centres.
From a sports shop catalogue she purchased
A steel-and-rope trapeze, which she installed
In a niche over the kitchen door.
“Its compact,” she confided one lunchtime.
“It folds up and folds down like a dream.”
After I’d washed up and dried the dishes
She demonstrated it and teasingly
Tried to persuade me to buy one for myself.
On the morning of her eightieth birthday,
When I’d brought her a gift of a bucket of begonia,
To my chagrin she showed only
A perfunctory interest in my begonia,
Which I had gone to some trouble to purchase.
Instead she stood on the seat of her trapeze
Mocking me as she swung to and fro,
Her little white tennis skirt fluttering
Above her matchstick knees. She cackled:
“Now what do you think of your little old lady?
Do you think she’s surplus to requirements?
Well, don’t think I’m fishing for compliments.”
So, if you think you’ve earned a browse through the Kilkenny Arts Festival Programme, here’s the link http://www.kilkennyarts.ie/events/. Be sure to say ‘hello’ when we meet at Paul Durcan’s reading!
In the week that Brendan Kennelly, one of Ireland’s leading poets, celebrated his 75th birthday, I write of how he has been a significant social bridge in my life since I attended one of his poetry readings in my first term at Trinity College in 1975. This article is in Section Two of Social Bridges.