Parish Priest
From An Invitation to Poetry, edited by Robert Pinsky and Maggie Dietz.
On loan (rakkity knows what that means) from Chris.
from “Clearances”
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 places
From each otherÃs 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 mine, our fluent dipping knives —
Never closer the whole rest of our lives.
Seamus Heaney
Some years ago, I was staying in at Doyle’s Town House and Seafood Bar in Dingle, County Kerry. It was one of those pouring-down-hard-all-day days in western Ireland, a day when you went out despite the weather, but returned late afternoon for a warm bath and then an Irish whiskey and a good book in front of the fire for several hours before dinner. I’d been fireside for but a few minutes when two gents of an age similar to mine, plunked themselves down on the couch opposite me. They introduced themselves as Paul and Shay. As is what always happens in Ireland, we were soon engaged in conversation. They wanted to know what I was reading, and did I know so and so’s work, and had I read any Seamus Heaney, and what did I think of Patrick Kavanagh. For each question they asked me, they each gave an answer for themselves, as well. This give and take continued over dinner and well into the evening. It was so easy, and quite wonderful. Only the next day did I learn from John Doyle, the proprietor, that Shay was, in fact, Seamus Heaney, down from Dublin with his old friend from Belfast for a break from the “pompous literati.” Busman’s holiday.
Comment by Fierce Baby — May 12, 2005 @ 9:19 am
Now THERE’s a poet! And there’s a story to admire! Are you glad you didn’t know ’til after?
Comment by adam — May 12, 2005 @ 11:16 am
This book is great even for people like me who don’t like poetry. It’s given me an appreciation and has many poems I actually understand. This poem is lovely. I won the autographed Pinsky copy at an auction (Michael tells me the autograph now reads “to Michael from Robert Pinsky”) and never thought I’d enjoy it as much as I have. There is a DVD of the poems being read that came with it which I’ve not watched yet, but I will, WHEN I GET MY BOOK BACK. FB, I would be curious to know how you answered when they asked if you’d read any Seamus Heaney.
Comment by Goddess — May 12, 2005 @ 3:49 pm
Answering Adam
Perhaps I would like to have known halfway through the evening, or at least before Shay and Paul left to return to Dublin the following morning. Or, maybe not. One thing for sure, had I known, I doubt I would have entertained everyone wihtin earshot with descriptions of my many failed attempts to read even the first page of Finnegan’s Wake.
Answering Goddess
Luckily, I knew and loved Seamus Heaney even then. He had just won some prestigious award — I can’t remember which one — so, on the trip, I had reread some of his earlier work and most of a collection that had recently been published. Learning from my hosts in Monaghan that Heaney admired Kavanagh, I had also read a number of his poems, as well as visiting his home town. So at least I did not embarass myself by sounding like a totally illiterate ignoramous.
Comment by Fierce Baby — May 12, 2005 @ 7:33 pm
I canÃt tell you how much I wish that were my story to tell.
Comment by michael — May 13, 2005 @ 6:49 am
Well, Michael, you’ll just have to go to Ireland, won’t you, now? Then we’d all read the stories you post on the blog about cruising the pubs and talking to folks while you sip the guinness by a smoky peat fire.
There’s another poem by Heaney that I enjoyed–
Personal Helicon–it starts
As a child, they could not keep me from wells
And old pumps with buckets and windlasses. I loved the dark drop…
Comment by rakkity — May 13, 2005 @ 9:35 am
…the trapped sky, the smells
Of waterweed, fungus and dank moss.
One, in a brickyard, with a rotted board top.
I savoured the rich crash when a bucket
Plummeted down at the end of a rope.
So deep you saw no reflection in it.
†A shallow one under a dry stone ditch
Fructified like any aquarium.
When you dragged out long roots from the soft mulch
A white face …
Comment by Michael — May 13, 2005 @ 12:27 pm
…hovered over the bottom.
Others had echoes, gave back your own call
With a clean new music in it. And one
Was scaresome, for there, out of ferns and tall
Foxgloves, a rat slapped across my reflection.
Now, to pry into roots, to finger slime,
To stare, big-eyed Narcissus, into some spring
Is beneath all adult dignity. I rhyme
To see myself, to set the darkness echoing.
Comment by rakkity — May 13, 2005 @ 1:16 pm
I presume I’m not alone in a standing ovation on my metaphorical feet as these two literati quote serve & volley (in my fantasy) straight from memory this brilliant poem, whose cadences also remind me of Dylan Thomas. Bravo, gents!
BTW, what WERE you reading fireside in Dingle, Baby? Any memory? Wake?
Comment by adam — May 13, 2005 @ 1:42 pm
I find these quite wonderful … but I don’t “get” them.
Comment by too embarrassed — May 13, 2005 @ 5:11 pm
Adam, I cannot tell you exactly what I was reading by the fire that day in Dingle. However, what I read when in Ireland is chosen according to a code of my own devising. So, you can assume that it was something by an Irish author and/or an historical novel set at least partly in Ireland. Since I gave up on Wake when I stll had all my brain cells–a condition long since left behind–assuming that I was not reading Joyce of any ilk would be a good bet.
Comment by Fierce Baby — May 13, 2005 @ 6:43 pm
“I loved the dark drop…”
Wow. Thanks, rakkity, this poem was truly gripping.
Comment by gripping — May 14, 2005 @ 8:32 pm