Billy Collins is possessed by Seamus Heaney . . .
Irish Poetry
by: Billy Collins
That morning under a pale hood of sky
I heard the unambiguous scrape of spackling
against the side of our wickered, penitential house.
The day mirled and clabbered
in the thick, stony light,
and the rooks’ feathered narling
astounded the salt waves, the plush arm of coast.
I carried my bucket past the forked
coercion of a tree, up toward
the pious and nictitating preeminence of a school,
hunkered there in its gully of learning.
But only later, as I stood before a wash stand,
and gaunt, phosphorescent heifers
swam purposely beyond these windows,
did the whorled and sparky gib of the indefinite
manage to whorl me into knowledge.
Then, I heard the ghost-clink of milk bottle
on the rough threshold
and understood the meadow-bells
that trembled over a nimbus of ragwort—
the whole afternoon lambent, corrugated, puddle-mad.
This poems, for me, is a brilliant parody/homage to great Irish poets, like Heaney and William Butler Yeats and Eavan Boland. (If you don't know Boland, look her up. She's fantastic.) In some ways, I think Collins wants us to laugh at his cleverness (which is abundant), but he also wants us to appreciate words and language like these great writers from the Emerald Isle. Those words that roll around on the tongue like candy.
As I said, busyness defined my day. I had meetings and appointments and deadlines and events. The main event, The Winter Wonderland Walk Celebration. At the library where I work, community members and businesses and schools and organizations are invited to set up and decorate Christmas trees in the main art gallery. It takes a LOT of wrangling of a LOT of people. The results are always beautiful, but the effort, at times, can be a little soul-crushing.
Thank goodness, I received a great deal of help this year, from my officemate and friend. She pretty much handled tree placement, communication, and troubleshooting. In past years, most of that work has fallen on my shoulders, and my holiday spirit quickly fizzled during the weeks after Thanksgiving.
My officemate is very aware of my blueness this year. Because we share a work space, we know each other pretty well. We share our triumphs and failures, our joys and our sorrows. She's seen me at my best and worst, and she still cares about me. That is the definition of friendship.
In addition to the forest of Christmas trees, the library also hosted a holiday concert by two of my favorite musicians in the area. I played keyboard in a church praise band with them at one time, and they've backed me up at many poetry readings and programs over the 20-some years of our friendship. They are two of the best people I know who have also seen me at some of the lowest moments of my life. (They played and sang at the funerals of both my sisters and my parents.)
There is no way I can thank all the people who've blessed my life with their love and caring over the years. Words aren't enough--and that's coming from a person who venerates words like holy relics. Flannery O'Connor once wrote, "The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it." My inner tribe knows my truth, in all its shining darkness, and they still love me. That is a miracle.
The Irish have a particular term--anam cara--which translates as "soul friend" in Gaelic. The famous Irish philosopher John O'Donohue wrote this, "With the anam cara, you could share your innermost self, your mind and your heart. You are joined in an ancient and eternal way. This belonging awakened and fostered a deep and special companionship. You are understood as you are without mask or pretension. The superficial and functional lies and half-truths of acquaintance fall away. You can be as you really are.”
Saint Marty was surrounded by anam cara tonight.
No comments:
Post a Comment