Michael Hartnett

Ah yes - they justify it all, the brats, hungry or asleep and gorged with milk. Each drop's (yes, the milk they drink is yours) another line unwritten, another page crumpled like a pufiball on the floor. Your limpid dialogue is reduced to the basic syllables of the cave and the quick infant minds grow huge, while you relearn vocabularies from the pram. The typewriter is now a battered toy, its ribbon has fingerprinted all the walls (cenotaphs for dead letters all its keys). You tap the heads assailing your broad lap and polarise regret and love them while the cunning offspring of your milk and blood root up the truffles of your mind.

1The Poet Down for Patrick Kavanagh He sits between the doctor and the law. Neither can help. Barbiturate in paw one, whiskey in paw two, a dying man: the poet down, and his fell caravan. They laugh and they mistake the lash that lurks in his tongue for the honey of his works. The poet is at bay, the hounds baying, dig his grave with careful kindness, saying: 'Another whiskey, and make it a large one!' Priests within, acolytes at the margin the red impaled bull's roar must fascinate — they love the dead, the living man they hate. They were designing monuments — in case — and making furtive sketches of his face, and he could hear, above their straining laughs, the rustling foolscap of their epitaphs. 2  The Poet as Mastercraftsman for Thomas Kinsella Eras do not end when great poets die, for poetry is not whole, it is where man chose mountains to conform, to carve his own face among the Gothic richness and the sky, and the gargoyles, and the lesser tradesmen. Praise from the apprentice is always shown in miniatures of a similar stone. I saw the master in his human guise open doors to let me in, and rhythm out. He smiled and entertained into the night. I was aware of work undone. His eyes, like owls', warned images from the room. Under the stairs the muse was crying; shields clashed in the kitchen and the war drum's boom, men in celtic war dress entered from the right. I left, my conversation put to rout. To poets peace poetry never yields. 3The Poet as Black Sheep for Paul Durcan I have seen him dine in middle-class surroundings, his manners refined, as his family around him talk about nothing, one of their favourite theses. I have seen him lying between the street and pavement, atoning, dying for their sins, the fittest payment he can make for them, to get drunk and go to pieces. On his father's face in sparse lines etched out by ice, the puritan race has come to its zenith of grey spite, its climax of hate, its essence of frigidity. Let the bourgeoisie beware, who could not control his head and kept it in their care until the brain bled: this head is a poet's head, this head holds a galaxy. 4The Person as Dreamer: We Talk about the Future for Des Healy It has to be a hill, high, of course, and twilit. There have to be some birds, all sadly audible: a necessary haze, and small wristlets of rain, yes,and a tremendous air of satisfaction. Both of us will be old and both our wives, of course, have died, young, and tragic. And all our children have gone their far ways, estranged, or else not begotten. We have been through a war, been hungry, and heroes: and here we are now, calm, fed, and reminiscent. The hills are old, silent: our pipe-smoke rises up. We have come a long way . . . . 5The Poet Dreams and Resolves for Macdara Woods To be alone, and not to be lonely, to have time to myself, and not be bored; to live in some suburban house, beside the mountains, with an adequate supply of stout and spirits (or of stout only), and some cigarettes, and writing paper, and a little cheap food, and a small hoard of necessary books, where I could write in dark as monks did, with only blue sky as interference, wind as soul-reaper. But what would I do if on certain nights I was mad in heat for the public lights? I would chain myself to a living tree to foil the Sirens of the distant city.

1 The sky is alone tonight — the moon and stars seek some presence in the firm quiet, in the hard lack. A meteor falls in the empty dark. Someone is absent, the universe is bare listen, God, are you there? Sand silts the world — dockleaves in the yard, broken teeth eat sadness in the hayless barn. Silence knocks on men's doors and silence answers it — but music is heard in space. Lichen eats the stone, old arrogance eats peace: female salt eats being, angry rust eats blood. Beetle and seal are dead, poisoned children in lakes — but music is heard in space. Weak whistle-music moves beyond Orion's Belt, silk threads in a cave float in the dark. Some player in the solitude with a hopeful song but destruction still goes on. Lard made from whales, coats from the seals' fur — shaving brush from badger hair, burnt chicks are henfood. God's lovely creatures last though we eat them, trout and lamb — there's a use for the whistler's tune. I saw a nest ablaze, living wood sawdust. I saw a bird on fire fall soundless from the air. I saw the ancient ramparts downed and silence in the plover field. I saw the killer's belly feed. A tongue hangs on a tree, the magpies' might is right: a noise of glossy black and white. I heard their loud artillery. My ears are withered leaves from their cacophony, the discord shuts God's eyes. But a new musician plays and music's heard in space. 2 Listen, father, wait a while — stay alive with me until the universe's gown, once as fresh as cabbage-heart, is clean again. Do you remember mothers' milk like pigeons' milk that feeds the flock? It will pour again — wait on. I saw it last night in the northern sky whiter than any blood dripped from the moon's pap and every parched grave opened up and the dough of milk and earth made a bread forever fresh. Listen, father, listen close — though the sky's a tambourine danced on by an iron fool there's harmony beyond his noise. Take time and slow your pace — the dark drink waits for you and strange music out in space. Did you see them last night, night's-eyes brilliant bright in the black grass and dandelions en masse, guineas on velvet once on an old god's shoulders dead since the ancient magic passed? Remember the age of the seed, kingdom of creatures, power of air? (Man was not alone, man and his household.) Waterfall tumbling from eldertree, foam on pools like feather capes? Remember pollen from grasses' ears? Listen, father, cry no tear for evil seed, for history's débris, for the cold eternal stones, ruined towers, groves of graves. Listen: a bullfinch sings sweetly (musical anvil in forge) his harmony's all history. So, my father, wait a while. There's no music after dying, no inkling of a human sigh — just worlds falling into suns. Earth will be the brightest bride, star-necklets on her gown — tinwhistles cracking tunes, platform dances in each town. Easy, father, wait a while. But he did not wait. 3 One day when hope was ill I took dangerous medicine and hope died out and left me there, a naked surgeon, my patient dead. Like a hen at grips with death my bill dumb down a well, my plumage drowned in hate. I turned my back on Glendarock, walked for a drink to ease and to obliterate pain and fear and grief. Rats laughed from every hedge, bones embossed the road — in the wind a grey crow screeched. And then I saw the sign that led my heart to peace — barley like a green fire, sheets of barley in live waves quivering its thousand ears, swaying flames of green as quietly restless as a child asleep. I knew then no victory would go to iron axe or spear: our mother which art on earth conserve us safe and clean. Gale and 'quake knock flat all laws, all walls, all treasuries — bindweed chokes the telegraph. In spite of joy this peace waned and ice ran through every vein: all my pores were locked and my heart turned, a piglet on a spit, his blood steam, panting like a dog's tongue; the scythe taught the corn its dream. Caterpillars squashed on the roads, the swallow snapping back flies, frogspawn dead in pools dried up, the horsefly craving blood. Prick in a vice, a man screams. The scythe taught the poet his dream. Barley, cover me up, let me lie in your field. I ask of you a green death in the quiet milk of your stalks. Yes, the world will survive with neither you nor me alive. Damn you, death, I will not then experience the new gown of the universe — just lie manure on immaculate earth. 4 Once a perfect standing stone, fame engraved on my side, my statement unambiguous, I had nothing to hide. But the wind of curiosity blew with its what? and how? and why? and blunted the edge of my dignity. The cow of love rubbed its flank against my sides and frost burnt: the grain inside me shrank, I flaked on the grass bank. A flock of questions came seeking food and the mother in me said 'chook, chook' though I was dumb and mere rock. The anxiety mason chipped at me with his heavy hammer, carving his own design: his chisel gouged my grammar, engraved no notices of mine and every passing stray has read words not engendered in my head. And the lichen letters came twisting the bare word and their grey crust grew on me and concealed my shape. I lost all courage and desire, my voice was just a shard and all the silent world had ears. My body like a dead elm — dumb lightning upside-down — inquisitor's file eroding me, wedges wearing me out. Before me, in my mouth, restraints and oaths — but my poem stayed, I still stand. But where are they? The sky stands on my tip, stars flow through me, inside: I tame the sun and moon, harnessed to my pride. No friendships flourish in my shade, no herb of love, no mint of help, and I'm incapable of prayer. Now merely a lump of stone smashed in the field of scythes, a circle of calves around me staring with silly eyes . I lonesome like a hawtree while lichen hones me down and a lizard-brooch sleeps. 5 In Hammer Glen there's blood in milk and a goose complains on an empty hearth: a cat swells in the churn, dead and full. A flitch of bacon hangs itself from rafters: a tongs stands like a bull. My first trip to the house of thatch — home of the Slaughter Lad who condemned his own kind — a hammer-vision showed him how to escape the bird-lime. I was called, no scalpel packed. I threw a saddle on the dark and galloped to the threshold of his mind. Knots of briars slid from their nests, each poisoned eye a blackberry. I was pelted with a shower of fruit from a bare blackthorn tree. I heard the chick sing in the egg, and the straw in the mattress grew, the raspberry cried in the jam. But I came safe from these shades, out of the battle-noise gales, until I reached Slaughter Lad's and saw there under the moon's eye a hedgehog milking a jack snipe, a goat beating a drum in the sky — I had crossed over the borders of the live. I walked into his head — no knife, no healing herb — helix of a snail's shell, into a complex corridor. Prayers of hate, echoes of roars fell from the faceted walls — his father's face was carved on the floor. 'I hit him hit him hit him again — the goose drank the juice of this brain, I made a pig-trough from his skull and put his eyes under a hen. One did not hatch at all, the other shook and cracked. Out walked a chicken's claw. 'The claw still sticks in me — it tortures and exhausts: contrition runs from my nose, surgeon, give me peace.' I refused. And left the place. I threw away all style and craft, my heart was ash and chaff, my soul was a gravel bed — a naked surgeon, and my patient dead. 6 The one-eyed monk sits, half prays where millstones turn. His body comes to life, a need to travel grinds him up — a need for pools full of hope, a need for wells of honey and sweat, a need for hills where torches burn. He walks the white-flowered field looking for a ferny place clad in sparse purple light (a foxglove round a bee) to a mild meadow of sheep, to soft dark, root of history — peace to all who walk this way. But only silence from his bell, dead butterfly his manuscript — unfinished, unrevised — he is addicted to this trip, this drug called pilgrimage that kills all dignity and skill and still's his reason to exist. And when the monk grows weak, clumsy, worn, aged — no more desire to roam, wanting his bell and page. But he can no longer illuminate, has lost the power to pray, lost his interest in the everyday. This travel's an enormous act, a trip all have to take, and meadows and mountains lure all who want to escape with coaxing honey, coaxing kiss, 'Do not search for new things, do not search for new things'. I will drown all my books in that honeyed well and play like a foal in the brownest fern. I will swim in the pool of hope, I will walk till night in the bright fields. But in the splendid dark I'll hear wings of parchment shake and bells weep.

for Pat Boran That kind of summer's day when music comes down from the hills and sings in small back-rooms and half-sets from a century before batter their complex hobnails on the floor and long laments in overcoats and caps draw tears, reluctant from the porter-taps — that was the kind of day it was, that day when I forsook the world of earn and pay. There, on the cobbles of the market square, where toothless penny ballads rasped the air, there among spanners, scollops, hones, and pikes, limp Greyhound cabbage, mending-kits for bikes, velvet calves in creels, women's overalls, she shook my hand beside the market stalls. And there before the coulter of a plough, aware of all the gifts she could endow, aware, as women are, of all her powers, as startling as a bunch of winter flowers, she tricked from me my childish, sacred vow. I got to know her lovers one by one: some saw her in an eclipse of the sun, some saw her practise magic with strange herbs and made her opaque alchemies of verbs — some, for her sake, thought blood her favourite wine, and some thought spirits helped them to divine her arcane instincts and, as holy fools, would chant her words not known to any schools. Some thought that secret nurture made her grow and more believed she thrived in public show; some scattered syntax like the blackthorn snow in flashy spangles on the mud below and some, like me, immersed themselves in laws, for what good are the sparks without the straws? But none of these sufficed. All through the land I see the poets in their mad distress — all favoured rivals? No, but victims, yes. A creature driven by a savage gland, she takes, and then dismisses, out of hand, the men and women that she most does bless. She does not rest, she does not detumesce. I leave her by a river on a bed, a silken landscape underneath her head, and spread her in her finest courting gown on a spectacular eiderdown with painted eyes and rings to catch the light by the oblivious water overnight. Only the poets can make her come to life, the stricken catalyst, who call her wife — at dawn I give her bed a gentle shove and amputate the antennae of love and watch the river carry her away into the silence of a senseless bay where light ignores the facets of her rings and where names are not the names of things.