Sunday, March 27, 2016

'In the Shadow of the Patriot' - poem

Tomorrow marks the centenary of the Easter Rising in Dublin in 1916, the failed insurrection that ultimately changed public opinion in Ireland and led to the country's future independence from Great Britain as a self-declared republic. Many celebrations and state events have been taking place this weekend and will continue tomorrow. I haven't been asked to do any readings (I feel like the only poet in Ireland not to!) but, in truth, Irish history and Irish identity have never really been central themes for me as a writer. All that said, I feel very proud to have been born in an independent Ireland and very much appreciate the sacrifice of those now remembered in schoolbooks and whose statues populate the city streets of Dublin where I live.

So I thought today to post a poem from a new sequence I'm working on which explores the nature of memory and forgetfulness, both personal and cultural. To this end, here's a short piece from this new work (with all the provisos about the completeness of new poems that must apply). It's not a poem of Yeatsian grandeur in the historical sense nor is it intended to be, but somehow it feels indirectly apt in its own way to share, I hope. After all, those men and women who fought (and sometimes died) one hundred years ago did so, I believe, so that such casual moments among the living may happen in the shadow of their past. We remember them, of course, and live among their ghosts, but life continues on also. A hundred years on from the Easter Rising, here's my slant offering. I should add, it was written some months ago and not with today's commemorations in mind.





In the Shadow of the Patriot

The old quarter at dusk. The rain starts again.
A fire engine passes by to a rising and falling pulse, 
echoing down cobbled streets and alleyways 
rebounding against the tall windows and soot-grimed
red-brick buildings, the bars where the ghosts
of the drunk linger, haunting the granite flagstones
with their long-lost footfalls... The late evening buses
pull away from pavements in turn, raindrops marking
fleeting circles in the puddled water of the drains:
and the young couple who stand by the statue
of the old Patriot, his hands and face weathered
to history and forgetfulness as they pull each other 
closer still, their lips moving to warm touch.












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