CHRISTOPHER SANDERSON
Ireland Poems Including: A Perfect Poem (Tom Carney)
A Coastmoor Publication
Section 1
Killarney & Dingle We travelled on the fast ferry from West Wales to Dublin, then drove straight on down the same day to Killarney, arriving to meet our wonderful host at the Crystal Springs upmarket B&B. We were shown all the maps and all the routes, told of all the pubs and all the good restaurants, and especially for Kate we were advised where the best music would be. The first section then is dedicated to the wonderful Eileen.
Poem 1
Ferry Cross The Irish Sea Even as I begin to think about ethics and morals I wonder that it has taken me so long, in my life, to understand that my mind may also have some givens, some inherited roles for me to follow And as I remember yesterday’s doubts, as to my ability to have organised such a complicated set of arrangements as is required to take a vacation over the sea to Ireland Then, as that hour for departure approaches, the latches, the linkages, the cogs, the wheels, the clutches and the gears all become a muddle; only the ethics and the morals hold o the panic, only they help to keep self-destruction at bay Where I am now influences where I will be this evening, where I will be this evening influences where I am now, where I am influences the choices I make, between how I am now, and how I might or may be then
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Poem 2
Fleeting Glance The upright, round column, of interlaced horizontal slate, hand crafted with genuine irregularity, gathered together in a truer than the eye can see line, form and fragmented colour arrangement A black, blacker than the bog that first laid it down, or blacker than the miner who dragged it to the worlds surface, from those thousands of fragile feathered seams A grey, a faster grey than the silver-shadow motorbike that led us o the ferry, a time for the leather clad rider to engage himself before speeding o towards the mountains A fitness for purpose, more fitting than any machine made tripod, or foundry-cast firmware, or futuristic furniture; the irregular becomes regular, the fragile becomes firm, and the truth is we passed in too short a moment, we thus have one more reason, or need, to return
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Poem 3
Family Familiar They’ve travelled from far off states to sample seas where heaven waits in their search for roots and equilibrium; to sample life at outdoor’s gate, with rippled blues and mountain views Harbour all of great escape, her silver greys and spreading ways, to taste the salt of getting laid; sons and daughters, husband and wife, returning to the water, returning to the later life Sun, sea, breeze and looping light, feeling good and feeling right, rolling wrists in free-on full-on sight; of the beach, as of the day, as of the ways of the wilder night Travelling far, from way off states, to sample just where justice hesitates
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Poem 4
Tellers of Tales Almost without waking, yet still without dreaming, almost seeming And almost hoping, hoping, yet still not knowing reason Also in the valleys, on the road through the black mountains To be told of the worlds greatest thief, and his more ingenious apprentice It is the blue-sky morning, with sun’s heat warm and rising It is the great humanity, shared by those who love sharing And the days are ever better, and the nights reserved for singing Mingling with the poets, whose life is of all the seasons We are jingling two together, for the two together dreaming
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Poem 5
Karl and Christine Chilcott The cotton in the bog, another photograph opportunity What haste has forced me to abandon my abandon Instead we pressed onwards, to Cill Rialaig Where the real artists oer to display their real craft None which moves me so much as the sculptor in nature Whose pebble-chess-pieces, and the like Were photographed by his daughter Their Last Stop project caught all and more Much more than I might have captured From the cotton in the bog
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Poem 6
Art Gallery CafĂŠ It is a wonderful world, here, today, with the young boy halfway to sleeping Rocked, in his mothers arms; her smile also, for certain disarms me Yet I could not look too close at the thalidomide victim My prejudices, or fears, or weakness They all remain too self-certain
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Poem 7
Detour Waterlogged cotton blossom Bogged down O the beaten track
So only a perception Of your reflection Is in another’s mid day sun
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Poem 8
Motoring The winding river winds Winds away from the bridge Where the winding water flows Slow days Have gone by so slowly As we try to reach out Reach out for our destination
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Poem 9
Viewing Point The immensity of it all, caught in an instant, with our instant camera We have become more Japanese than the Japanese, who take their pictures standing on the overhanging wall Yet it is we who are quiet, whilst it is they who make boisterous conversation “ya, ya, ma”, “ya, ya, ma”
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Poem 10
Derrynane House Only the red rust light, behind these calm closed eyes Only the mued conversation, and the sounds of soft rolling seas Only the sweet scent of a flower, that I am unable to define Other than it has a lemon blossom, and grows wild on the dunes
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Poem 11
Leaving You Behind Shallow waters, heavyweight grasses The first signs of singular stratification
Small boats, outlandish plans, time To stand in line for disembarkation
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Poem 12
The Jarvey He put his arm around you, for the photograph, he stopped the trap to show off the mountains echo He told of going away, across the seas, also of returning, with his German wife, to raise their Irish family He projected of having to repeat the adventure, to pay for his children’s further education His true, and moving story, of the lady gardener, who wrapped her plants in wool Was contrasted well with the fable of the ingenious thief’s apprentice He answered all we asked, with the swiftest of thought and word He loved his Arabian horses, he loved them by being gentle Caring and gentle, gentle, but firm, as also with his daughters
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Poem 13
Dictionary He said insidious, she said invidious, but couldn’t explain it Now she says it means ‘you’ve got something hidden’ What is in that woodshed, what is going on
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Poem 14
After the Drink What is The Peace What is The War What is The North What is The South And what is it, to have come on so strong
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Poem 15
Shaun And The Highly Strung Arabian Mare He came from the mountains, to build a house of stone, he took us to the loch side, and told of the eccentric lady’s home She returned without her family, she chose to leave them behind, she was an abstract painter, and the most determined gardener he did find She wrapped flowers in wool and cotton, to save them from the night, with all her love she tended, during long winters lack of light We twist and turn through the passes, with stories of his working life, of the mountains blue and gold reflections, in cities far and wide He tells of buying horses, and this diamond mare he found, he tells of having to break her, yet with excitable tenderness she did rebound He is here and he is home now, but the money it cannot last, once more he will travel, for his labour is the sole provider for his loved and loving caste
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Poem 16
Photographs Not Taken
1.
The column of slate
2.
The cotton on the bog
3.
The river under the bridge
4.
The shallow waters
The idea ran its course for me, but feel free to take it up.
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Section 2
Galway & Dublin We had paddled in the waters on the Dingle peninsula, we had ridden in an horse drawn trap through the Black Mountains, we had driven around the ring of Kerry, and climbed the walls of Ross castle. We had eaten well, we had drunk well, we had had the craic, we had met the beautiful people, we had listened to the music. Now it was time to head up the coast and across the Shannon ferry, first towards Galway and then onwards to Dublin.
Poem 17
The Lodge at Doonbeg The smoked salmon was placed neatly, atop the piled prawns in Marie Rose sauce The son drank Guinness, sat beside his father, who chose a cocktail and a club sandwich The girls (women) had a group photograph taken, charmingly, by the pleased to be invited gentleman The car park didn’t reflect the clientele which the establishment might have hoped for, not a Maserati in sight Odd to have built such a thing, to have let loose a constrained gothic architect, on the wild Atlantic coast This is one memory, made on the very same day when many more memories will be made There will be drives that sail majestically, straight as a dye, long ways down the fairway
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Poem 18
Paul Why choose the musk cologne, what home awaits your husk, in Tuscany or Rome, stone the crows if you will The chauffeur driven sedan pulled away slowly, from the inner city traffic lights, the old gentleman sat alone in the back, in his fine barathea blazer, green shirt and striped tie (his club tie) The club where the chauffeur delivered him, every evening for drinks and dinner, dinner with his dwindling band of friends, dinner before being taken home to his expansive home, in the leafy suburbs, beside the lifelong rolling river Corrib Why choose the leather bag, what goods await you, whether in Galway or Killarney, stay in the other man’s row if you will The carpenter had the wisdom to take the advice of the ganger and the foreman, he had the sense of purpose to enroll in the college He developed the strength of character to travel the world; plying his trade, sowing his seeds, feeding his mistress, caring for his wife and loving his children His father gave him all he could, including the honesty of the people at the top of the hill After his travels the carpenter returned to his home town of Donegal, he reflected on his life, sat on the cliffs looking out to sea; he sought out a new peace, which came to him in a moment He told me “Christopher you have to be ready” “and you have to work at peace, for it is far harder work, far harder work than the work of a carpenter, or an engineer”
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Poem 19
Peace Came; As If By Right We met him in the famous Galway city, he was from the beautiful Donegal town, his wife she must have been fair pretty, to get the spiritual wanderer to half-way settle down He was so fond of working he forgot he had a wife, he took so strong to drinking he mistook it for a life, he had so strong a presence, peace came to him as if by right He crossed the seas by boat to England, to use his trade he was London bound, he made himself a small monetary fortune, while his head all the while whizzed around He was so fond of working he forgot he had a wife, he took so strong to drinking he mistook it for a life, he had so strong a presence, peace came to him as if by right He built the fairground rides for Disney, with the skill of a man who knows the way, he sang beside the big star Lindsey, she was the love of his life, he loved her night and day He was so fond of working he forgot he had a wife, he took so strong to drinking he mistook it for a life, he had so strong a presence, peace came to him as if by right He knew it was the time to find the stillness, to stare out to sea from Sliabh Liag Clis, he was certain his wife was sure to leave him, yet, through his faithful presence, the peace still found him on that day He was so fond of working he forgot he had a wife, he took so strong to drinking he mistook it for a life, he had so strong a presence, peace came to him as if by right
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Poem 20
Galway’s Music Pubs It’s where the musicians meet, that division of two streets It’s the place to sing with rhythm, to bang the drum, and tap the feet It’s the sunshine of the season, where peace becomes the reason It’s the place where deity’s are taken or given, as with all hope we seize
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Poem 21
A Perfect Poem (Tom Carney) On the motorway From Galway to Dublin Thinking of the photographs That I have not taken
The column of slate The cotton on the bog... The love sat here beside me With photographs I have not taken
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Poem 22
Hard Stuff If I don’t give you the time and presence how might I ask you to let me be I have been known as a carpenter, I have been known as Paul I have been known to like a drink, I have been in love, loved you one and all
If I don’t give you the chance to think how might I ask you to choose wisely I have been known as a builder, I have been known as Shaun I have been known to like a drink, I have been in love, love I love you all
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Poem 23
Witness And Wait If you let the peaceful present happen, take o a while to let yourself be, if you listen to the mountains and the raindrops, take some time to believe, in essence, elemental, essentially to see If you hear the wind and the loch water lapping, being with you to share your love of serenity, if you ride the low waves of lightness passing, by being with belief in you, by being with caring for love, essential and elementally
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Poem 24
Addled Imagination I want to talk to you of the glowing embers, on this damp and foggy Connemara afternoon Ask you to fill your nostrils, with the aromas of slow burning logs, from the fireplace of the head gardeners cottage I want to sit by you, as a reconstruction; you sat in my armchair, me on the floor, I will leave the desk-work until the morning We might witness our lives in the fires flames, sense our excitement, with occasional sparks of emotion The liquor will warm us, as also might the Donegal woven blanket, thrown over us, when we pull closer together I want to talk to you of the glowing embers, you my mother superior, in this house of Benedictine nuns
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Poem 25
Memo to Sail Take a note my boy For those two weeks in June and July Say bon voyage to Lincolnshire my boy Sail off for Galway, with your horse of troy
Take note my boy Be awake for the awakening tune Say “hey there, it’s me, over here boy” “I’ve made my way over here, to hear the bands of joy”
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Poem 26
Reader All in this body, all in this mind, all open to rediscovery, such a thing of such a kind All in all this morning, all in all, all this day, is open to the tinker, the tailor, the soldier, the spy, and the catcher in the rye All in all this hearing, all in all this breathing, all in all to the keeping, of such a thing, as an open mind
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Poem 27
Man of Substance Be there, as the time plays on, stay on that peaceful joyous note As if all day the sun’s rays shone, as if the goth and his grand-father held hands till the day had gone Why would I doubt you, a mind with such fine shoes, as if all the rich and famous haven’t already stayed here in the Gresham Hotel Where you remembered that afternoon, almost thirty years ago to the day, sat at a dining table with Professor PJ O’Reilly Watching the men of the cloth, in their crocodile skin shoes, taking all on tap, with a slight nod, to their Holy Father
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Poem 28
Giving The Given Imagine this, I doubt if you can, he is the new Capability Brown, the most philanthropic man I’ve met this week He works in Dublin town, plays lawyer for the crown, but spirits the money away into the land, o boy he’s way out there, something grand, and I met him this week Imagine this, I doubt if you can, he says that I am a poet, and that I have written the perfect poem this week I work in an old England town, mostly I play the clown, and spirit away the money by following bands, o joy he’s given me quite a hand, good that I met him this week
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Poem 29
Injured Yet Joyful A couple of lawyers, you wouldn’t if you could, tales to take the wind’s sails, no really, really you should And kick her on the leg, say sorry a hundred times, say you’ve ridden around Kerry, say you love her, say everything’s fine And you love him like a brother, he’s planted trees as no other, he’s helped to find that land of plenty, for to give it to the poor
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Poem 30
Doppelgänger I saw you down O’Connell Street, first to cross the pedestrian crossing Still, still after all these years, still in a rush, you didn’t see me, or did you Is that why you moved so swiftly, away from my piercing eyes I had been talking, in the Palace Bar, to that Tom Carney, the lawyer farmer He said I had caught it, you know, the regret, he said I had caught it, with the repetition
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Poem 31
Paul Henry’s Connemara Village I would take this wooden seat to look upon, at the Cottages of Connemara, I would read that the brush strokes elude to a rural life, at the foot of the mountains I would write, as you looked on, while I tried to satisfy my intellect; yes I would claim for Frances Danby to also be the Earl of Derby, the painter of Vesuvius Rising I would think Paul Henry could be Cezanne, each day to sit with coloured shower, each day to sit with shades of french grass, as if the meditation unceasingly continues I would desire the gift to be able to explain to you, of moments passing that reflect hollow, and enormous, on the moors that passed, as if the partaking of the all of love I would post the postcard’s words, of all those people years, pulled and strung together, as the rosary beads on the older woman’s chair
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Poem 32
Up On High The old wall, with mock Georgian sachet windows, the new gardens, with painted crimson supports for the glass panelled, highly elevated walkway Would that I find my soul twixt the window and the girder, would that I give my heart to you, without the fear of its own murder The old public house, with a bed of straw and quilt, the never-ending lake which compels the father to leave his unwed daughters Would that I find my mind, between the public house and the lake, would that I give mankind to you, without the fear, for my own heaven’s sake
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Poem 33
Straight Lines; Obtuse Angles Old rectangles came into my life today, in walls with windows, in hallways with stairs, in tall tales of Pythagoras on the road to Donegal Thin slots, reminiscent of the rill constructed in another’s garden’, with log, with neoprene, with sand and water on the road to nowhere Alarm bells in square boxes guard the heavy wooded doors, elsewhere John Singer Sergeant is kept from public view, although if I recall he was on the road to Venice
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Poem 34
Back Streets I take myself out of the dereliction, feeling unsafe in the squalid world of the half-life I retire to the Japanese coee shop and art gallery, where jazz music plays soulful I look back on my photographs of Beckett, and that wild phantom of a man whose name evades me right now Yet twenty five years past I saw his ghostly portraits, back then I thought, as I think now, there is the man who captured the troubled soul The French jazz singer seemingly achieves only that half-way point of angst, in her search for today’s equilibrium
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Poem 35
Vacation, Vacation I thought to take the train to Dublin, take a glass or two in the Palace Bar Leave my place west of Killarney, out on the headland, past Dingle Bay I’d meet a fair-minded legal couple who would tell me of their land Of planting trees and building houses, for the returning poor folks to stay I’d hear talk of a new kind of landlord, a guardian of his own destined way He’d pay a Welsh man to carve his pastures, in the ideal of Capability Brown His mission was tied into the desire for a legacy, to be achieved through land and book He would read all that he could, such that one day he should write his own piece So complete, and so succinct, so much more in the line of Hemingway and land Than of F.Scott Fitzgerald’s labours, with the splintered souls of soul-less society
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Poem 36
Return Ferry Cross The Irish Sea How many more ideas might a man have that he hasn’t the time to write them all down Moving across the horizon, speeding towards the mainland Something about the paintings of John Miller’s seas And his Cornish summer sandbars
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Poem 37
Back (In Mind) Across The Irish Sea He told me his wife was having an aair He had taken some time out to stay with his sister, herself a recovering schizophrenic With a dedication to The Mass that he admired, he admired her dedication greatly
Earlier, and the reason I am writing this, he told me he had seen the light He was staring out to sea, on the clis of his hometown near Donegal He had become at one with peace, he had found inner love (my words not his)
He said that if I wanted to find it I had to be prepared, I had to make myself ready It would be hard work but it would be uniquely fulfilling He sold me on his story, which also included only ever telling the truth, the truth as he saw it
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Aftermath These are the immediate memory’s words, written almost all during our trip to Ireland in the early summer of 2014. Especially we owe thanks to all the people we met, you gave us so many thoughts and so many good times, and so many reasons to write. It is to be hoped that we do return, don’t we all want to return somewhere.
Copyright
Š Christopher Sanderson 2014 All poems copyright Christopher Sanderson - All rights reserved xli