First published in 2010 by Messenger Publications Messenger Publications, 37 Lower Leeson Street, Dublin 2 www.messenger.ie
ISBN number 978-1-872245-75-1
The material in this publication is protected by copyright law. Except as may be permitted by law, no part of the material may be reproduced (including by storage in a retrieval system) or transmitted in any form or by any means, adapted, rented or lent without the written permission of the copyright owners. Applications for permissions should be addressed to the publisher. Text © 2010, E.E. O’Donnell SJ Photographs © The Father Browne SJ Collection Father Browne prints are available from Davison & Associates, 69B Heather Road, Sandyford Industrial Estate, Dublin 18 Designed by Messenger Publications, 2010 Typeset in Garamond Printed in Ireland by Brunswick Press Ltd
Contents The Sad Shepherd........................................................................8 The Cloak, the Boat, and the Shoes........................................10 The Indian to His Love.............................................................12 The Falling of the Leaves.........................................................14 Ephemera....................................................................................16 The Stolen Child........................................................................18 To an Isle in the Water..............................................................20 Down by the Salley Gardens....................................................22 The Meditation of the Old Fisherman...................................24 He Remembers Forgotten Beauty...........................................26 A Faery Song..............................................................................28 The lake Isle of Innisfree.........................................................30 A Cradle Song.............................................................................32 The Pity of Love........................................................................34 When You Are Old....................................................................36 The Hosting of the Sidhe.........................................................38 The Everlasting Voices..............................................................40 The Moods..................................................................................42 The Lover tells of the Rose in his Heart................................44 The Fish.......................................................................................46 Into The Twilight.......................................................................48 The Song of Wandering Aengus.............................................50 The Song of the Old Mother...................................................52 The Lover mourns for the Loss of Love...............................54 He Mourns for the Change......................................................56 He gives his Beloved certain Rhymes.....................................58 To his Heart, bidding it have no Fear.....................................60 The Valley of the Black Pig......................................................62 The Lover speaks to the Hearers.............................................64 The Poet pleads with the Elemental Powers.........................66
He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven.....................................68 The Fiddler of Dooney.............................................................70 In the Seven Woods...................................................................72 To Be Carved on a Stone at Thoor Ballylee..........................74 Red Hanrahan’s Song about Ireland........................................76 O Do Not Love Too Long.......................................................78 No Second Troy.........................................................................80 The Rose of Battle.....................................................................82 The Coming of Wisdom with Time.......................................84 These are the Clouds.................................................................86 A Friend’s Illness........................................................................88 All Things can Tempt Me.........................................................90 September 1913..........................................................................92 To a Shade...................................................................................94 To a Child Dancing in the Wind..............................................96 A Coat..........................................................................................98 The Wild Swans at Coole........................................................100 An Irish Airman Forsees his Death......................................102 The Fisherman.........................................................................104 The Cat and the Moon............................................................106 Easter 1916...............................................................................108 Sailing to Byzantium................................................................110 The Fool by the Roadside.......................................................112 In Memory of Eva Gore-Booth and Con Markiewicz......114 Symbols......................................................................................116 Spilt Milk...................................................................................118 The Choice................................................................................120 Gratitude to Unknown Instructors.......................................122 The Old Stone Cross...............................................................124 Under Ben Bulben...................................................................126
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Introduction
Y
eats needs no introduction. Father Browne needs no introduction in Ireland where he is the country’s best-known photographer. Outside of Ireland he is known as the photographer of the Titanic, but not many people know much else about him. They do not even know that, besides his eighty-odd Titanic pictures, he took nearly 42,000 other photographs in four different continents. Francis Mary Hegarty Browne, on the face of it, had little in common with William Butler Yeats. The former was born in Cork city in 1880, fifteen years after the poet. Both of them went to school in Dublin (to Belvedere College and High School respectively) but Browne gravitated towards the south of Ireland, where his Uncle Robert was Bishop of Cloyne, whilst Yeats swung between London and the north-west of Ireland, Sligo being the Yeats Country. Browne went to the same school and University as James Joyce but afterwards their paths diverged. Joyce went into exile; Browne entered the Jesuits. He was still studying for the priesthood in 1912 when his Uncle Robert presented him with a firstclass ticket for the first two legs of Titanic’s maiden voyage: Southampton to Cherbourg and thence to Queenstown, where he was reluctant to disembark. Browne became Father Browne when he was ordained a priest in 1915. Immediately thereafter he became a chaplain to the Irish Guards who were fighting in France and Flanders. He was injured three times and gassed once. Decorated for his bravery by
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three governments, he was not demobilized until 1920 when he retired from ‘The Watch on the Rhine’, leaving his regiment at Cologne. His priestly work back in Dublin, where he was Superior of the Jesuit church on Gardiner Street, was interrupted by a two-year stint in Australia, convalescing from the effects of mustard-gas. It was during this trip, one can fairly say, that he became addicted to photography. He stopped off in South Africa on the way out and returned via Sri Lanka and the Suez Canal. The Irish Ambassador in Canberra was happy to launch Father Browne’s Australia in 1999. On his return to Ireland he joined the Dublin Camera Club and the Irish Photographic Society and often spoke to the Belvedere Camera Club which he had founded in 1906. In 1929 he was appointed to the Jesuit Retreats & Missions Staff, a position he held until his death in 1960. His photographic negatives lay moribund until 1985 when they were unearthed and transferred to safety film from dangerous nitrate material (thanks to sponsorship from Allied Irish Bank). Now, twenty-two books of his photographs have been published, with translations into Japanese, Hungarian and French. L’Irlande du Père Browne was published in Paris to accompany the exhibition at the Pompidou Centre. Further exhibitions have been held in places like Bragança (Portugal), Hamburg (Germany), Lorient (France) and Branson (Missouri, USA). Father Browne slide-shows have
been seen in cities as far apart as Melbourne and Hiroshima, San Diego and Washington DC. I mention all this by way of saying that it now comes as no surprise when we read The Irish Times assertion that Father Browne is “Ireland’s leading documentary photographer”. It is for this very reason that I have dared to juxtapose his work with that of Ireland’s most famous poet. Some readers will think this an unhappy combination, knowing that the men had very different philosophies and led very different lives. My belief, however, is that they had much in common from the artistic point of view. When a professional poet and a gifted photographer look at a cloud, for instance, some creative instinct snaps into life and a new artistic work is born. It little matters whether one of them, the poet in this case, spends years analyzing this creative process and the other doesn’t. Their works live after them. Obviously, some of Yeats’ poems were more suitable for this book than others. It does not purport to be an anthology of Yeats’ best poetry. For a variety of reasons, including length and content, some of his best poems will not be found here. Likewise, many of Father Browne’s ‘world class’ photographs have been kept for a different book because there is not an apposite counterpart in Yeats’ oeuvre. At the same time, quite a broad spectrum of poetry appears, not just the early nature poems. Archibald MacLeish contended that “A poem should not mean, but be”. I fancy that Yeats would agree that this is only sometimes the case in his own poetry; at other times he was making a political or theosophical statement. I have restricted my choice to
the genre envisaged by MacLeish, often to the poems that everybody knows. My hope in juxtaposing photographs with these poems is that the readers will actually become involved in the creative process itself, along the lines of a threeline Japanese haiku. These classical poems have a third line that is qualitatively different from the preceding two, for example, Old pond a frog leaps in water’s sound. In this book, whether you read the poem first and then view the image, or vice versa, a third concept is going to spring to your mind that is neither Browne’s nor Yeats’ but your very own. Critics might say that Yeats would turn in his grave at Drumcliffe Churchyard (if that is where he is laid) at the very idea of being bracketed with a Jesuit. That is simply untrue. As a Belvedere boy, after all, Frank Browne attended many a Greek play – in Greek – in Yeats’ High School, and his pictures of County Sligo show that he had a resonance with this part of planet Earth that was quite akin with the poet’s. And even though Father Browne was in the British army while W.B. Yeats was glorifying the Easter 1916 Rising in Dublin, both men, without a shadow of a doubt, would class themselves as belonging to “the indomitable Irishry”. E. E. O’Donnell SJ
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The Sad Shepherd There was a man whom Sorrow named his Friend, And he, of his high comrade Sorrow dreaming, Went walking with slow steps along the gleaming And humming sands, where windy surges wend: And he called loudly to the stars to bend From their pale thrones and comfort him, but they Among themselves laugh on and sing alway: And then the man whom Sorrow named his friend Cried out, Dim sea, hear my most piteous story! The sea swept on and cried her old cry still, Rolling along in dreams from hill to hill. He fled the persecution of her glory And, in a far-off, gentle valley stopping, Cried all his story to the dewdrops glistening. But naught they heard, for they are always listening, The dewdrops, for the sound of their own dropping. And then the man whom Sorrow named his friend Sought once again the shore, and found a shell, And thought, I will my heavy story tell Till my own words, re-echoing, shall send Their sadness through a hollow, pearly heart; And my own tale again for me shall sing, And my own whispering words be comforting, And lo! my ancient burden may depart. Then he sang softly nigh the pearly rim; But the sad dweller by the sea-ways lone Changed all he sang to inarticulate moan Among her wildering whirls, forgetting him.
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The Strand at Inishcrone, Co. Sligo (1938). 9
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The Cloak, the Boat, and the Shoes ‘What do you make so fair and bright?’ ‘I make the cloak of Sorrow: O lovely to see in all men’s sight Shall be the cloak of Sorrow, In all men’s sight.’ ‘What do you build with sails for flight?’ ‘I build a boat for Sorrow: O swift on the seas all day and night Saileth the rover Sorrow, All day and night.’ ‘What do you weave with wool so white?’ ‘I weave the shoes of Sorrow: Soundless shall be the footfall light In all men’s ears of Sorrow, Sudden and light.’
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Mrs Murnane at Knockavilla, Co. Cork (1942). 11
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The Indian to His Love The island dreams under the dawn And great boughs drop tranquillity; The peahens dance on a smooth lawn, A parrot sways upon a tree, Raging at his own image in the enamelled sea. Here we will moor our lonely ship And wander ever with woven hands, Murmuring softly lip to lip, Along the grass, along the sands, Murmuring how far away are the unquiet lands: How we alone of mortals are Hid under quiet boughs apart, While our love grows an Indian star, A meteor of the burning heart, One with the tide that gleams, the wings that gleam and dart, The heavy boughs, the burnished dove That moans and sighs a hundred days: How when we die our shades will rove, When eve has hushed the feathered ways, With vapoury footsole by the water’s drowsy blaze.
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Under quiet boughs, Lissadell, Co. Sligo (1933). 13
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The Falling of the Leaves Autumn is over the long leaves that love us, And over the mice in the barley sheaves; Yellow the leaves of the rowan above us, And yellow the wet wild-strawberry leaves. The hour of the waning of love has beset us, And weary and worn are our sad souls now; Let us part, ere the season of passion forget us, With a kiss and a tear on thy drooping brow.
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Autumn leaves, Emo, Co. Laois (1942). 15
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Ephemera ‘Your eyes that once were never weary of mine Are bowed in sorrow under pendulous lids, Because our love is waning.’ And then she: ‘Although our love is waning, let us stand By the lone border of the lake once more, Together in that hour of gentleness When the poor tired child, Passion, falls asleep: How far away the stars seem, and how far Is our first kiss, and ah, how old my heart!’ Pensive they paced along the faded leaves, While slowly he whose hand held hers, replied: ‘Passion has often worn our wandering hearts.’ The woods were round them, and the yellow leaves Fell like faint meteors in the gloom, and once A rabbit old and lame limped down the path; Autumn was over him: and now they stood On the lone border of the lake once more: Turning, he saw that she had thrust dead leaves Gathered in silence, dewy as her eyes, In bosom and hair. ‘Ah, do not mourn,’ he said, ‘That we are tired, for other loves await us; Hate on and love through unrepining hours. Before us lies eternity; our souls Are love, and a continual farewell.’
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The ‘lone border’ of Lough Gill, Co. Sligo (1932). 17
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The Stolen Child Where dips the rocky highland Of Sleuth Wood in the lake, There lies a leafy island Where flapping herons wake The drowsy water-rats; There we’ve hid our faery vats, Full of berries And of reddest stolen cherries. Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand. Where the wave of moonlight glosses The dim grey sands with light, Far off by furthest Rosses We foot it all the night, Weaving olden dances, Mingling hands and mingling glances Till the moon has taken flight; To and fro we leap And chase the frothy bubbles, While the world is full of troubles And is anxious in its sleep. Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.
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Where the wandering water gushes From the hills above Glen-Car, In pools among the rushes That scarce could bathe a star, We seek for slumbering trout And whispering in their ears Give them unquiet dreams; Leaning softly out From ferns that drop their tears Over the young streams. Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand. Away with us he’s going, The solemn-eyed: He’ll hear no more the lowing Of the calves on the warm hillside Or the kettle on the hob Sing peace into his breast, Or see the brown mice bob Round and round the oatmeal-chest. For he comes, the human child, To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, From a world more full of weeping than he can understand.
Glencar waterfall, Co. Sligo (1937). 19
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To an Isle in the Water Shy one, shy one, Shy one of my heart, She moves in the firelight Pensively apart. She carries in the dishes, And lays them in a row. To an isle in the water With her would I go. She carries in the candles, And lights the curtained room, Shy in the doorway And shy in the gloom; And shy as a rabbit, Helpful and shy. To an isle in the water With her would I fly.
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Shyness interrupted, Tubbercurry, Co. Sligo (1933). 21
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Down by the Salley Gardens Down by the salley gardens my love and I did meet; She passed the salley gardens with little snow-white feet. She bid me take love easy, as the leaves grow on the tree; But I, being young and foolish, with her would not agree. In a field by the river my love and I did stand, And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand. She bid me take life easy, as the grass grows on the weirs; But I was young and foolish, and now am full of tears.
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The gardens at Moore Park, Co. Kildare, where Count John McCormack sang ‘Down By The Salley Gardens’ for the Hollywood film ‘Song Of My Heart’ in 1929. 23
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The Meditation of the Old Fisherman You waves, though you dance by my feet like children at play, Though you glow and you glance, though you purr and you dart; In the Junes that were warmer than these are, the waves were more gay, When I was a boy with never a crack in my heart. The herring are not in the tides as they were of old; My sorrow! for many a creak gave the creel in the cart That carried the take to Sligo town to be sold, When I was a boy with never a crack in my heart. And ah, you proud maiden, you are not so fair when his oar Is heard on the water, as they were, the proud and apart, Who paced in the eve by the nets on the pebbly shore, When I was a boy with never a crack in my heart.
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Creaky cart near Tubbernalt, Co. Sligo (1933). 25
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He Remembers Forgotten Beauty When my arms wrap you round I press My heart upon the loveliness That has long faded from the world; The jewelled crowns that kings have hurled In shadowy pools, when armies fled; The love-tales wrought with silken thread By dreaming ladies upon cloth That has made fat the murderous moth; The roses that of old time were Woven by ladies in their hair, The dew-cold lilies ladies bore Through many a sacred corridor Where such grey clouds of incense rose That only God’s eyes did not close: For that pale breast and lingering hand Come from a more dream-heavy land, A more dream-heavy hour than this; And when you sigh from kiss to kiss I hear white Beauty sighing, too, For hours when all must fade like dew, But flame on flame, and deep on deep, Throne over throne where in half sleep, Their swords upon their iron knees, Brood her high lonely mysteries.
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Mrs Taylor at Heatherbrae, Norfolk (1935). 27
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A Faery Song Sung by the people of Faery over Diarmuid and Grania, in their bridal sleep under a Cromlech. We who are old, old and gay, O so old! Thousands of years, thousands of years, If all were told: Give to these children, new from the world, Silence and love; And the long dew-dropping hours of the night, And the stars above: Give to these children, new from the world, Rest far from men. Is anything better, anything better? Tell us it then: Us who are old, old and gay, O so old! Thousands of years, thousands of years, If all were told.
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‘Rest far from men’ near Ballymote, Co. Sligo (1935). 29
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The Lake Isle of Innisfree I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made: Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet’s wings. I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey, I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
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Innisfree, Lough Gill, Co. Sligo (1928). 31
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A Cradle Song The angels are stooping Above your bed; They weary of trooping With the whimpering dead. God’s laughing in Heaven To see you so good; The Sailing Seven Are gay with His mood. I sigh that kiss you, For I must own That I shall miss you When you have grown.
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From ‘The Mother & Child Scheme’ booklet published by the Irish Department of Health (1950). 33
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