IIIWhat looks the strongest has outlived its term
.The future lies with what’s affirmed from under
.These things that corroborated us when we dwelt
under the aegis of our stealthy patron,
the guardian angel of passivity,
now sink a fang of menace in my shoulder.
I repeat the word ‘stricken’ to myself
and stand bareheaded under the banked clouds
edged more and more with brassy thunderlight.
I yearn for hammerblows on clinkered planks,
the uncompromised report of driven thole-pins,
to know there is one among us who never swerved
from all his instincts told him was right action,
who stood his ground in the indicative,
whose boat will lift when the cloudburst happens.
Statues with exposed hearts and barbed-wire crowns
Still stood in alcoves, hares flitted beneath
The dozing bellies of jets, our menu-writers
And punks with aerosol sprays held their own
With the best of them. Satellite link-ups
Wafted over us the blessings of popes, heliports
Maintained a charmed circle for idols on tour
And casualties on their stretchers. We sleepwalked
The line between panic and formulae, screentested
Our first native models and the last of the mummers,
Watching ourselves at a distance, advantaged
And airy as a man on a springboard
Who keeps limbering up because the man cannot dive
And then in the foggy midlands it appeared,
Our mud vision, as if a rose window of mud
Had invented itself out of the glittery damp,
A gossamer wheel, concentric with its own hub
Of nebulous dirt, sullied yet lucent.
We had heard of the sun standing still and the sun
That changed colour, but we were vouchsafed
Original clay, transfigured and spinning.
And then the sunsets ran murky, the wiper
Could never entirely clean off the windscreen,
Reservoirs tasted of silt, a light fuzz
Accrued in the hair and the eyebrows, and some
Took to wearing a smudge on their foreheads
To be prepared for whatever. Vigils
Began to be kept around puddled gaps,
On altars bulrushes ousted the lilies
And a rota of invalids came and went
On beds they could lease placed in range of the shower.
A generation who had seen a sign!
Those nights when we stood in an umber dew and smelled
Mould in the verbena, or woke to a light
Furrow-breath on the pillow, when the talk
Was all about who had seen it and our fear
Was touched with a secret pride, only ourselves
Could be adequate then to our lives. When the rainbow
Curved flood-brown and ran like a water-rat’s back
So that drivers on the hard shoulder switched off to watch,
We wished it away, and yet we presumed it a test
That would prove us beyond expectation.
We lived, of course, to learn the folly of that.
One day it was gone and the east gable
Where its trembling corolla had balanced
Was starkly a ruin again, with dandelions
Blowing high up on the ledges, and moss
That slumbered on through its increase. As cameras raked
The site from every angle, experts
Began their
post factum
jabber and all of usCrowded in tight for the big explanations.
Just like that, we forgot that the vision was ours,
Our one chance to know the incomparable
And dive to a future. What might have been origin
We dissipated in news. The clarified place
Had retrieved neither us nor itself – except
You could say we survived. So say that, and watch us
Who had our chance to be mud-men, convinced and estranged,
Figure in our own eyes for the eyes of the world.
Once we presumed to found ourselves for good
Between its blue hills and those sandless shores
Where we spent our desperate night in prayer and vigil,
Once we had gathered driftwood, made a hearth
And hung our cauldron like a firmament,
The island broke beneath us like a wave.
The land sustaining us seemed to hold firm
Only when we embraced it
in extremis
.All I believe that happened there was vision.
The pieces included here from
Stations
were first printed in a pamphlet in Belfast (Ulsterman Publications, 1975); and the extracts from
Sweeney Astray
are based upon Irish originals in
Buile Suibnue
. Sweeney’s voice is also present, displaced out of its medieval context, in ‘Sweeney Redivivus’.
‘Station Island’ is set upon an island of that name in Lough Derg in Co. Donegal. For centuries it has been the site of a pilgrimage which involves fasting, praying and going barefoot around the ‘beds’ – stone circles believed to be the remaining foundations of early monastic buildings. Each unit of these penitential exercises is called a ‘station’. William Carleton, who figures in Section II, published a famous account of his experiences on the island in
Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry
(1830–3). The poem by St John of the Cross translated in Section XI is ‘Cantar del alma que se huelga de conoscar a Dios por fe’. (Further annotations to this title poem and to some other poems in the volume are available in
Station Island
, Faber, 1984.)
S.H
.
Act of Union,
1
After a Killing,
1
Afterwards, An,
1
Alphabets,
1
Anahorish,
1
Artist, An,
1
At the Water’s Edge,
1
Death of a Naturalist,
1
Digging,
1
Disappearing Island, The,
1
Dream of Jealousy, A,
1
Drifting Off,
1
Drink of Water, A,
1
Field Work (
from
),
1
First Flight, The,
1
First Kingdom, The,
1
Follower,
1
For Bernard and Jane McCabe,
1
Fosterage,
1
From the Canton of
Expectation,
1
From the Frontier of Writing,
1
From the Republic of Conscience,
1
Funeral Rites,
1
Hailstones,
1
Harvest Bow, The,
1
Haw Lantern, The,
1
Hazel Stick for Catherine Ann, A,
1
Hercules and Antaeus,
1
Holly,
1
Limbo,
1
Making Strange,
1
Master, The,
1
Mid-Term Break,
1
Milk Factory, The,
1
Ministry of Fear,
1
Mossbawn: Two Poems in Dedication,
1
Mud Vision, The,
1
Sandstone Keepsake,
1
Scribes, The,
1
Seed Cutters, The,
1
Shelf Life (
from
),
1
Sibyl,
1
Singer’s House, The,
1
Singing School (
from
),
1
Skunk, The,
1
Sloe Gin,
1
Song,
1
Spoonbait, The,
1
Station Island,
1
Stations of the West, The,
1
Stone from Delphi,
1
Stone Verdict, The,
1
Strand at Lough Beg, The,
1
Strange Fruit,
1
Summer Home,
1
Summer 1969,
1
Sunlight,
1
Sweeney Astray,
1
Sweeney in Connacht,
1
Sweeney Praises the Trees,
1
Sweeney Redivivus (
from
),
1
Sweeney’s Lament on Ailsa Craig,
1
Sweeney’s Last Poem,
1
Underground, The,
146