Read Poems That Make Grown Men Cry Online
Authors: Anthony and Ben Holden
Poems That Make Grown Men Cry (8 page)
DOUGLAS KENNEDY
In the United States we are in love with one of the more specious words in the modern lexicon: closure. This word is employed whenever the spectre of tragedy has cast its
shadow on a life. ‘I need to achieve closure’ is a common lament in the wake of a profound grief. Yet lurking behind this
proclamation is the equally spurious belief that the horrors
which life can wreak upon us – and which we can also wreak upon ourselves – can be eventually placed in a box, put on a shelf and shut away forever.
Emily Dickinson’s masterpiece of a poem points up one of the reasons why her work so endures and so resonates with the modern consciousness. It speaks directly to the heart of the
matter.
It doesn’t flinch in the face of human contradiction and the way we all try to negotiate the worst that life can throw at us. And within its diamondhard craftsmanship – its lyrical
economy, its imagistic precision – Dickinson not only speaks volumes about the shadowland of despair that is the price of being given the gift of life, but also reminds us of one of the
central truths with
which we all grapple: to live is to harbour so many profound losses.
After Great Pain
After great pain a formal feeling comes –
The Nerves sit ceremonious like Tombs;
The stiff Heart questions – was it He that bore
And Yesterday – or Centuries before?
The Feet, mechanical, go round
A Wooden way
Of Ground, or Air,
or Ought,
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone.
This is the Hour of Lead
Remembered if outlived,
As Freezing persons recollect the Snow –
First Chill – then Stupor – then the letting go.
(c. 1864)
Douglas Kennedy (b. 1955) has published ten novels (translated into twenty-two
languages), three of which,
The Dead Heart
(1994),
The Big Picture
(1997) and
The
Woman in the Fifth
(2007), have been made into films. He has also written three works of nonfiction,
Beyond the Pyramids: Travels in Egypt
(1988),
In God’s Country: Travels in
the Bible Belt
(1989) and
Chasing Mammon
(1992)
.
Peer Gynt
HENRIK IBSEN
(1828–1906)
KENNETH BRANAGH
In Christopher Fry’s verse translation of Ibsen’s
Peer Gynt
, there is a sermon by a pastor towards the end of the play. Peer listens while the priest tells
the story (in verse) of a young man from the mountains who mutilates himself to avoid joining the army and losing his sweet-heart.
The sermon is the brief story of the young man’s life, and
in this version – a fine poet’s translation of a fine poet – it always makes me cry.
From
Peer Gynt
And now, when the soul has gone its way to judgment,
And the flesh reposes here like an empty pod,
Now, dear friends, we have a word to say
About this dead man’s journeyings on earth.
He wasn’t rich, or of great understanding;
His voice was small, he had no manly bearing;
He gave his opinions shyly, uncertainly,
Was scarcely master in his own house.
In church, he walked like someone who would ask
Permission to sit there among the others.
He came from Gudbrands valley, as you know.
When he settled here he was hardly more than a boy;
And you all remember how, up to the last,
He always kept his right hand in his pocket.
This right hand in the pocket was the thing
That impressed the man’s image on one’s mind;
And also the uneasiness, the shy
Reticence when he walked into the room.
But though he
preferred to go his quiet way,
And though he seemed a stranger here among us,
You all know (though he tried hard to conceal it)
There were only four fingers on the hand he hid. –
I remember, on a morning many years ago,
A meeting at Lunde to enroll recruits.
It was war-time. Everybody was discussing
The country’s
ordeal, and what lay ahead.
I stood watching. Sitting behind the table
Was the Captain, the parish clerk and some N.C.O.s.
They took the measure of one boy after another,
Swore them in and took them for the army.
The room was full, and outside you could hear
The crowd of young men laughing in the yard.
Then a name
was shouted. Another lad came forward,
Looking as pale as the snow on a glacier.
They called him nearer; he approached the table;
A piece of rag was tied round his right hand.
He gasped, swallowed, groped about for words,
But couldn’t speak, in spite of the Captain’s order.
However, his cheeks burning, stammering still
And speaking
very quickly, he managed at last
To mumble something about an accidental
Slip of a scythe that sheared his finger off.
Silence fell on the room, as soon as he had said it.
Men exchanged looks, and their lips tightened.
They all stoned the boy with silent stares.
He felt the hailstorm, but he didn’t see it.
The Captain, an
elderly, grey-haired man, stood up,
Spat, pointed a finger and said Get out!
And the boy went. Everyone drew aside
So that he had to run the gauntlet between them.
He got as far as the door, then took to his heels
Up and off, across the fields and hillside,
Scrambling on over the shale and rocks,
To where his home was, high
on the mountainside.
Six months later he came to live down here
With a mother, a newborn child, and his wife-to-be.
He leased a plot of ground way up on the hill
Where the derelict land joins the parish of Lom.
He married as soon as he could; put up a house;
Ploughed the stony ground, and made his way,
As the waving gold
of his little fields bore witness.
At church he kept his right hand in his pocket,
But back at home no doubt those nine fingers
Did the work of other people’s ten. –
One spring a flood carried it all away.
Only their lives were spared. Everything lost,
He set to work to make another clearing,
And by the autumn smoke rose
up again
From a hillside farm, this time better sheltered.
Sheltered? Yes, from flood; but not from glaciers.
Two years later it all lay under the snow.
Yet not even an avalanche could crack his courage.
He dug, and cleared, and carted away the debris,
And before the next winter-snows came drifting
His little house was built
for the third time.
He had three sons, three fine vigorous boys;
They should go to school, but the school was a long way off.
They could only reach the end of the valley road
By going through a narrow, precipitous pass.
What did he do? The eldest looked after himself
As best he could, and where the track dropped steeply
This man roped him round to give him support;
The others he bore in his arms and on his back.
He toiled like this, year after year, until
The sons were men. Time, you would have thought,
To get some return. Three prosperous gentlemen
In the New World have managed to forget
Their Norwegian father and those journeys to school.
His horizon was narrow. Apart from the few
Who were nearest to him, nothing else existed.
The ringing words that rouse other men’s hearts
Meant nothing to him, more than a tinkle of bells.
Mankind, the fatherland, the highest ambitions
Of men, were only misty figures to him.
But he had humility, humility, this man;
And after that call-up day he always carried
The shame of the verdict, as surely as his cheeks
Carried the burn of shyness, and his four
Fingers hid in his pocket. – An offender
Against the laws of the land? Yes, indeed!
But there’s one thing that shines above the law,
As truly as the bright tent of Glitretind
Has even higher
peaks of cloud above it.
He was a poor patriot. To State
And Church, an unproductive tree. But there
On the brow of the hill, within the narrow
Circle of family, where his work was done,
There he was great, because he was himself.
He matched up to the living sounds he was born with.
His life was like a music on muted strings.
So peace be with you, silent warrior,
Who strove and fell in the peasant’s little war!
We won’t try to probe the ways of his heart.
That’s for his Maker, not for us, to do.
But I can hold this hope, with little doubt;
He is not maimed now as he stands before his God.
(1867)
TRANSLATION BY CHRISTOPHER FRY
Sir Kenneth Branagh (b. 1960) is one of Britain’s most successful actors and directors in film, television and theatre. In addition to his acclaimed cinema adaptations of
Shakespeare’s plays, he has also directed and/or acted in films such as
Valkyrie
(2008)
, Thor
(2010),
My Week with Marilyn
(2011) and
Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit
(2014). He has had huge TV success with his BAFTA-winning
portrayal of Wallander and has received five Academy Award nominations in five different categories.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
(1850–94)
CHRISTOPHER BUCKLEY
Probably unnecessary to explain why this poem almost always brings tears to my eyes. It speaks for itself. In April 2008, I recited it from memory at St Patrick’s
Cathedral, New York City, in front of 2,200 people at the memorial mass for the repose of my father’s soul. It was a particular
favourite of his, and well describes him. On that occasion I
managed not to cry, having rehearsed in private until my ducts had run dry. But I did slightly clutch at the penultimate line.