It was to be an evening of poetry, with two amazingly powerful and talented women at the helm but when we arrived something else lurked beneath the water. Encouraged to sit on the floor we were informed that this was also to be a protest against banks doing what banks do. So we sat uncomfortably on the ground, drinking wine, shifting uncomfortably from side to side as Eavan Boland and Paula Meehan read poetry laced with a strange combination of power and delicacy. We travelled to the underworld as daughters trapped for half a year beneath the ground then evolved into a mother rescuing the child and making soul staining bargains. Eavan took us through the journey from childhood, to woman hood- she took us into our countries past to the famine roads.
I was in Belmullet, standing by the side of the road with my skirt tucked between my knees as the wind threatened to steal me away, or worse still expose bright pink underwear to the world, when ailbhe and I had an arguement about poetry. It had started on the bus but came to a head in a crevice between the two possible places we could grab food- Ailbhe questioned whether a certain poet we both love could ever win the big prizes or achieve something more because she was unsure if he had found the great idea yet. 'Every poet', she told me, 'needs a great idea in order to mark their place in history- Heaney has his bog people moulding themselves up from the earth, he has northern ireland'- this poet she thought, had not found his idea yet. I argued that his beauty was in seeing the extraordinary qualities in ordinary things, in integrating science and philosophy into his work, breaking down the world and it's inhabitants as a form of deconstruction--- if life is a formula he breaks it down into it's simplest form in order to better understand it.
'To explore the collection of poetry as a poem in itself is part of the great idea' ms darcy informed me- 'they need to have a unifying theme, something that links them all together, something unique- that they own, that they created'. I took this concept and went a slightly different direction but along a similiar vein- the collection of poetry as an object- what scene does it create- if you were to sit down and paint the book what would you put on the page. The poets last book would be one full of mirrors, and creaking doors- I can picture it in my head- the floors are dark, the varnish worn down- there are doors leading in every direction but you are sure that behind each one lurks a ghost- in the kitchen there is a chopping board and several sets of keys that seem to fit none of the doors.
Another writer described his big idea a lot more eloquently and the issue was resolved it was agreed unanimously that he is wonderful but I am getting off the topic. Eavan Boland to me is a woman with more than a big idea- it is the type of idea that sucks in people, they inhabit the idea. Her work contains fragments of Irish history, Myths, womens history--- it incorporates the struggles of northern ireland, the growth of women, and the oppression of women into this beautiful delicate world woven with history lessons and beautiful stories. Her world is a garden with invisible monsters lurking in the bushes and powerful women to protect and explain it all to us, to help us understand and move onwards- to prevent us fighting dead monsters for the rest of our lives or ones that never existed to begin with. Her garden is in reality- it is in history with children playing on the lawn and a mother sitting cross legged peeking over a book---the monsters have been pushed to the outskirts "I have chosen: out of myth into history".
And yet she uses Myth so wonderfully in her work to explain history, to explain her own feelings towards her children.
Paula Meehan took the stage after Eavan, reading passionately poems about moons hidden in canals, warning us not to let loved ones travel the canals as it may give them a taste for adventure and their next journey could be longer. She tells us this as her partner lurks in the audience brandishing a beard grown bushy from his travels. I had never really read Paulas work- she had come into the literary society before but I arrived late and was squashed down with the gigglers on the floor behind a desk- I didn't get to hear her poetry and took the black clad boy mutterings about silly womans poetry as gospel. Her poetry blew me away- it was beautiful and she performed it so well, it was an experience listening to her read. Afterwards I read some of her poetry stumbling upon a poem called "Child Burial" where a woman whose child dies wishes she could spin it back into her womb, to spin it back to that point where an act of love created it and avoid that act- to lose it as drops of blood never conceived. Haunting poetry that grabs and twists something in the gut.
After this dose of powerful petite female poets I was in another world- but we were soon snapped back to reality- to the protest I had invaded. Theo Dorgan addressed us all as friends who had come for the protest- I felt like an intruder stumbling into a liberation armies meeting- I had come for the poetry and that alone. Theo spoke passionally and with power about civil liberties, of banks like king Midas who turned himself to gold "the very breath inside him turned to gold". He told us as lovers of poetry we should protest and stir things us quoting michael hartnett 'Poets and prophets make no pact, the act of poetry is a rebel act'- of course Hartnett didn't write it for this particular circumstance but it still applied. He delivered words meant to whizz inside us and turn us into a frenzy- with a voice and a presence that made me think I should be angered, that we are being violated. He rallied against those banks and institutions that destroy our world ending with fighting words- 'no one remembers who owned the banks in 1916, no one remembers who owned the banks in america..... but we remember the banks and the poets, trust me, will have the last word".
It was poetry to watch- he fought for a good cause but still his passion, ability to comand words and hold the stage reminded me of some of histories propogandaists leading men to their death- bringing us towards that unavoidable battle. We would fight those banks tooth and nail- if we lived a hundred years ago- but today we accept that you can not fight something that doesn't exist- you need capital to fight invisible money machines and as poets, we lack the resources. It would be wonderful to change the banks minds but all we can do is sit and listen to the poetry of propoganda- to the description of gold taking over midas, of the air tightening. As I sat their I imagined drinking hot gold and turning my own lungs to gold- I sat there wishing I could explore the idea of how long one could live. I loved Theos talk- he is a powerful man in a way that so few people are powerful- he has a great mind that could be a dangerous weapon if he didn't have the morals to command it or such a passionate love for the arts. But place him in another world a world in which the hugh lane gallery is closing, anglo irish writing is threatened, riots in the abbey theatre and question would he rally up the troops or be content to rave poetically to happy listeners?
Sorry I go on
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