He left the office where he'd been given a trivial, poorly paid job (something like eight pounds a month, including bonuses)- left at the end of the dreary work that kept him bent all afternoon, came out at seven and walked off slowly, idling his way down the street. Good-looking, and interesting: showing as he did that he'd reached his full sensual capacity. He'd turned twenty-nine the month before.
He idled his way down the main street and the poor side-streets that led to his home.
Passing in front of a small shop that sold cheap and flimsy merchandise for workers, he saw a face inside, a figure that compelled him to go in, and he pretended he wanted to look at some coloured handkerchiefs.
He asked about the quality of the handkerchiefs and how much they cost, his voice choking, almost silenced by desire. And the answers came back in the same mood, distracted, the voice hushed, offering hidden consent.
They kept on talking about the merchandise- but the only purpose: that their hands might touch over the handkerchiefs, that their faces, their lips, might move close together as though by chance- a moment's meeting of limb against limb.
Quickly, secretly, so the shop owner sitting at the back wouldn't realize what was going on.
by C.P. Cavafy (1863-1933; from Collected Poems, translated by Edmund Heeley and Philip Sherrard)
I recently discovered the poetry of Paul Muldoon who, as once described in the New York Times, “… takes some honest-to-God reading. He’s a riddler, enigmatic, distrustful of appearances, generous in allusion, doubtless a dab hand at crossword puzzles.” This poem is from Joy in Service on Rue Tagore (2024), which is published by Faber & Faber.
I almost forgot that today is Poetry Day Ireland which this year has a theme of “May Day” so here’s a romantic yet whimsical offering that seems tailor-made to mark the start of the month of May.
There is May in books forever; May will part from Spenser never; May's in Milton, May's in Prior, May's in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer; May's in all the Italian books:— She has old and modern nooks, Where she sleeps with nymphs and elves, In happy places they call shelves, And will rise and dress your rooms With a drapery thick with blooms. Come, ye rains, then if ye will, May's at home, and with me still; But come rather, thou, good weather, And find us in the fields together.
In the last letter that I had from France You thanked me for the silver Easter egg Which I had hidden in the box of apples You liked to munch beyond all other fruit. You found the egg the Monday before Easter, And said, 'I will praise Easter Monday now - It was such a lovely morning'. Then you spoke Of the coming battle and said, 'This is the eve. Good-bye. And may I have a letter soon.'
That Easter Monday was a day for praise, It was such a lovely morning. In our garden We sowed our earliest seeds, and in the orchard The apple-bud was ripe. It was the eve. There are three letters that you will not get.
Eleanor Farjeon, who is probably best known for having written the words to the hymn Morning has Broken, wrote this poem shortly after she heard news of the death of her close friend the poet Edward Thomas (the E.T. in the title) who was killed in action at the Battle of Arras on Easter Monday, 9th April 1917.
Devouring time, blunt thou the lion's paws And make the earth devour her own sweet brood, Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws And burn the long-liv'd phoenix in her blood, Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st, And do what e'er thou wilt, swift-footed time, To the wide world and all her fading sweets: But I forbid thee one most heinous crime, O carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow, Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen, Him in thy course untainted do allow For beauty's pattern to succeeding men. Yet do thy worst, old time, despite thy wrong, My love shall in my verse ever live young.
My mind is like a clamorous market-place. All day in wind, rain, sun, its babel wells; Voice answering to voice in tumult swells. Chaffering and laughing, pushing for a place, My thoughts haste on, gay, strange, poor, simple, base; This one buys dust, and that a bauble sells: But none to any scrutiny hints or tells The haunting secrets hidden in each sad face.
The clamour quietens when the dark draws near; Strange looms the earth in twilight of the West, Lonely with one sweet star serene and clear, Dwelling, when all this place is hushed to rest, On vacant stall, gold, refuse, worst and best, Abandoned utterly in haste and fear.
Daffodils photographed yesterday at Maynooth University
It’s St David’s Day so, notwithstanding the fact that I’ve just watched Leinster beat Cardiff 42-24 at Rugby,
Dydd Gŵyl Dewi Hapus!
On this day I usually post a poem by a Welsh poet. This, by Dylan Thomas, which was published in 1936 and seems to me to be rather topical, featured in the concert I went to about a month ago.
The hand that signed the paper felled a city; Five sovereign fingers taxed the breath, Doubled the globe of dead and halved a country; These five kings did a king to death.
The mighty hand leads to a sloping shoulder, The finger joints are cramped with chalk; A goose's quill has put an end to murder That put an end to talk.
The hand that signed the treaty bred a fever, And famine grew, and locusts came; Great is the hand that holds dominion over Man by a scribbled name.
The five kings count the dead but do not soften The crusted wound nor pat the brow; A hand rules pity as a hand rules heaven; Hands have no tears to flow.
Last night was my first trip of the year to the National Concert Hall in Dublin. I had planned to go on 17th January but by the time I got around to buying a ticket it was sold out. Fortunately, it was broadcast live on the radio and is still available on the RTÉ Player. I had a ticket for last Friday’s concert but bottled out of going because of transport worries about Storm Éowyn. That concert went ahead, apparently, but wasn’t broadcast so I missed it. Last night was third time lucky, and I’m very glad I got there!
The conductor of the National Symphony Orchestra for last night’s performance was Columbian-born Lina González-Granados in what I believe to have been her first appearance with the NSO. I certainly hope she comes back as she was very good indeed. I think the members of the orchestra enjoyed themselves as much as the audience!
As you can see from the programme, the concert opened with a very familiar piece, Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune by Claude Debussy, which was performed with all the shimmering sensuality it demands. Some very lush playing by the strings on this one, and lovely work by the woodwinds made it sound very fresh although I’ve heard it many times.
After that tenor Gavan Ring joined the orchestra to perform the Irish Premiere of The Celestial Stranger, a song cycle composed by Belfast born composer Stephen McNeff. This consists of settings of five poems, two by Thomas Traherne (including the one that gives its name to the collection, a remarkable work that I will post in its entirety later on). The next poem is by Walt Whitman and is titled As The Time Draws Nigh in the programme, but is not the well-known Whitman poem of that title but seems to have been adapted from various texts, including Years of the Modern. After that is a famous poem by Dylan Thomas, The hand that signed the paper and the cycle concludes with an adaptation of Farewell to Thee, written by Liliʻuokalani (former monarch of Hawaii). It’s a varied collection but there is a narrative behind the choice: a visitor from outerspace (the Celestial Stranger) arrives on Earth and reacts joyfully to begin with. As time goes on, however, he finds out more about war and and death and finally takes his leave.
The music is as varied as the choice of verse. I felt some influence of Britten in the first piece, but the rest is very different. Gavan Ring was in fine voice and the orchestra responded very well to the very different demands of this work compared to the first.
After the interval it was time for the main course of the evening, Rachmaninov’s Second Symphony. It’s a remarkable work because it’s not only a “proper” symphony in its construction and development but also the best part of an hour of one glorious melody after another. It’s a gorgeous work altogether, but the third movement (Adagio) is especially beautiful. I love the way Rachmaninov starts this movement one of his big romantic tunes, but then hides it while passages develop through a solo clarinet and strings. You know the tune is coming back though, and when it does the emotional impact brought the audience to a collective swoon. This is romantic music in all senses of the word, just the ticket for a cole January evening. It was a very fine performance, not least because you could see how much both conductor and orchestra were enjoying themselves. Hats off to Lina González-Granados who had just the right balance of control and expressiveness. She look quite exhauasted at the end, actually. She had worked hard to earn her standing ovation.
What a thrill - My thumb instead of an onion. The top quite gone Except for a sort of hinge
Of skin, A flap like a hat, Dead white. Then that red plush.
Little pilgrim, The Indian's axed your scalp. Your turkey wattle Carpet rolls
Straight from the heart. I step on it, Clutching my bottle Of pink fizz. A celebration, this is. Out of a gap A million soldiers run, Redcoats, every one.
Whose side are they on? O my Homunculus, I am ill. I have taken a pill to kill
The thin Papery feeling. Saboteur, Kamikaze man -
The stain on your Gauze Ku Klux Klan Babushka Darkens and tarnishes and when The balled Pulp of your heart Confronts its small Mill of silence
How you jump - Trepanned veteran, Dirty girl, Thumb stump.
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In the Dark 