Be Not Idle

When I attended a writer’s workshop last week, one assignment was a sort of salvage-yard poetry. We were SUPPOSED to take phrases from our own failed stories and poetry, then make something new.

But I’m terrible at following directions when it comes to writing (even God’s), so of course I used James Healy’s failed poetry.  Yes, Ireland’s Greatest Living Poet offered, among re-posts of his greatest hits, three that didn’t work. I was stunned.

I posted my homage at his blog, and since he didn’t curse me and threaten me with barristers, banisters, or barristas (the great horrors of modern life), I thought I’d post it here as well:

Love in a Post-Christian World
(An homage to James Healy, from his three unfinished poems.)

A fire is dying
upon the bare
shadows
above the ashes.
All the myth
in rome in lyons and in paris
even so in gaigue na manaigh
is dying.
A curse
is there
if you want it.

-Jean M. Balconi (the greatest living poetess in her own house – but only because she owns no parrots)

at 6am
the gun first pressed to her brow
ten years ago
by the editor of cosmopolitan magazine
all spandex and day glo
and by the creative consultants of sundry advertising companies
like grinning puppets in a row
and by the programme planners of itv rte and the bbc
no no no
went off
and the body she had starved for so long
to attain their image
to obey their decree
made tangled
made desolate
made broken
ceased to be

at 6am
jesus woke her from her sleep
that’s enough suffering for one lifetime
come with me
walking down d’olier street
they chatted like old friends
and she realised at last
that the rain is diamonds

The Heelers Diary is one of my favorite sites because it author, James Healy, is always surprising. I never know if he’s going to wax eloquent or embark on a flight of fancy. And then there’s the poetry…

Check it out. But don’t be fooled. His grandeous claim to the title of “Ireland’s Greatest Living Poet” is to obscure the fact that he really is a poet.

… here’s a favourite poem of mine. There’s a fairytale quality to many of Yeats’ poems.

THE CAP AND BELLS by William Butler Yeats

The jester walked in the garden:
The garden had fallen still;
He bade his soul rise upward
And stand on her window-sill.

It rose in a straight blue garment,
When owls began to call:
It had grown wise-tongued by thinking
Of a quiet and light footfall;

But the young queen would not listen;
She rose in her pale night-gown;
She drew in the heavy casement
And pushed the latches down.

He bade his heart go to her,
When the owls called out no more;
In a red and quivering garment
It sang to her through the door.

It had grown sweet-tongued by dreaming
Of a flutter of her flower-like hair;
But she took up her fan from the table
And waved it off on the air.

‘I have cap and bells,’ he pondered,
‘I will send them to her and die’;
And when the morning whitened
He left them where she went by.

She laid them upon her bosom,
Under a cloud of her hair,
And her red lips sang them a love-song
Till stars grew out of the air.

She opened her door and her window,
And the heart and the soul came through,
To her right hand came the red one,
To her left one came the blue.

They set up a noise like crickets,
A chattering wise and sweet,
And her hair was a folded flower
And the quiet of love in her feet.

A Hymn by G.K. Chesterton

O God of earth and altar,
    Bow down and hear our cry,
Our earthly rulers falter,
    Our people drift and die;
The walls of gold entomb us,
    The swords of scorn divide,
Take not thy thunder from us,
    But take away our pride.

From all that terror teaches,
    From lies of tongue and pen,
From all the easy speeches
    That comfort cruel men,
From sale and profanation
    Of honour and the sword,
From sleep and from damnation,
    Deliver us, good Lord.

Tie in a living tether
    The prince and priest and thrall,
Bind all our lives together,
    Smite us and save us all;
In ire and exultation
    Aflame with faith, and free,
Lift up a living nation,
    A single sword to thee.