An Ulster Twilight -- Seamus Heaney

Guest poem submitted by Janice:

(Poem #1793) An Ulster Twilight The bare bulb, a scatter of nails, Shelved timber, glinting chisels: In a shed of corrugated iron Eric Dawson stoops to his plane At five o'clock on a Christmas Eve. Carpenter's pencil next, the spoke-shave, Fretsaw, auger, rasp and awl, A rub with a rag of linseed oil. A mile away it was taking shape, The hulk of a toy battleship, As waterbuckets iced and frost Hardened the quiet on roof and post. Where is he now? There were fifteen years between us two That night I strained to hear the bells Of a sleigh of the mind and heard him pedal Into our lane, get off at the gable, Steady his Raleigh bicycle Against the whitewash, stand to make sure The house was quiet, knock at the door And hand his parcel to a peering woman: `I suppose you thought I was never coming.' Eric, tonight I saw it all Like shadows on your workshop wall, Smelled wood shavings under the bench, Weighed the cold steel monkey-wrench In my soft hand, then stood at the road To watch your wavering tail-light fade And knew that if we met again In an Ulster twilight we would begin And end whatever we might say In a speech all toys and carpentry, A doorstep courtesy to shun Your father's uniform and gun, But -- now that I have said it out -- Maybe none the worse for that. -- Seamus Heaney

This is one of my favourite Heaney poems -- simple, beautiful, so
atmospheric. Okay, a little background on Ulster. Ulster is one of the
provinces of Ireland and makes up Northern Ireland which is part of The
United Kingdom (except for three counties which are part of The Republic of
Ireland). The majority of the population, the Unionists, wish to remain
under The United Kingdom stamp while a minority, the Nationalists, long for
a United Ireland. The conflict of course, arises from the fact that the
former are predominantly Protestant and the latter are mainly Catholics.
Political unrest was at its worst during 1968-1994, violence stemming from
the wish to end British presence in the area launched by the Provisional
IRA, resisted by the British Army and the Royal Ulster Constabulary. (For a
far more detailed account check http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ulster)

This state of being neither here nor there, of an uneasy silence, of
brooding heaviness is beautifully captured in Ulster Twilight, the title
encompassing the situation and feelings of a people who fight for freedom
and identity. Heaney begins with fragmented images, small images, like
little pictures that flash through a window. A work-shop where anything
could be in the process of being made -- a bomb? a weapon? But it is
Christmas Eve and Eric Dawson is making a toy battleship -- but a battleship
all the same. The frosty evening images reflect the sombre, cold
relationships.

Then we realise that it is a flashback. It is a Christmas Eve of fifteen
years ago, a surreptious evening unmarked by the season's cheer and
brightness. It is steeped in an atmosphere of surveillance, the cautiously
peering woman, the little boy watching with a monkey wrench in hand ...
while the man does something as simple as deliver a present. The dim hope
held at the end is that perhaps if they ever met again, there could be some
sort of dialogue (note: a 'speech', not even a conversation) and not a mere
doorstep courtesy.

I love the fact that the movement of the poem spirals as we reach the end.
Beginning with sharp, small images the feeling at the end is of something
larger, looming, something that envelopes and permeates. The underlying
violence, tension is like a gun that's trained on you, waiting to go off.

Hope you enjoy the poem!

Regards
Janice.

Winter '84 -- Krisantha Sri Bhaggiyadatta

Guest poem submitted by Salima Virani:

(Poem #1792) Winter '84 I tell the corner store owner 'pretty cold out there' he says 'ain't what it used to be' 'oh', i say, 'why is that' innocently tensing wondering if coloured immigration has affected the seasons... 'they've been fooling around with the weather', he says. [his wife nods] 'ever since they sent a man to the moon it hasn't been right' oh, i say, breathing out intrigued 'yeah, i know what you mean' -- Krisantha Sri Bhaggiyadatta

[Comments]

I recently came across this poem and what struck me most about it is that
although it's been over twenty years since this poem was written, there are
many new immigrants in Canada that continue to feel some discomfort and
unease with their status as immigrants. I'm not sure if that is because
there continues to be a lot of racism or if it's something else.

I'd like to believe that actual instances of racism are much fewer now than
what may have prevailed two decades ago. I was born and raised in India and
have been in Canada for less than a decade but I've never really experienced
any racism. That said, my parents who recently moved here (about three years
ago) from India, go to great lengths to avoid eye contact/conversations with
anyone that speaks different or, in their view, is "very Canadian". They
feel unequipped to engage in casual conversations with white folks and so
all their interaction with them is typically on a "as needed" basis. And so,
if, as it sometimes happens, they're approached by a friendly neighbour who
knocks on the door to inform them about a missed fedex delivery or something
similar, their first reaction, much like Bhaggiyadatta, is always unease and
anxiety. Mum will wonder if her cooking is emanating unpleasant odours or if
her blaring music (of Nusrat or Bollywood tunes) is causing a nuisance.
When they find that it's something to do with fedex and that the "white"
neighbour is actually quite a harmless and friendly guy - they're pleasantly
surprised and quite relieved.

[Bio]

There is a lot of information about Krisantha Sri Bhaggiyadatta scattered
over the web but I was unable to find a single page that gave me a
comprehensive bio about the author. So, I have taken the liberty to put
together the information I discovered and compile a bio (of sorts) for him.
Any errors and omissions are entirely mine.

Bhaggiyadatta is a Sri Lankan-Canadian and a prolific writer. He has
authored several books and articles that tackle the issues of racism and
marginalization. He's also a playwright and  one of his popular plays is
called "The D.M.O. (Dishwashing Machine Operators)", which refers to the
jobs held by many Sri Lankan immigrants to Toronto. Bhaggiyadatta has
published five books of poetry: Domestic Bliss, The Only Minority is the
Bourgeoisie, Mothers and Generals, 52nd State of Amnesia, & Aay Wha' Kinda
Indian Arr U. His works have also appeared in other publications such as in
Passport Photos by Amitava Kumar.

Salima.

Poem I -- Sappho

Guest poem sent in by Emlen Smith

I just realized there was no Sappho on the Minstrels site, and I think that
needs to be fixed. (I couldn't find a translation I liked online, so this is
mine; I tried to stay as close to the literal meaning as possible, in
something vaguely resembling the original meter):

(Poem #1791) Poem I Immortal Aphrodite of the beautiful throne, Guile-weaving child of Zeus, I pray you, Do not oppress with pain and sorrow (O queen) my heart. But come here, if ever another time, Noticing my prayers from far away, You heard, and leaving your father's house Of gold, you came, Your chariot under you, driven by fair Swift doves flying over the black earth, With their strong wings, fluttering down Straight from the sky, And soon they arrived; and you, o blessed one, A smile upon your immortal face, Asked what was wrong this time, and why I called you this time, And what I wanted most of all to happen, In my mad heart; "Who shall I persuade this time To bring you back into her favor? Who, O Sappho, has hurt you? And if now she flees, she soon will chase you; If now she refuses gifts, she will give them; If now she does not love, soon she will love, Though against her will." Come to me now, too, and set me free From bitter cares, and do everything That my heart wishes done; and you yourself Become my ally. -- Sappho

This is one of the only complete poems of Sappho that we have; another was
dug up recently, and there's a chance that 31 is complete (but it's probably
missing at least a full stanza), but the rest are all fragments, quoted
(like this one) by other authors, or found on scraps of papyrus in ancient
garbage heaps. You can go crazy thinking either about what treasures are
lost forever, or how lucky we are that Dionysius of Halicarnassus happened
to use this one as an example of something.

The poem starts off sounding like a traditional hymn, with several names of
the goddess, and then a request for help. Recalling help given in the past
is also traditional in Greek prayer. But the tone of intimacy, and
Aphrodite's (the goddess of love) indulgent attitude, as if toward a
favorite child, are just about unique. The changes in perspective are
wonderful, too: For the first few stanzas, Aphrodite seems to be constantly
coming closer, until we get her own words spoken in her own person.

Sappho lived on the Greek island of Lesbos (whence the word "Lesbian")
around the end of the 7th century BC. We know very little about her life,
though since antiquity people have eagerly made things up (there's a famous,
and utterly unfounded, story of her throwing herself off a cliff after an
unhappy love affair). Her poetry, like all Greek poetry until long after
Sappho, would have been performed to some sort of musical accompaniment, but
the exact circumstances of the performance are a matter for speculation: did
she sing her poems herself? Were some or all of them accompanied by a
dancing chorus? Did she run some sort of pre-marriage school for young
women? Were her poems performed at religious festivals (some, at least, seem
designed for weddings)? At small gatherings of women? Of men? We know so
little, and we've lost so much context (and so much actual poetry), that
it's really incredible how clearly Sappho can speak to us.

-Emlen Smith

[Links]

Greek text, and a recording of someone reading it (I don't have Real Player,
so I couldn't listen to it, but how bad could it be?) at:
  http://www.rhapsodes.fll.vt.edu/sappho1.htm

And if you don't read Greek, but want to know how this should sound, there's
a transliteration (and another translation) at:
  http://community.middlebury.edu/~harris/Texts/sappho.1.html

Some translations of Sappho's poems:
  http://www.sappho.com/poetry/sappho.html

Broken Hearts -- Jeremy Reed

Guest poem submitted by Anne McGrath:

(Poem #1790) Broken Hearts There should be heart-shaped rooms in which we sit as a collective to repair the damage done by love, and half the night we'd exchange stories, share a common pain that's always different, but never less in how the ruin's total, like a house slipped off a cliff edge to the sea or like a turtle that has lost its shell but keeps on going, making tracks on sand to find a refuge up beyond the surf. We're all suddenly disinherited from little ways, familiar dialogue, security of someone there to share bad news, rejection, a red letter day, a downmood's tumble of blue dice, or someone there to celebrate a quiet in which the meaning is in being two without a need to speak. But out of love we seem to be falling down stairs that never terminate. He left or she took off with someone else, it's like the blow will never stop arriving in the heart as an impacted fist. We'd call the place Heartbreak Hotel, and hope to patch the scars of unrequited love and leave a little less in tatters, disrepair. I'll find the place one day, and book a room and talk amongst the losers of a face I can't forget, and of a special hurt bleeding like footprints scattered over snow. -- Jeremy Reed

Jeremy Reed is one of my favourite contemporary poets. As a commentator and
guide to contemporary life there is none more penetrating and in matters of
the heart none more sensitive. There is always such incisiveness and balance
in his poems, and always such striking and apt imagery - '...but never less,
in how the ruin's total, like a house slipped off a cliff edge to the sea.'
Yes! Isn't that exactly what its like? - and, as in this one, there is often
consolation in his pointing up shared experience. In reading this one I
always run in my own head my own experiences, remembering that one 'special
hurt' above the rest - that we all have - and so, as is often the case with
him, the silence at the end of his poems becomes more like a space in which
your own poems are whispered back to him, and as in any sharing of pain
there is a lessening. His output is quite phenomenal, and there is no
'typical' Reed poem, but this is a good one to start with. As a poetic guide
on the journey he is worth taking along.

Anne McGrath.

The General -- Siegfried Sassoon

Guest poem submitted by Bill Whiteford:

(Poem #1789) The General "Good-morning, good-morning!" the General said When we met him last week on our way to the line. Now the men that he smiled at are most of 'em dead, And we're cursing his staff for incompetent swine. "He's a cheery old card," grunted Harry to Jack As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack. But he did for them both by his plan of attack. -- Siegfried Sassoon

I'm suggesting this on November 11, Armistice Day here in Britain (and
presumably in many other countries). We're often taught the first world war
poets at school, and I remember being struck by the power of this short poem
then. I've never been very good at memorising long screeds of verse, but I
could usually remember the last three lines of this. Interestingly, I
thought there were two stanzas, of four and three lines. But I see most
sources render it as above.  Again , there's a lot you could do in the way
of analysis (the very strict rhythm of lines 1-6, the stutter-step in 7),
but I will leave that to others.

Bill Whiteford.