valley of flowers
the armoured car trundled
through shadows thrown
by cathartic mankind
and the gathering gloom
the general clicked his teeth
fate weaved at the loom
and the countryside drew breath
at a world made beautiful
even in the death
of the departing daylight
the sun god's dying
even now
he felt the old doubts
and tried to understand
and felt a tear for trying
who is fit to say
who to live
and who to die
the question creased the general's brow
and the armoured car turned west to béal na bláth
through shadows thrown
by cathartic mankind
and the gathering gloom
the general clicked his teeth
fate weaved at the loom
and the countryside drew breath
at a world made beautiful
even in the death
of the departing daylight
the sun god's dying
even now
he felt the old doubts
and tried to understand
and felt a tear for trying
who is fit to say
who to live
and who to die
the question creased the general's brow
and the armoured car turned west to béal na bláth
posted by heelers | 6:03 AM
2 Comments:
Er.
Again.
What dis?
Avid Fan
One from the vaults.
Another curiosity.
When I wrote it I had the feeling it was the best poem I'd ever written and the best poem I'd ever write.
Only later did reality bite.
It can only work for an Irish audience really which is a bit local for a poet with my pretentions to grandeur.
The reluctant General is Michael Collins, one of those leaders who is sometimes thought of here as an "if only" type.
If only he were alive he would have made everything okay.
That sort of thing.
The poem was originally titled The Reluctant General.
Of course I've no idea whether Michael Collins really questioned the use of violence as a means to an end moments before he was assassinated.
He did question it at some stage though.
The poem has never been finished. The phrasing breaks down here and there where I've tried to make it flow.
A special guest star has been removed.
At one stage it was an unnamed Seargent who clicked his teeth in the early part.
There was no reason for him to be there and it was confusing for anyone trying to figure out what the hell was going on.
Was the poem about the Sergeant or about someone else?
So the Seargent ceased to be, and the General took centre stage.
But it doesn't work.
It doesn't flow like my complete poems which at their best read with all the mellifluousness of a single sentence.
Also, the rhymes are more trite than my usual insistent embrace of what's been done before.
And the last line doesn't work at all for an English speaking audience.
Only for those who know Irish does the last line achieve that odd epic poignancy which led me to believe ever so briefly fifteen years ago, that I had written a truly great poem.
James
Post a Comment
<< Home