In this week’s, In The Sandbox, Ampat Koshy discusses a subject very close to my own heart ~ whether or not poetry is particularly national or not. I would like to add a slightly different note to the one made so well by Dr. Koshy, but one which adds another dimension to the discussion. Poet Laureate, Seamus Heaney, is a family friend, and I was lucky enough to attend a conference chaired by him on whether English is the language of colonialism.
We heard from poets and dissident writers from all over the world, some of whom had been imprisoned for speaking out against colonialistic or treacherous regimes. At the end of this wonderful event, Seamus Heaney summed up by saying he didn’t think English was a language of colonialism ~ oppression was not why, for example, the Irish learned to speak it so well and so uniquely. Soup kitchens and such-like might, in the beginning, have been a reason that people turned from speaking Gaelic to English, but not in the long-run. English is a language in which you can dream, a language of beauty through which any people might express their national soul.
I interpreted what Heaney was saying as follows: the breadth of English, the sound of its music is flexible enough to speak the soul of the rocks and mountains, the rain and sky, embracing the thoughts and feelings of any people’s bloodied landscape or troubled heart. The language itself is both national and universal.
It is the task of the poet to speak of themes that touch us universally. His or her unique way of expressing such themes will be fed by a national, blood-line history and religion, as well as the innate, inborn mythology and imagery hidden in the racial soul.
Thank you Dr. Koshy for bringing us this week’s subject.
By Dr. Ampat Koshy
For me, coming from Kerala, learning in the 70s and 80s, Irish poetry, Irish literature and Ireland held a strange fascination, primarily due to figures like Yeats, O’Casey, Synge, Joyce, Beckett, and later Heaney. The fascination had something to do with the mayhap, illusory feeling that Ireland might have been a bit like Kerala at some imaginary point in time. I imagined that the landscapes were similar and felt keenly the uneasiness of Ireland’s relationship with England.
When I started reading Irish poetry, I began with the early Yeats of the ‘Lake Isle of Innisfree’, the romantic Yeats who had made Pound laugh for being outdated, and went on to the later mature Yeats who wrote poems like the unforgettable ‘Easter 1916’. I then read Joyce’s “Pomes Penyeach” and “Chamber Music” and found them memorably forgettable at a younger age. I was impatient and turned to doing research on Beckett’s poems (a not- much- worked- on area) and finally ceased my inquiry into Irish poetry after reading some Heaney. I also looked briefly at the works of some poets that Beckett had mentioned disparagingly in some of his critical articles like Denis Devlin. Recently Irish poetry and writing has come back into my life through meeting writers like the metaphysical poetess Niamh Clune, and the exciting “new voice,” Alan Patrick Traynor.
Thinking on all these poets and their poems now, in a limited fashion I try to grasp hold of some kind of commonality or difference to unite all of them in my mind that does not seem to exist, except for the concept of Irishness. But what exactly constitutes Irishness or for that matter Indianness, this concept of nationality or nation or nationalisms; that too in poetry? How or why does one say of a poet that he or she is typically Indian while another is not? Yeats is typically Irish, it is said, for instance, as Tagore is Indian, while Beckett is ‘not’ Irish and I, – in a very much lesser vein, of course, as of now – am not Indian.
The pejorative note in the latter accusation is not justified. But the more interesting question is the other one, of whether there can be a national poetry and if so what would it have to consist of to make it that? Does poetry belong to any nation except its own? If the answer is no, is the difference merely of content or of something more, including all the other erstwhile elements of poetry?
My contention is that one does not have to try to be national in one’s writing, that either nation is as artificial a creation as religion, or however much one tries to write in a manner free of the concept of nation, one cannot. It comes through anyway and need not be forced.
my way is in the sand flowing
between the shingle and the dune
the summer rain rains on my life
on me my life harrying fleeing
to its beginning to its end
my peace is there in the receding mist
when I may cease from treading these long shifting thresholds
and live the space of a door
that opens and shuts
This beautiful poem is by Samuel Beckett, and while I, a reader originally from Kerala, can identify with it easily as Kerala and India also have sand, shingles, dunes, summer rain, mist and doors, one is also reminded that these are intrinsic to the Irish and perhaps French landscapes too. Finally what unites us here in our appreciation of the poem which is a comment on life, that each individual’s life is confusing and tiring, and the poet’s desire is that it be made simple, is the imagery of the poetry and the humanness in the poem’s and the poet’s words. It can be considered both as particular to a nation’s poetic voice and at the same time belonging to the nation of poetry and the universality of mankind, thus achieving a rare, fragile and fine balance between these two often contradictory, but inescapable pulls.
THE IRISH ARE A BULL IN A FIELD
The Irish are a bull
in a field
the english language
is the finely knit grass of tennis
but not the turf and NOT the bedrock
that holds the bull up into its written stance
As an Irish poet I use the grass and sod
for many purposes
while my psyche pulls the original older music up
from the turf and out through
my nose
There are NO masters of any language
or music
but humanity does come
marching through the fields with a red coat arrogant
and hands armed with rifles to be written down!
As writers
we write it down based on the shape
of the ring that was placed through our nose
and down into our throats
we brand the music as we see fit
When dogs bark you see their teeth
and throat
When horses neigh
we see their eyes
The Irish were never tamed by the english language
so we use it with our sunken hooves
as a tennis match uses a net
The Irish are a bull in a field
And the language of a bull
is in his stance
not the grass or the wire wooden woollen fence
that holds him in
Like all writers we breathe in our environment
and spit back out the rocks into the colours of the fields
Being Irish is being the music
that’s craved from the light of your soul down into the blood of your body
If I speak the language of symbols
you will still hear my stance
If I play with wooden spoons
or a silver tongue you will still hear my soul
coming up through the bedrock and out through the sod
it’s all music
and the shape of an Irish soul is written in the rocks
the saxicolous stance unto the fields
that stands unto and upon the language that was born into us
It can’t be translated or digested without the music
unless you beat the steel drum out from our guts
out through our throats
and down into the bedrock
where it came from
When you smell the blood of the music
and feel the stance of the bull
and taste the cut grass that hangs from our eyes
then you have entered into our psyche…it’s not red that we live for
it’s the green galvanic lightning that haunts the smoke
in the morning fields
There is an old smoke that can’t be translated
so we put up with the english language, luggage and our translators
our own language is beyond vocals and beyond text book
even beyond the field that we were blooded in
beyond the wire woolen fence
beyond the grass court that rolls marbles into their mouths, the wannabe Irish
What you catch into the net is only a butterfly of movement
being a writer transcends what’s written down
otherwise the muse would have moved to Ireland years ago
and set up house in an old thatched cottage with stones for teeth
and straw for hair
The muse is an untouchable chalk
try own it
and it crumbles into where you were born
DUST…the language of birth and death
Alan Patrick Traynor
1st August 2013
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Stunning! Alan. You have said with fire and brimstone what I said gently in the introduction. The power of a poet is forged in history, written on blood and tempered in language.
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Whoa!
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Yes, Alan! A resounding Yes!
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You tear out the truth with the power and blood spurting forth your words. They stand strong and express the fury. We are who we are and still can be connected with each other but don’t steal our identity or force out of us our nature to join in a sameness. All are individual and we blend in the universal. No forcing of the muse. She gives freely if you let her in and flow through you. Alan Patrick, your poem moves my soul and heart. I feel your strength and fire. So pleased you released your words as they find their place on the page. Niamh, the poet and writer in you spoke so honestly. In our blood, I will not surrender my blood. It belongs to me and lives in me. It is my own and shared with those I feel it with but I am not a nationalist and believe in a unified world but my herstory is my own and it will be mine always and cannot be forgotten. TY Alan Patrick and Niamh Clune for speaking what I feel and speaking words I hear. Jennifer Kiley @>-;—
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Great poem 🙂
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Reblogged this on MacKENZIE's Dragonsnest.
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Loved this week’s write-up- the intro by Niamh Clune, the column by Dr.Koshy and the excellent poem by Alan Patrick Traynor.
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Many thanks for your comment, Madhumita. It is a subject that stirs the blood!
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This is my prose, or proemose, either way it’s got thorns prose poem or rose!Ha
Thanks Niamh for you fine woven introduction and thank you Ampat for opening up Pandora’s Green Box! 😉
Shawn, watch your hands don’t get burnt throwing the flames onto your blog 🙂 Thank you!
Madhumita thank you for your comment and wonderful presence…
-Alan Patrick Traynor
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No problem. Flames and Dragons are a divine match.
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Ahhh . . it is as if we are merely sitting around a fire with companions of wit & wisedom ~ listening, learning … discussing things of stars & stone. Excellent !
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And now you have dropped on to say hello!
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Yes Sozie 😉 Stars and stones raining backwards upward into the ground 😉
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thanks shawn 🙂
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thanks madhumita 🙂
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thanks sozie bird 🙂
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Reblogged this on PLANET LOBSTER.
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OOOOh! many thanks for the reblog!
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Many thanks for reblogging! Oh Yeah!
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What a great post! I think we can all appreciate poetry from anywhere. 🙂
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Clever guy! Of course we do.
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thanks to all 🙂
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PLANET LOBSTER, you are a genius of the sea and the foot on land that holds up what true dignity is all about…Thanks Scott, you are the best
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Anywhere is where the muse is from Mr. Kid 😉
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Pingback: In The Sandbox With Dr. Koshy | BUTTERFLIES OF TIME
Great comments, Butterflies! Sizzle we do!!! Unafraid to court discussion.
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Reblogged this on thisoldtoad.
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thanks reena and thisoldtoad 🙂
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