Mary Maguire Colum: Irish Woman Poet

Mary Maguire (1887 – 1957) was born in Fermanagh, attended secondary school in the Netherlands and studied at the National University in Dublin. She is best-known as a critic, but Dirge of the Lone Woman was included in Anthology of Irish Verse, edited by here husband Padraic Colum in 1948 and was reprinted as a broadside by the Dolmon Press the year after her death.
 

Dirge of the Lone Woman
 
AS WE entered by that door
We saw the lights a-flame —
A-flame on your bier,
On the bier of you
Who had loved many a one,
Loved many a one!
 
Then I said to your love,
To her, your latest love,
‘There’s his last room,
His final roof-tree
Who has lived in many a one,
In many a one.
 
‘A tree never more
Grows to shield him
From the bitter cold and rain,
From the blighting light of love
Which ends many a one —
Ends many a one.
 
‘There’s his last tree;
You’re his last love:
The new bud in bloom,
The new fruit of the flower
He’ll give to no other one,
To no other one!’
 
Then they raised up your bier,
They quenched the laggard flame,
And they walked and they walked,
They walked you to the grave,
Where ends many a one —
Ends many a one.
 
We watched the mould fall
On your last roof-tree;
Then she went on her way
With a rose in her hair,
And I alone with no other one —
With no other one!

 

 

Mary Louisa Boyle: Irish Woman Poet

NPG x1391; Mary Louisa Boyle by Henry RiggeMary Louisa Boyle (1810 – 1890) was born into the family of the Earl of Cork and Orrery. She was friends with Dickens, Browning and Landor and published widely in verse and prose. The Bride of Melcha; a Dramatic Poem was published in London in 1884.

THE BRIDAL OF MELCHA ACT I.
 
Scene I. — Room in the King’s Palace,
 
Enter Feargus and his Sister.
 
Feargus. And trust me so far, sister, in my place
You ‘d feel as I do — act as I have done.
The heart, whose beats are measured in your breast,
Would flutter, stop, and then begin to knock
Against its prison walls, and cry so loud
‘Twould drown the feebler accents of your lips,
Did they essay to speak, ‘mid such a din.
The will that would surmount all obstacles —
The mind that would o’errule the destiny —
Ay, that same eagerness which dances now
In thy dark eye, and plays around thy lip —
Believe me, Mora, all would be subdued,
Deadened, and overpowered by such a presence.
 
Mora. No, by my troth! — by every hope I hold
Of peace and freedom to the land I love,
Were I a man, a lover as thou art,
I ‘d work another way: I ‘d gain her heart
With vows of faith, devotion, and the like —
With praises of her beauty — which in vain
You waste upon the wind, that does not care
To waft them to her ear — with half the tales
You lavish on your sister. Night and morn
I ‘d haunt her path: I ‘d stand beside her door
To bid her sleep in peace, or wake in joy:
And when the envious walls concealed her form,
My voice should follow though my steps were checked.
Or I would send melodious messages
Of love — of hopeful, daring, dauntless love!
 
Fear. Yet tell me, Mora, hast thou never read, —
When for a few short years thy eager mood
Was curbed and guided by the sisterhood
Of Holy Oswald, — hast thou never read
Some sacred legend of a spotless maid,
Whose innocence and purity were spells
To bind, and to unloose? Beneath whose gaze
The powers of earth fell down, and were dismayed —
Before whose modest speech the babbling tongue
Of eloquence was mute, while pious awe
And silent wonder filled the minds of men!

Recent Reading Four: More Short Reviews

The Kerosene Singing, Alistair Noon, Nine Arches Press, ISBN: 9780993120169, £9.99.

A Tug of Blue, Eleanor Hooker, Dedalus Press, ISBN: 9781910251225, €11.50.

Like A Fish Out Of Batter, Catherine Graham, ISBN 978-1-910834-30-5, Indigo Dreams £6.00.

The Tender Map, Melanie Challenger, Guillemot Press, £8.00.

The Swell, Jessica Mookherjee, Telltale Press, ISBN 978-0-9928555-4-3, £4.00.

Not exactly recent, having been published in October 2015, The Kerosene Singing is Alistair The Kerosene Singing cover web.jpgNoon’s second first length collection, the first being 2012’s Earth Record. That book included a sequence of 40 sonnets, which may have exhausted the form for Noon, as this second volume features none. Instead, it is formally varied, with poems in quatrains, tercets and longer stanzas, as well as freer forms, and the stanzaic poems are metrically varied, using a range of full, half and no rhyme, showing a high degree of technical accomplishment and control.

These stanzas frequently consist of collages or collage-like patterns of language items ‘borrowed’ from a wide range of areas of jargons, so that a ‘typical’ Noon quatrain might look something like this:

“Delete all words”, wrote a Chinese sage,

“and then you will have the true poster.”

“There is no such thing as a statement.”

“Am I asking too many questions?”

[from ‘Introduction to a Congress’]

The apparently random phrases will be all too familiar to readers who have ever attended a business conference, but there is an artful deployment of sonic affects (sibilance, alliteration) that lifts the poem beyond the merely representative and into the sphere of verbal music, an effect that points towards the multiple meanings of ‘congress’.

Noon is primarily a poet of the city, of urban life, but he is also, on the evidence of his poems, an inveterate traveller, and one who wears his travels on his sleeve. His journeys sometimes take him to liminal margins, borders, tombs, of the Oblast of Kalingrad, a Russian enclave on the Baltic coast, whose defining feature appears to be a salt-water lagoon.

They sow the alders

To halt the dance of the dunes,

The lagoon smooth as a salt plain.

Cattle gaze from the tarmac

And a pig is loose in the village.

The coach will take us

Under the turnpike

And out of the National Park.

[from ‘Oblast’]

Here, as in other poems, the natural world is a place to visit and leave, an attitude that is held up to irony in the opening poem of the book, ‘Encounters’, a poem about desk-bound workers who go hiking in summer (and only in summer), with the narrator demanding that they ‘remove [their] office arse/from its roundabout chair’.

In ‘The Milan Duomo’, the liminality is of a different order. The cathedral is one of the greatest works of the Italian Renaissance, a landmark of Western art. But for believers, one imagines it to be more, a place where one comes to commune with another realm.  Noon looks at it keenly, and sees the economic basis of culture exemplified:

five centuries of surplus value transformed

into a thousand stories in stained glass

Another poem to deal, obliquely, with economics is ‘The Burbage Valley’, which is, amongst other things, a meditation on the impact of the Industrial Revolution on the landscape of the English midlands. Here, ironic distance is set aside, and form, language and intent become fully integrated, resulting in a poem of great engagement, not in the narrow political sense of ‘engaged poetry’, but as a mind engaging with the world through words and with that most old-fashioned of virtues, sincerity. The voice engaging with the natural world in this poem is not a tourist, but an attached observer, and the result is the most complete poem in the book. It’s is such an integral whole that quotation is almost impossible, but fortunately a video of the poet reading it is available online here.

The lightly ironic tone of ‘Oblast’ is perhaps the single most characteristic aspect of Noon’s work, at least as presented in this book. At times, it is to the point, but too often there is a sense of irony without an object, a reflex condition of post-modern ennui. Noon is understandably wary, it seems, of anything that might smack of self-expression, and is well-versed (pun intended) in the art of deflection via an ironic mask, and the poems he writes are masterly examples of this approach. But perhaps the mastery is over-achieved? Clearly, here is a poem that has found a voice he is comfortable with, one that he is in complete control of, a kind of poetic ‘safe space’, in a way.

However, I can’t but feel that he is selling his ability short by accepting the limitations of the safe, the uncertainly certain. Noon can write, and write well, and on the evidence of this book, he has a poet’s instincts. It would be interesting to see him push himself beyond comfort, to take more risks with the technical skill he clearly possesses. Poems like ‘The Milan Duomo’ and ‘The Burbage Valley’ may perhaps indicate the way for this to happen. They lift an otherwise interesting collection onto another level. I’m left hoping that they point something as a way forward, into more uncertain territory, for Noon as a poet. A recent review of Philip Rowland’s haiku-like short poems is interesting in this context.

A Tug of Blue is also a second collection, and like Noon, Eleanor Hooker has also settled into a-tug-of-bluea comfortable personal voice, one that is characterised by a kind of whimsical sense of the absurd everyday. The poems in this book are very well made, distinctly Irish, with the land, rain, family and a troubled relationship with god at their core, all seen through Hooker’s distinctively quirky eye. The problem for me at least, is that they are closed systems, in which the world behaves as it does only in poems. Take, for example, the opening of ‘A Calling’:

The night is a drowned woman

in off the lake to waken me.

She is filled with stones and moulded

by the weight of fog.

Which is perfectly well-written, but the night is no such thing. The same problematic personification, the anthropomorphic fallacy, is present in the very first poem in the book, ‘Weathering’, which is nominally about rain:

Rain enquires if I’ve brought questions.

I am allowed four. Four only.

Before I can deny it, she presses

her sodden lips to mine.

Not now, she says. They are come.

This way of writing about the natural world as if it were human is so widespread as to be almost invisible. It is also, as I have argued elsewhere, deeply anti-ecological, a way of making valid a relationship with nature that is possessive and exploitative, regardless of the poet’s best intentions. It is tempting to dismiss this criticism as trivial, but in my view it raises a vital question: what is it that we want from poetry? Closure or restlessness? The pleasure of recognition or the challenge of disorientation? The first choice leads to a poetry of explicit simile and metaphor, underpinned by the reassuring illusion that the world can be made comprehensible in a neat box, the poem. The second takes us down a different root, a poetry whose humility in the face of the world’s complexity imposes a sense of restless inquiry that, paradoxically, results in a poetry that is considered difficult because it insists on looking at the world as it is in and of itself, where the thingness of things is the organising principle, a poetry where rain is rain, the night is night, in all their rich complexity.

Hooker comes nearest to this position in the most satisfying poem in the collection, ‘The Shout’, which is grounded in her experience as helm for the Lough Derg RNLI lifeboat.

After an unpromising first line (The wind is inconsolable.), the poem unfolds in a narrative of ordinary detail:

I ease us from windward.

A crew climbs across, carrying

a radio, a smile, First Aid.

Eight on board, all below

except the skipper, luminescent

in his orange lifejacket.

In this poem, where the mechanics of the poetic are least evident, Hooker achieves the best writing in the book, and, as with Noon, perhaps has discovered a less comfortable but more rewarding voice.

batterThe organisational principle behind Catherine Graham’s Like A Fish Out Of Batter is ekphrastic. The pamphlet consists of a sequence of poems taking off from paintings by LS Lowry, but Graham does not set out to describe or evoke the pictures themselves; instead she creates and peoples an imagined world based on them. This world is an unromanticised version of Lowry and Graham’s shared working-class urban North of England. She creates characters who weave their ways in and out of the stories she tells, stories of the everyday fabric of life as they lived it.

These interlaced stories are redolent with the anxieties of their place and time, which generally happen to be anxieties of any place or time: sex, and ignorance about it, pregnancy, abortion, money, difference, death.

I never wanted kids; never wanted to be

a father, I’d rather bat for the other team

than turn out like my old man. He can

go to hell. All I wanted was a bit of fun,

she knew the score, where’s the harm?

[from ‘Shift’]

The writing is apparently simple, but it is not artless, and there are echoes of, among others, that great poet of the local, Dylan Thomas:

She donkey-stoned her doorstep on Thursdays,

polished George on Wednesdays and if it wasn’t

a good drying say, gave Mondays a dirty look.

[from ‘Nancy Dreever’]

Graham clearly takes pride in her roots, and these poems are ultimately warm and affectionate portraits of the world she grew up in. But she has also, in a sense, grown out of it, if nothing else by being a poet, an observer more than a participant. This need to escape is captured in two poems towards the end of the pamphlet, ‘Head of a Young Man in a Cap’ and ‘A Letter From London’. The former concerns a French pen-pal and a disapproving father. The narrator’s Par Avion relationship with Segre allows her a sense of sophistication that seems to extend beyond the end of the poem. The latter is a found poem from a letter from Lowry to his mother, and is more restrained in its response to the exotic, a bit distrustful, lonely even. These different reactions to escape act, in a sense, as the poles of the world Graham creates in this enjoyable little volume.

The three books reviewed so far are all serviceable, readable and attractive paperbacks; The Tender Map is more consciously a book to be admired almost as much for how it looks as what it contains. As with Guillemot’s other publications, it marries text and visual art to create thought-provoking conversations.

This is Melanie Challenger’s first poetry publication in almost a decade, although she has Tender map.pngwritten several librettos and prose on the subject of environmental history, and this concern feeds into the poems here. I say poems, but in fact these small texts interpermeate to create an interesting, if not entirely successful ecosystem of meditation on place and people. Initially, I was concerned that the strategy of naming each piece on the model ‘Placename or Emotion’ signalled an overdose of the pathetic fallacy, but Challenger is a more subtle thinker that that. She skilfully weaves place and emotion so that the emotions are understated, emerging from the placing of the human in the place, not bending the place to the service of the emotion.

The heron feigns death, its shadow flies

across the river. Memories

of the fens move unfluently between us.

We chase the dark horse of night   cut the waters

and curse our luck.

[from ‘Fidwell Fen or Nostalgia’]

The uncertain strength of the writing is apparent in these lines, but so is the single flaw that I find in it, in the somewhat clunky metaphor in the third line. In fact, near the start of the series, Challenger cleverly calls attention to and simultaneously undercuts stock metaphor, the stock metaphor, in the lines ‘a plough hums,/a reprisal of the endless tides’. Unfortunately, scattered through the book there are a number of implicit and explicit comparisons that call far too much attention to themselves:

‘The river is black as the blown candle of our embrace’

‘time giving ground/like a frightened sea’

‘A slow dusk smokes the kill through the day’s memory.’

But these are relatively minor blemishes, and anyone who can write a line like ‘those thin tongues of grass thrashing his little death’ quite clearly has a poet’s ear.

The Swell by Jessica Mookherjee is the most recent in Telltale Press’s short first collections dustjacket-theswellby emerging poets. The writer’s coop model of publication is admirable, and these little pocket-size booklets are fine examples of the sort of thing that only small presses can really do.

Mookherjee has an interesting background, the child of Bangladeshi parents who grew up in Swansea, she occupies a space between two cultures, and the poems here reflect the tensions of her position as a woman making her own way in that space. In some respects, these are poems of a misfit, uncomfortable in the skins that family and society intend for her, intent on small, or large, acts of rebellion.

Suspicious of prayers to invisible gods, I stared

at vicars and asked them who would go to hell,

whether they worshipped thunder.

[from ‘The Liar’]

She also embraces the physicality of female identity, as in the title poem about, apparently, her mother’s pregnancy:

Drum tight, she looked about to burst.

He made a fuss of her for a change,

waded in wearing galoshes

as her waters broke, flooding

the house, leaving us to stay with strangers.

In the acknowledgements, Mookherjee thanks her teachers, and I do detect something of the workshop about these poems., Nevertheless, I also sense an interesting voice emerging from that marginal space that she occupies. An interesting little book.