FABLE

When the mountains get together
in the square behind the market
they speak a language of olives
and heather, the argot of old men
on stone benches talking
of the ups and downs of their lives
across the seas of immigrant years,
a surplice-white light pouring
from the well of their gapped mouths
and the sun    a gold tooth
gleaming in their chalk-white talk.

They speak of sultry days
slow as a spavined mule,
panniers brimming with long afternoons
ripening in moist heat
like the skin-dark thoughts
of men who were tall and awkward
as mountains until shoulders
slumped under the weight of a sky
that drove their easygoing bodies
beyond the unhurried stroke
of their gentle hearts.

Their palsied fingers count hiccuping
heartbeats on chattering worrybeads
and they grip each other close
when they shake hands,
surprised to have stood another week,
terrified it may be their last.

Sometimes it is. When silence
fills their mouths with sentences
of earth and stone that leave
the mountains speechless
their words forget themselves
and no-one listens anyway
to the wooden language of the dead.

THE ISLE OF THE DEAD

Rev. John Allen Manton c.1845

The headstones face home
to England where a world
is turning against the sun,
her colonies    a fleet of
drifting stars follow the
glow of a fake lodestone,
lured by its deceiving light.

Buried here, the military dead,
whose gold-braided uniforms
once reflected the glory of
a tarnished crown levying
their glittering tithes
on the unstinting sun.

Graven letters belie
the ordinariness of their
deaths, the cancerous pride
or guilt of those who
witnessed God’s word in
men’s mouths distort the
lot of other men’s lives.

The pomp of stone hides
the cruelty or shame of
those who submitted to
the word with conscience
gagged until worms undid
the knot, weaving their truth
through cages of bone.

A salt wind from the sea
eats the sandstone    soft
as bones returned to dust
under headstones facing
forever north, straight as a
spine, unbending as a soldier’s
mind never deviating from
straight and narrow lines
that his will be done on
this barbarous earth, their backs
perpetually turned from the
rabble, scum of the earth
sent here across the sea
that their twisted nature
be rectified, their stubborn
bodies made to bend.

‘You must remember these
were naughty boys who had
to be shown the error
of their wicked ways,’
explained the guide,
ex-army in polished shoes
and priest-clean nails, his
sweet talk fouling the air
with mouldering lies.

On the south side of
the island away from the
sea the convicts lie as
they did in life on edge
in cramped beds that hurled
them against walls or knocked
them to the floor if they
moved in their sleep,
a devout technology
to teach the thing
the body is a jail
to be rent asunder
releasing God’s image
imprisoned within.

So they wore the lash
like a hairshirt and
a mantle of lime ever
after wearing the flesh
to bone    marrow to
pith and pulp to reveal
Christ crucified in man’s
image. If pigs could fly...
Despite their zeal they
found no trace of the
divine in the no thing,
no one whose passing
remains unmarked in a
grave without stone.
Pointless to pray for
the souls of animals.

Anthony Trollope 1873

For ten years John Barron
worked his two-acre plot,
a holy fool in his garden
refusing to go back on
the mainland or eat the
produce of unholy ground,
as though it were blasphemy
to taste the earthly remains
of Christ made man interred
in unconsecrated earth.

A blessed lunatic he worked
the brutalized earth
turning the black sod
scored with lime
and dark with the shadow
of the dead until a mercy
of un-named flowers blossomed
in every orifice, pouring
from eyes ears armpits
thighs and broken mouths
that left no sign but what
the softer clay remembers,
scorchmarks of flaming flesh
and bone, as though one man’s
kindness could redeem
the depravity of his kind.

‘You should go down on
your knees on this sacred
ground and pray,’ my pagan
companion counseled but I
will not bend my heart or
my knee. Better to wear a
cowl to hide the shame of
man made nothing, to cover
your face lest the remnant
of light reflected in your eye
absolve the irredeemable dark.
They wore the hangman’s hood
during their worst torment
lest the mind find comfort
in the face of another and
eyes towel the print of
terror from the condemned
man’s countenance. And still
most of them rose again
most of the time and carried
on their shame without relief
until the carpenter’s hammer
nailed down their final pain.

If I call them out
the grass will not reveal
their names until the wind
bows the stunted trees as
they stand to attention and
from the deaf and dumb
cell of the earth a multitude
rises before the sun
straight and proud as
headstones, Thomas Kelly,
carpenter, Edwin Pinder,
miner, John Bowden, barber,
James Parsons, sailor, Thomas
Loague, cobbler and a meitheal
of labourers shoveling
earth from their eternal
dust, Terence McMahon from
County Clare, John Arnold,
Norbury, John Healy, a Kerryman
and their comrades as yet
un-named, a rollcall unopened,
a snail’s trail across
eternity, a shower of rain
without stain that bows
my head and inflexible
knee in supplication
to the earth.

FABHALSCEAL

Nuair a chastar na cnoic ar a chéile
sa chearnóg ar chúl an aonaigh
labhraid canúint ológ is fraoigh
na gcríonfhear ar bhinsí cloiche
ag caint ar ísleáin is ardáin a mbeatha
thar lear na mblianta imirce,
aolsolas suirplísgheal
chomh toll le buillí clog um mheánlae
ag caismirneach as umar a mbéal mantach
agus fiacail óir na gréine
ag glioscarnach ina mbéarlagar cailce.

Tráchtann siad ar laethanta brothaill
chomh mall le miúil spadchosach
fé chliabh ag cur thar maoil
le tráthnóinti fada
a d’aibigh fén teas maoth
amhail marana cneasdorcha na bhfear
a mhaireann anois ar an mín
a bhí chomh hard chomh hamscaí le sliabh
nó gur chrom a nguaillí
fé róualach scamall
a bhrostaigh a gcroithe
thar a mbuille séimh.

Áiríonn a méara pairilíseacha
snagbhuillí croí
ar phaidrín na himní
is croitheann siad láimh le chéile
go dlúth le hiontas gur sheasadar
seachtain eile os cionn talaimh,
le heagla gurb é
an uair dheireanach é.

Uaireanta is ea.
Nuair a líonann an tost
a mbéal le gobán cré is cloch
a bhalbhaíonn allagar na gcnoc
ní chastar na focail ar a chéile,
ní chloistear clárchaint na marbh.




Tá aghaidh na leac
ó thuaidh ar Shasana
mar a gcasann domhan
tuathalach ar a fhearsaid,
réaltai is tíortha cian
ag rothlú timpeall ar
adhmaintchloch bhréige
á dtarraingt le neamhthoil
ag a loinnir chaoch.

Sínte anso tá oifigigh
airm is a muintir,
firéin bhí dílis do ghlóir
an Rí, a chaith lena
ré órshnáithe ar éide
ag frithchaitheamh gléas
na corónach, deachú an
tsolais     siolptha
ó ghrian bhronntach.

Uaislíonn litreacha greanta
méala comónta a mbáis
le cancar an uabhair nó
ciapadh anama an té
a chonaic briathar Dé
ar bhéala daoine ag
fiaradh dán an duine.

Ceileann poimp na leac a
gcrúáil nó a n-ainnise,
imshníomh anama fir a
chuir coinsias fé shrian,
a ghéill don bhfocal claon
gur scaoil na cnuimheanna
an tsnaidhm ag lúbarnaíl
tré chriathar conablaigh.

Creimeann salann sa ghaoth
ón bhfarraige gaineamhchloch
uagha chomh bog le luaithreach
cnámh fé chab na leac a
fhéachann de shíor ó thuaidh
chomh díreach le drom
chomh righin le haigne
saighdiúra nár cheistigh
an reacht a cheadaigh a
racht gur deineadh a thoil
ar thalamh choimhthíoch,
a chúl leis an ngramaisc feasta,
bruscar brocach an domhain
a scuabadh thar loch amach
go ndíreofaí a nádúr geancach,
go n-umhlófai creat stobarnálta.

‘Ba bhuachaillí dána iad
ab éigin a cheartú,’ arsa’n
treoraí, iarshaighdiúir
na mbróg snasta
gona ingní sagairt,
a chaint chumhra
ag bréanadh an aeir
le haoileach éithigh.

Ar an dtaobh theas
den oileán ón bhfarraige
luíonn na cimí mar
luíodar lena mbeo
ar thochtanna róchúng
a dhoirtfeadh le falla
nó amach ar urlár iad
dá mba chorrach a suan,
teicneolaíocht chráifeach
a choisceadh codladh,
a mheabhródh don rud
gur cuibhreann a chorp
a chaithfi a réabadh
chun macsamhail Dé
ann a shaoradh.

Chaitheadar leis sin
lasc an tsaoiste mar
léine róin is matal
aoil ina dhiaidh sin
a chaith an chabhail
ón gcraiceann go dtí
an gcnámh, ón smior
go dtí an smusach
chun teacht ar eithne
Chríost arna chéasadh
istigh. An rud nach féidir
ní féidir é. Tar éis
a ndichill níor fhan
a rian Tiarnúil sa
neamhrud, neamhdhuine
gan ainm ar uaigh
gan leac. Ní fíu
guí le hanam ainmhí.


Deich mbliana ar fad
d’fhan John Barron
istigh ar dhá acra
reilige ina gharradóir
buile naoimh. Ní fhillfeadh
ar an míntír gharbh
ná ní íosfadh aon
bharra a d’fhás istigh
ar thalamh neamhchoisricthe
mar thuigfeadh gur
blaisféime fuílleach
corp Chríost ionchollaithe
sa chré a bhlaiseadh.

Duine simplí le Dia
agus duine shaothraigh
sé talamh éignithe le
ramhainn, dheargaigh le
díograis an fód a bhí
dubh le scáthanna na
marbh leasaithe léasaithe
le haoileach gur phréamhaigh
gach log sa chre
is bhrúcht trócaire
bláth gan ainm as ioscaidí
ascaillií plaoisc polláirí
cluasa cliabhraigh smúdar
gabhal is béala briste
nach arm dá rian
ach gur cuimhin leis
an gcré ar a shonsan
a léir scáil loiscthe,
gur cheil cneastacht
fir brúidiúlacht a chine
ar éigin.

‘Ba chóir dul ar do
ghlúine ag guí san
áit bheannaithe seo,’
adúirt mo chompánach
mín págánach ach ní
fheacfainn mo chroí
ná mo ghlúin.
Ba chuíúla dar liom
cochall a chaitheamh
gan uirísleacht an duine
lomtha gan luid a
bhréagnú le macdhrithle
an tsolais id shúil
a chaolódh an dorchacht
bharbartha lena loinnir
thais. Chaitheadarsan huda
na croiche lena bpáis,
ualach ba throime ná
pinginí copair ar fhoraí
súl na marbh ar eagla
go mba furtacht don aigne
chiaptha an ghrian cheansa
ar aghaidh a chomrádaí,
go nglanfadh túáille
na súl a phrionda sceoin
dá cheannaghaidh. Agus fós
d’éirigh a bhformhór formhór
an ama dá nglúine is lean
orthu arís ag iompar
a gcros gan chúnamh nó gur
dhaingnigh casúr an tsiúinéara
a ngéaga brúite fé chlár.

Má ghoirim chugam iad
ní labharfaidh an féar
orthu le náire shaolta
nó go gcromann an ghaoth
muineál míleata na gcrann
is plódaíonn aniar as balbh
chealla talaimh bhodhair
na sluaite ainm chomh
díreach le leac gan
chlaonadh, Thomas Kelly,
siúinéir, Edwin Pinder,
mianadóir, James Parsons,
mairnéalach, Thomas Loague,
gréasaí agus meitheal
spailpín ag sluaistiú
scraith na síoraíochta
dá gcré, Terence McMahon
ó Chontae an Chláir,
John Arnold, Norbury Shasana,
John Healy, Ciarraíoch
gona mbráithre fós gan
ainm a dheargaíonn dubh
an dúrfhóid, rolla gan
scaoileadh, glae seilide
ar shlí na fírinne,
báisteach gan sal a
umhlaíonn mo cheann
is mo ghlúin righin
le paidir chun talaimh.