The Poetry Society

 

Last summer swallows me.

Winds slouched across the strand,

The Northmen surfed the sea

Easing towards our shore

Walking so lazily

Along the sand, as if

They had eternity.

 

There was butchery, rape

At random, so it seemed,

Unless God had some plan.

Months later when I woke

I felt abandoned. A speck

On waves of scribal duties.

Violence had wormed my soul

And now I wanted something

To survive, something of me,

And not my stricken faith. 

 

We loaded boats with nothing

Except the book, food, water

And decomposing memories

Then left Columba's island.

We settled in the woods

Of Kells. A fresh beginning.

The same old life.

 

Our new home looks familiar.

A clearing in the trees

A wall embracing us,

Garden, vegetables,

The carefully tended graveyard

And scattering of cells

With roofs of bulging reeds.

We have no starfish, gulls

But pigeons, soft green light

From hedges, herbs and grass.

And waves of oak and birch

With their tidal susurrus

Roll on but never reach

This island we've created.

 

And here I copy, praise,

Then leave the calm of day

To join the knives that flash

In silence in my sleep.

Awake, I bury blood

In endless rounds of psalms

And in the ink of words

I do not understand.

I still my punching heart

Perfecting letters,

Their curves as plump as apples

Verticals sharp as spears

Crossbars as fine as hairs.

I find my peace in detail

Against the dice of God.

 

Sometimes at dawn the sun

In the stillness of creation

Enfolds the book in violet

And words appear to move

From page to page, their rows

Like Israel's tribes marching

Towards the promised land.

These lines will drag me back

To slavery, I fear,

My eyes diminishing,

My mind and hand at war;

To days of writing words

That fail to stave off vermin.

Let alone the bite of swords.

 

What damage does it do me

To adopt a life that dons

Humility, slips on

A false annihilation

While chafing to unearth

A buried talent –

To let it fructify

And blossom on a page

With all that's me and mine!

Just once before I die.

 

'You are God's instruments'

The abbot used to say,

'Dissolve and let creation

Seep through the wafer membrane

Of your souls; let it come

Then guide it, shape it, love it.'

I hear his words, and see

His head kicked laughingly

Along the powdery shore.

My heart inflates with rage

My prayers turn blasphemous.

I focus on his eyes

His silver hair and sunburnt scalp

Aglow like moon and sun.

He had withdrawn from life

In thought and sight; his skin

Had shrunk between the rocks

Of bones, and tubers of veins.

 

I envied his faith, his vision

Of the invisible –

As real to him as blood.

One morning in the chapel

Shortly before the slaughter

He spoke intensely to us.

We were God's messengers

Transmitters of the faith,

Of hope to future worlds;

Each letter must be perfect:

Seriphs as dear as seraphim.

'You do not write with fingers

But with your heart and soul;

Your mind is disengaged

Your self evaporates

Beneath the rhythmic brush;

And in the service of God

The ink becomes transformed,

A sacrament, like wine,

Its darkness bright with truth.

The Word seeks incarnation

In vellum, ink and scribes.

Keep pure: be undistracted

By worlds outside, inside.

Remember: let it flow

Just let the process flow.'

 

He was speechless while

They killed us with piggish grunts.

They took their time with him.

Et crucifigentes eum diviserunt ...

In the manner of good farmers

They saved a few of us

To grow more fruits for future days.

You couldn't help but watch:

They ripped pages from the book,

Loaded the silver vessels

Took turns to piss in the chalice

And leaving us to low

They sailed north towards

The gaping mouth of hell.

 

A thousand miles away,

A year that seems a thousand years,

I stop the images

Piercing my head like splinters

With the monotony of work.

Why did we reap the whirlwind?

It is a question no one asks.

Did God detect a lack

Of constancy, perhaps,

Behind the mask of faith?

 

My cell's a layer round my self.

I crave the light for copying

But everything light touches

Becomes one more distraction.

Outside, the bees and blackbirds,

Whitethorn, apple, hazel

Remind me of the life

I snuff to concentrate

On nibs and liquid soot.

My days are one long snuffing out:

Desire, envy, pleasure,

The memory of shrieking,

The impulse to expose

My personality –

Why is it such a sin

To be myself? God made me,

So surely what I am

Must finally come from him?

What point has self-denial

If God can't save his own?

Then I retreat. Shamed

I feel the abbot's words

Burning my cheeks with whispers:

'You are God's medium.

He does not want your thought,

Nor do you have to grasp

His every act or utterance

Revealed in history.

Your shaping of the letters

Into fully breathing words

The sound of vowel and consonant

The patterning of rhythm

Create the mystery;

They penetrate your soul

Despite your reason's protest.

Your bodies will decay

Your names will be unsung,

Your consolation is

Your blessèd anonymity

Commitment to a process

Where self is not inserted

Between truth and its expression.'

 

Erat autem hora tercia.

It was the afternoon

When he was put to death

Alone on the strand

In sun-shafted drizzle

In which pale rainbows opened

Like ghosts of peacocks.

Dividing up his clothes

They wiped their faces with them. 

 

Another day, another page

Of endless bloodless words.

My eyes distract themselves

From abstract piety

By wandering to the earth:

The doorway frames a blackthorn

In bleached-out summer light

And in a sort of trance

I watch my brushstrokes conjure

Wild flowers in the lines.

 

Outside, the pollen sunshine

Flashes with black, crows

Invade the air, descend

With nauseating cackles,

And then stillness; the peace

Of Ireland warms the room.

Light settles like an aura

Above the rulered lines.

The third hour of the day.

So long as I do nothing

Ghostly words fill the page:

You're nothing in yourself.

Commit to God; don't let

The tempter lure you down

The path of idiosyncrasy.

 

But I cannot face extinction.

The thread of life is fraying

And God can't stop it – I must

Have something left of me

On this consuming vellum;

My afterlife is here

And not some other world!

I take my knife and prick

The centre of my palm

Then dip my quill in blood

Pour rage through every letter:

Et crucifigentes eum ...