IMMORTALITY

 

IMMORTALITY

 Walking in woodland and surveying the here and hereafter

We were as one, until she said,

“When you go I will put on the biodegradable stump

An image of the Giants Causeway.”

“When you go,” I said, inhaling and exhaling;

“I will place at your feet a bowl of steaming porridge with the recipe.”

         *              *              *              *

 In death I have seen them,

Catholics to the left and Protestants to the right:

Resting in peace, and, “called to higher service.”

And heard him, without a hint of irony

And looking below and beyond to the skerries, say,

“This would be a great place for an hotel.”

        *              *              *              *

 I found them where the property developers had left them,

Discarded, in the corner of a derelict cemetery;

Their names fading from communal and decaying concrete slabs.

“Confrères.” Men of the cloth and consecrated virgins, who,

In sadness and hope of the Resurrection

Previously were laid to rest at the feet of Christ, crucified.

A secluded and sacred space for both the living and the dead.

         *              *              *              *

 It was January, the feast of St. Paul, and the ground covered in snow.

And their hearts were full of joy as their confrères waved goodbye.

And the missionary sisters, nervous, but destined for the warmth of Africa

Made friends with the children in front of them, and signed themselves

with THE SIGN OF THE CROSS.

And thrust back into their seats they careered, careered, slithered, tilted and swerved

And ran headlong . . . into eternal life.

 __________

 @ Cormac E. McCloskey

 

Las Posadas

At the Church of Our Lady and Saint Walstan, in Advent,

and after heartfelt prayers:

for the homeless,

for families,

for those who live in dark places,

for the victims of conflict,

for refugees,
for the poor,

for the hungry,

and for those near death,

Mary and Joseph, and a donkey, in a spirit of faith and love,

took up the invitations of hospitality: a home, for a night-or-two

in and around the parish.

Meantime, and in that same spirit,

from the steps of the sanctuary, gifts:

toys,

cards and presents for the people of Cambodia,

and winter clothing for Saint Andrew's Hall.

And in the air, an expectation,

that Mary and Joseph, and the donkey,

will be back in time for Christmas.

__________

© Cormac E McCloskey

For the history and traditions associated with Las Posadas, go  here

This is a re-working of the original poem. Cormac, 22nd October 2017

A Birthday Celabration: Age 73

                          I T

At the church of Our Lady and Saint Walstan, in Advent,
They did all the right things.
On Sunday's, adults came to the sanctuary - bearing gifts:
Toys, that the Salvation Army would distribute among the poor,
Foodstuffs for the hungry;
And for the people of Cambodia, toothbrushes, ("new"),
And discarded spectacle frames.
And on Christmas morning at the priest's invitation,
"The little children" coming eagerly up the isle
Sat with him, right by the stable door;
And in their innocence and excitement - shared their joy.
And Joseph, looking at Mary, in a soft voice, said,
"Can you believe it?"
And the ox and the ass as though in agreement, shook their heads.
Then Joseph, so as not to disturb the baby, said to Mary:
"No dolls! And no soft toys!"
And Mary, nodding, clasped her new born son to her breast.

____________
© Cormac E McCloskey

IT: Contemporary electronic means of communication popularly described as information technology

Advent: The liturgical year of the Church is divided into seasons, the first of which is Advent: a period of four weeks of anticipation and prayerful preparation for Christmas:

"The little children": The words of Christ in the Gospel's. Jesus was especially sensitive to the well being of children, and used the simplicity and trust inherent in their natures, as a metaphor for what is required in our approach to God. And interesting also, (recorded in three of the four Gospel's), is the context, where he had to rebuke his disciples, who were trying to stop the children coming to him to be blessed.

A Birthday Celebration: Age 72

             Age 72
It has been a good year; the best ever

for the heart that is young and for future prospects;

though I grumble, sometimes, when the chimes are at one

and ruminate at twelve.

High on the wall the antlers

and above the door the boomerang;

and discrete in the corner by the front door

the silver sphere, still measuring:
though the rhythm and work of men had ceased.

And though my time is on the wane

and I have many things to do,

I will cherish the chimes,
and grumble! and ruminate!

until and whenever, the pendulum - stops.

_______________

© Cormac E McCloskey

The line "though the rhythm of work and men had ceased" is an echo of another of my poems, that gives context to the reminiscing. I had it in the earlier drafts but removed it at the last moment. But reading the poem now that I am 72 and a bit, I have reinstated it  And I have made a small change to the line that is fourth from bottom. ""and I have many things still to do." Still was superfluous and distorted the rhythm of the ending.

Cormac 15th February 2014

The punctuation and some of the wording has been altered: after "measuring" the word "time" has been removed so that the idea of time is implied rather than stated. And the line "when the rhythm and work of men had ceased" is no longer a quote, but instead, an echo of that same line now that it begins with "though"
Cormac 18 March 2014 . 

A Fond Farewell

      
       Seamus Heaney

          1939-2013

My sense is of a life well lived:

of genius, faith, and grit.

Of a landscape, ploughed-over 

harrowed, and sown.

Of a force, ancient as Aran,

sweet as the Derry air.

And ringing! on the anvil of his passing,

the menacing loss of a friend.

_______________

© Cormac E McCloskey

Seamus Heaney was born in in Northern Ireland and grew up in the townland of Bellaghy. Among academics he is regarded as one of the greatest poets, in English, of the 20th century; a status confirmed when he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1995, "for works of lyrical beauty and ethical depth, which exalt everyday miracles and the living past." And not withstanding the many accolades, he never became distant, nor lost the common touch.

Over a cup of tea it occurred to me, that in the original, I had the farming metaphors in the wrong order. Not a mistake that Seamus would have made.

Cormac 31 August 2013

"Forbid them not!"

Unknowing, they tapped into a wellspring of emotion as they passed,
bearing gifts of bread and wine.
It wasn't the bread and wine that moved him,
but innocence.
__________

© Cormac E McCloskey

Provoked, by a Dead Poet

As with the saints, I have experienced levitation, but always in
                                                                                 dreams;
a quiet imagining, myself suspended above the fray.
And I have awakened sometimes reassured, that the past
                                                               is just that - the past.
Once I dreamt that Saint Thérèsa of Lisieux sat unperturbed,
in a hen-house engulfed in flames.
And I don't usually dream.

__________
© Cormac E McCloskey

Revised: 11th May 2013

A Birthday Celebration: Age 71

                   Age 71

FAITH
Above the panelled walls a balustrade,
And through the uprights, lives of the saints
Martyrs and mystics.
And coming down, sometimes,
Through the obligatory silence,
The sound of Stan singing, "I'll be your sweetheart"!
The most ungainly and forgetful of saints, and ships carpenter,
Who once slipped between two hulls into the Mersey.
And Bob: bald, rotund and robust:
A miniature priest with a heart of gold,
Gardener and custodian of bric-a-brac,
Who lived for his parish, the sick and dying,
And whose party piece was, "Little Billy Williams".
And Bert, who, following his own star, and broken
In body and mind,
Would appear at the kitchen window,
And who didn't have to ask.

Poor, chaste, and obedient,
I made my will;
And leaving myself behind
Changed my name.
One with Christ, I would bear with Him,
To Calvary.

In an age of renewal, and crisis,
(I was floundering on my way to Calvary)
He came to the door and knocked.
I have it still, the little book he gave me:
Bible readings, from the Bible Reading Fellowship.
Chancing upon an error, he had marked it, as was his duty:
Readings from the Gospels, prayers for life.

We met on a busy London street,
The priest who found him,
Sitting by the side of his bed his breviary open on his lap,
When the Almighty laid claim to his soul.

The pain that is, at the core of being,
Has no physical properties,
So we must pray, and hope - and wait!
For the gift of tears.

_______________
© Cormac E McCloskey
5th July / 14-16th October 2012

ittle Billy Williams
(An old Music Hall song)

Little Billy Williams found a penny in the garden

One fine summer's day.

And as little Billy Williams never had more than a farthing,

He cried: "Hip Hip! Hooray!

Now in the tobacconists where cigarettes were sold

Billy spied a packet that was labelled green and gold.

Five little fags in a dainty little pack,

Five cigarettes that cost one D.                        [a penny]

Five little whiff's and in five little jiffs

He was rolling on the tramway lines

Wishing he could touch the cable

Feeling greener than the label

Fro little Willie's "Wild Woodbine." 

Mersey: The River Mersey
Bert, who all to obviously physically and mentally damaged by his precarious lifestyle, (he lived in a shack somewhere in the New Forest), would tramp around religious houses, and other places, in search of something to eat.

DOUBLE DEALING

My father, a "commercial traveller"
got around on an old bike with his attaché case, 
believing in, and flogging, the genius of Arthur Mee.
Perhaps my mistake was not turning up in Tombland,
Apollo in pursuit of Daphne,
for it was a dull affair:
me on foot, with my leather briefcase, 
popping in and out of shops, as polite as nine pins, 
and hoping that my natural charm and intelligence would do the trick.

A nice lady, dwarfed by a mountain of old books sent me to Bruce:
"Tell him I sent you".Amazing! I had lift off.
And when I found him waiting, (or so it seemed) just beyond the perfumery,
my proportions were biblical.
Free delivery, sale or return, and fifty-fifty on the cover price.
This and a complimentary copy, graciously accepted, 
                                                                  Bruce would take to the buyer.
And they would be in touch.


He was there with a coterie of his friends, who knew his life's history,
                                                                             and laughed at his jokes. 
And I was there on late night market research, and the choice was, 
                                                                                                 "red or white?"
And I liked him, for his evident warmth and humanity, and his reading:
                                                                                                    a last hurrah!
Though I worried, somewhat, at the over arching presence of his alma mater.
And, "surely", it was suggested, on the dust-cover, he will endure:
alongside Hardy, Frost and Edward Thomas.

I sent a message via their website, and in the absence of a reply, called in,
timing my appearance so as to have maximum impact.
Free delivery, sale or return, and fifty-fifty on the cover price.
But not before offering my poems, (self-published) for review, 
and an assurance, that come what may, I would welcome a response.

I had served my time on the High Street, on Saturday's past.
"Ban the Bomb!" "Stop Nuclear Trains!" and while you're at it, 
                                                                                     the arms trade.
A grotesque way to earn a living - parents, packing shrapnel.
And the passers by, to their credit, and to your face, would tell you,
                                                             what they thought of it, and you!
But now that I was flogging myself, and daring to challenge the status quo;
they too, had a script, and they were sticking to it.
_______________ 

© Cormac E McCloskey
5th June 2012

"they too, had a script, unspoken, and were sticking to it." This line has been re-written as "unspoken" devalues what is clearly implied in the poem. Cormac 31 01 2013

EDUCATION

I was four feet two and a half inches,

and facing into the corner, "for talking,"

and with old Mrs Donnelly thinking that she had the upper hand.

But my head was buzzing with excitement at the vanished horizon,

and the discovery, that there was no limit to what the mind could do.

"Please Miss! Cormac's looking round!"

Turning briskly back to the walls, I had an instant - new strategy:

and raised the dusted sole of my shoe - in defiance.

_______________

© Cormac E McCloskey

10th July 2012