and was a hero before leaving home.
Even Molly, my landlady, wearied from toil,
and fearing that my strength might fail,
cooked a huge fry forenenst midnight,
then left me alone to eat it.
And a girl, a pilgrim, keeling over
slept on my shoulder to Pettigo,
where, quietly herded into broad-beamed boats
and set strangely low in the water,
we ploughed our way across the swell
the ripples shaded, spouting as they passed
like wearied souls warning of our fate
on that Purgatory of stone.
Registered, fasting and barefoot,
we hobbled across the slivers of stone
to that living tomb, St. Patrick's Basilica,
from whence a steady stream of living souls,
coming - were going to St. Brigid's Cross,
where, arms abashed, they renounced
the devil, his works, and his pomps: prelude,
to an orgy of prayer and carnal pain
around the penitential beds.
Those circular walls set in jagged rock,
around which, before which and within which
Paters Aves and Creeds subdued the flesh.
And where the pilgrim, with faltering gait, welcomed
the silent guardian with outstretched hand.
Then, footsore by the water's edge,
more Paters, more Aves, and a Creed,
before dancing across those slivers of stone,
back to that whited sepulchre to pray,
Paters and Aves for the Pope's intentions.
And all this while, the repentant soul
fevered in knowing of the deadline,
for wads of bread and black tea.
Then as respite from unfamiliar penance,
and as assurance and fortification for the vigil:
(that penitential period of absence from sleep),
a feast! of varied and familiar devotions,
before the drab basilica echoed and re-echoed
to voices in unison proclaiming:
"Our Father who art in Heaven...".
And flatly: "Hail Mary full of grace...",
while still in our bared feet.
And with the oppressive blackness of night
pressing in through the high sanctuary windows,
we walked the isles and as instructed,
stood and knelt, enacting the penitential beds.
At 12:15 am, the fourth Station commenced.
More Pater Nosters, more Aves and a Creed.
At 1:45 am, the fifth Station commenced.
More Pater Nosters, more Aves and a Creed.
At 3:15 am, the sixth Station commenced.
More Pater Nosters, more Aves and a Creed
At 5:00 am, the seventh Station commenced.
More Pater Nosters, more Aves and a Creed.
And between each Station, homilies,
from seemingly dreary and seemingly, vain pilgrim priests;
until hope, in daylight and fresh air
began to permeate through the basilica doors.
And longing - to be embraced by natures light,
and drink the draught of nature's space.
And see heron skimming across the Lough,
before morning prayer, Mass, instruction,
and the blessing of pious objects.
And now embarked on the second day
with confession and the ninth Station completed,
and mindful of the adage old:
"that the devil makes work for idle hands",
the penance now was to stay awake,
while subduing the pangs of hunger,
for wads of bread and black tea.
So noting the timelessness of the Lough,
and sensing the oppressiveness of the place,
we drew strength in the certain knowledge
that we were not in that boat
of new pilgrims arrived at the jetty.
Or in that new and patient queue
of young and old in their rainwear,
for the first of the penitential beds.
And we noted with envy, the priest,
who, in his cassock and in his shoes,
and eagle-eyed, scrutinised the young
for the slightest hint of unbecoming character.
And I, for my part, as recommended,
sought inspiration among the hospice sages.
Men of the sod who herded together
around the vat of Lough Derg soup.
Old weather-beaten and young robust men.
Legendary masters in the art of conversation,
to whom I listened intently, and more intently,
as their babble rebounded on raw stone;
before quietly withdrawing, amazed -
Uncomprehending of brogues from as far South
as mine was from the far North.
And stark on the morning of the third day
the call to prayer and final repentance:
Paters and Aves by St. Patrick's Cross.
And the devil renounced with arms aloft.
Then four times round that whited sepulchre
to seven decades of the Holy Rosary.
Then back across those slivers of stone
to the circular walls set in jagged rock,
around which, before which, and within which,
Paters, Aves, and Creeds, subdued the flesh;
and where the pilgrim with faltering gait
welcomed the silent guardian with outstretched hand.
Then barefoot by the waters edge,
final Pates, and final Aves and a Creed,
before returning to that living tomb to pray,
Paters and Aves for the Pope's intentions.
And when in the lusuriance of our shoes
we averted the eyes of the disembarked,
our faith was in the power of the drover.
High, and silent, above the stern,
rhythmically he eased us out into the lough.
Stroke, by stroke, by stroke,
he was returning us from whence we had come:
to the crucible - to life.
__________
© Cormac McCloskey
This poem should be read in conjunction with Anna's Postcard
This poem was modified by me, on 12th February 2011 / 2nd July 2011
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