The Depth of Irish Bogs

 

As I have been looking for a newer Irish woman author for my classes on Irish literature, I’ve been trying out a few different names that have been given to me.  Sally Rooney was suggested, and so I picked up a copy of Normal People.  Ronney is a talented writer with a creative narrative style, and in this book her two young-adult characters, Connell and Marianne, lead troubled and complicated lives. They are compelling, and richly painted characters.  At first, I felt uncomfortable with Connell (and his treatment of Marianne) and then I became uncomfortable with Marianne.  They are two characters that develop, but maybe not in the most positive ways. It is a novel that explores mental health issues, sexual desire, and changing relationships.  Overall, it was a book that made me uncomfortable, which is not always a bad thing for a novel to do, but in this case the plot left me convinced that it wasn’t something that would transition easily into the classroom for me. So that was crossed off the list. 

Then I found a copy of Bog Child at the local charity shop.  It is a work that I had heard about, and because of the “Bog Poems” by Seamus Heaney that I had already assigned in previous classes, I thought it would tie in well.  Set in the 1980s, Bog Child, by Siobhan Dowd was a quite enjoyable read.  It is set against a backdrop of the “Troubles” in Northern Ireland, the somewhat random boundary line between the two countries, the issue of ownership (of the past and of the present), the hunger strikers, the Provisional IRA, religious differences, and of course, the recovery of and the mystery around a bog body. It is a quick read that I would categorize as Young-Adult fiction, but I do think I would use it for a class if I travel with students to Ireland again. It has so many possibilities for tying into Irish culture, history, and the literature we read. It is a work that does a good job of presenting the depth of the Irish experience.  As Heaney writes in “Bogland” “Every layer they strip / seems camped on before. / The bogholes might be Atlantic seepage. / The wet center is bottomless” (25-28).

Good Day Sunshine : Dungarvan Edition

 

It’s another beautiful day in Dungarvan. 52 degrees and sunny.  That’s the normal temperature pretty much year-round, I think.  It is a bit warmer in the summer and a bit colder some days in the winter, but they don’t get temperature extremes like we do in the States during the different seasons.  They call the south of Ireland the “Sunny Coast.”  That name seems to have merit. Ireland is known for being rainy, but we have been lucky with weather, and lucky to be in the sunny part of Ireland. Today we wrapped up the poetry of William Butler Yeats, a Nobel Prize winning Irish poet.  Today’s poems were written later in Yeats’ life, and thus they are a bit more difficult and a bit longer winded. That is something I can relate to. The students did well with them. Yeats describes the changing cycles of the seasons, the circles of life, the spirals “turning and turning in the widening gyre” (1) as described in “the Second Coming,” and the “bell-beat” (17) of the swans’ wings as they “scatter wheeling in great broken rings” (11) as described in "The Wild Swans at Coole." Seasons change, but in the cycle of life some things remain constant, like the repetition of the cycle itself.  We finished today’s class with “Among School Children” which I think is a reflection on the cycle, or arc, of life.  It is about youth and age, the corporal and the spiritual, restrictive learning and expansive imagination, art and nature, spiritual love and earthly love, and how these things are not easily separated into oppositions or component parts. The stages of life cannot be separated from life itself, Yeats may be saying. All these things are needed to form something complete, like “the yolk and the white of the one shell” (16). All the seasons are needed, and all the stages of life are needed in order to have a whole. And so, the winter turns to spring, and the spring turns to summer, and the seasons change, if only somewhat when one is in Ireland. 

"Our guttural muse / was bulled"

 “I’m wishing that she won’t be having a beef with me.” – “No, indeed, no, I’m certain.” This exchange was heard between a local young man and a local young lady who were crossing the Greenway bridge with me.  I find myself eavesdropping on conversations to try and pick up the phrasing. They were walking, as young people do, much quicker than me. I wish I could have heard more, but they were soon out of ear shot.  “No, indeed, no” is something I hear often, as is “God willing” and Thanks God.”  I say, “I’ll see you later” and the response is “God willing.” I say, “It’s a beautiful day” and the response is “Thanks God.”  I’ve heard some people using “sound” instead of “thank you” or “that’s good.”  “Are you alright?” they might ask at the pub.  The response is “Pint of Guiness.”  When the pint is served, they say “Here’s you.” The response might be “Sound.” It is a unique way of communicating that is essentially Irish. 

I also like phrases like “how is himself?” and “your man, there” and “I’m after going for a coffee,” and “he does be a bit dense.” Again, this doesn’t follow convention, or should I say the conventions of others. The poem “Traditions” by Seamus Heaney starts “Our guttural muse / was bulled long ago / by the alliterative tradition” (1-3).  The word “bulled” is interesting here because it is a word that isn’t much in use anymore, but it is much like bullied, or being pushed, I think. I also do believe that the alliterative tradition, like the alliterative revival, is seen as a bit of an easy way to construct poetry, and could certainly be tied to English rather than Irish wordsmiths. Heany might see it as a bit lazy, or uninteresting.  But the Irish way of phrasing things defies English grammar and pushes back against the expectations of outsiders. Maybe it is a language of resistance, or, at least, maybe it is a language that doesn’t want to be constrained by rules.  Makes sense.

Heart of Stone - Deep Heart's Core

 

The Kenmare stone circle, suprisingly quite near the center of town, was well worth seeing.  Not only did we get to have a substantial chat with the local man who manned the entrance and who grew up “at the bottom of the street,” but we also were able to see the circle in our own small group.  There was time to ponder the place and there were ample fairy trees on hand where we left some wishes. My wish was politically motivated and aimed towards a hope for better times in the States.  It was a wish, or a dream for a better future. 

In class, I know there is some interest in pre-Christian sites and works of art, which made me think of Yeats’s “To Some I have Talked with by the Fire.”  To me the poem is about ancient desire that Yeats feels needs to be rekindled: “of the dark folk who live in souls / Of passionate men, like bats in dead trees; / And of the wayward twilight companies / Who sigh with mingled sorrow and content, / Because their blossoming dreams have never bent / Under the fruit of evil and of good” (4-9). It is about the brooding passions of old, intense, authentic, dark, deep, Irish blood that will rise up and “like a storm, cry the Ineffable Name” (12).  This is the hope for something that can’t be spoken of, or named just yet.  For Yeats this may have meant a united and free Ireland. To me (via the wish on the fairy tree) it might stand for the dream of a rational, free, empathetic, and ethical government. In “The Song of the Happy Shepherd,” Yeats is asking for, or hoping for, a shift in our way of thinking and seeing the world.  He does not write a lament about the glories of the past, or a desire to return to the old ways (Make Ireland Great Again).  Instead, he asks for “New Dreams, new dreams” (26). The salvation from the shackles we have placed upon ourselves, the “mind-forged manacles” (as Blake would say), comes from words that celebrate the good parts of the past, but that are also pointed to a progressive future. As he reminds us at the outset of “The Song of the Happy Shepheard,” ---“The woods of Acardy are dead” (1).

Full Circle Irish - A Positive Spin on Eternal Return

 

Today we had a walking tour of Dungarvan with an old friend who is a local historian and a man who everyone in town knows.  He was very active in the first years when Mercyhurst was coming to Ireland, including the first year, 2010, that I was a part of.  He is beginning to be forgetful, and he moves a bit more slowly, so we didn’t cover as much physical ground as we have in the past, but we covered a good amount of historical and cultural ground.  He continues to delight everyone with his gentle demeanor, his good humor, and of course his Irish sensibility.  At one point he mentioned Oliver Cromwell coming through town on his march of destruction, and he made as if he needed to spit.  This pleased me, but I’m not sure that everyone understood the implications of the gesture.  I remembered the 1^st time I was in Ireland, many years ago, and a man told me that when some Irish say Cromwell, they may need to spit.  They must get the bad taste out of their mouths, he said. The walking tour of life continues to repeat itself, but each new time is a blessing.  We hear the story again in different ways and in different places.  It is the same and anew. 

The tour made us a bit late for starting my class today, but the students were happy to stay a bit later to finish the poetry we are working on.  It is cold and windy today, so they were not itching to get outside.  It gave us some time to look at some extra Yeats poetry (beyond the required reading). This included a short, but famous piece:

Last night at the “Upstairs Reading/Music Group” at Downey’s we heard an old Irish tale performed in the character of a Shanachie.  We also heard an acapella rendition of “Down by the Sally Gardens.”  Everything comes full cycle in Ireland for those with eyes that see and ears that hear.

“The mind-forg’d manacles I hear” – Invisible Imprisonments of Mind and Body in The Crock of Gold

 

Many students travelling with me in Ireland this semester are Criminal Justice majors.  They are taking a class in their area of study and seeing (or not really seeing) the Irish Guarda (police). They also hope to tour a prison.  They have noted that there seem to be fewer prisons, and it would appear that the police presence is not as visible on the streets as one might find in the states.  I think they use cameras for surveillance more, which is an interesting difference.  I wonder if the long history of law enforcement, from what some would call an occupying and oppressive force, creates a desire for a less visual presence of authority. 

In James Stephens’ The Crock of Gold, the police that come to arrest and imprison the Philosopher are a bumbling, comic, absurd lot. They are like a slapstick retelling of the old Keystone Cops.  For Stephens, part of the police officers’ problem is that they enforce un-natural law. The Philosopher, who is also a comic representation himself states “I do not see any necessity in nature for policemen, . . . nor do I understand how the custom first originated.  Dogs and cats do not employ these extraordinary mercenaries, and yet their polity is progressive and orderly” (93). The novel suggests that there needs to be a balance in all things, and yet it clearly presents the importance of the heart (instead of just the head), the passions (instead of only reason), and the “divine imagination” that can be awakened in all of us (rather the rigidness of mundane reality and law). 

At the end of the book, Angus Og (an old Irish god) has been reawakened, replacing the foreign gods (like Pan), and the newer man-made forces like the police. He tells his people “The dark people of the Formor have ye in thrall; and upon your minds have fastened a band of lead, your hearts are hung with iron, and about your loins a cincture of brass impressed, woeful!  Believe it, that the sun does shine, the flowers grow, and the birds sing pleasantly in the trees.  The free winds are everywhere” (140). In this hopeful conclusion, the Philosopher is freed from prison, and the people are freed from the prisons they have constructed in their minds.  We could hope the same for ourselves.

 

 

 

 

Good Craic at Minnie's

 

“Good craic at Minnie’s tonight” echoed down the dark, cool streets. “Indeed it was” was the reply.  True enough. An evening of trivia in “table quiz” fashion with music, banter, and an exuberance of Irish hospitality, all in support of the Augustinian Foreign Missions, sponsored by the Dungarvan Friary Church, was unquestionably the event of the week for me. My table partners, who identified themselves as Mary, Kate, and Ashley, were top prize winners. I was delighted by their clever game playing: listening to the talk at other tables, carefully writing their answers down so others might not see, and then whispering the same answers to friends that were struggling to solve an anagram or riddle. It was all in good fun and for a good cause. The music sections of the quiz, where the crowd was encouraged to sing along (until the music stopped) and then were asked to record the verse that followed, never really worked.  Or maybe, it worked wonderfully.  The crowd never stopped singing, and so the answers were revealed to all.  “That’s the fun of it!” said Mary, Kate, and Ashley. “No one can stop singing!”