"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!”

What's in a Name?

 In Dungarvan, there is a wealth of eating establishments, a bevy of coffee shops, and a multitude of public houses. In each, there is rich and plentiful conversation. I’ve tried to record (in writing) or reconstruct a few that I’ve heard today.

Conversation heard at Ormond’s Café:

What’s the difference between a Blaa and a Bap?
Did you mean the Breakfast Blaa?
Yes, is it a Bap?
Well, no..
What is it then?
Well it’s like a Bap, but here we name it a Blaa.
So it is a Bap then?
No, no.. A Bap’s a Bap and a Blaa’s a Blaa.
Well then, what’s the difference?
I don’t rightly know. Do ye want one then?
Well, if it’s a Bap, I’ll have one.
Ok then.

The rhythm and sound of the language here is wonderful, but I can’t rightly say exactly why it’s so enjoyable to listen to.  It’s like playful banter. It’s like music.  It’s fun and it’s quick witted. It seems to depend on questions and to steer clear of resolution. It delights in itself.

Conversation heard at the Enterprise Bar:

Billy, who was that girl in here yesterday?
What do you mean?
Who was she?
That’s Marianne, that.
Oh yes, that’s a darlin’ name, that. Is she a local girl?
Never-you-mind that, there.  She’s too young and too good for ye.
Too good you say Billy?
Yes, it don’t take much, by God, for the likes of you.
Ah Billy, you’re painin’ me.  That’s not right.
Well I should give you a pain, for all you gives me.

Both conversations, in the café and in the bar, were dotted with laughter and dramatic expression.  The conversations sparkled. The repetitions resonated.  It was appealing to me on what seemed to be a subconscious level.

Seamus Heaney writes a poem (or many poems) about the sounds of Irish language and the etymology of English names and phrases in Ireland. The words and the sounds of the words have meanings. In “A New Song,” he emphasizes the importance of language beginning the poem with “I met a girl from Derrygarve / And the name, a lost potent musk, / Recalled the river’s long swerve” (1-3). Here, the name of the place, and not the name of the girl, has the effect. The word Derrygarve, like Dungarvan, has a deep historical meaning associated with it.  I know (or think I know) that Dun stands for fort.  I suspect that garve stands for a bend in the river. Derry is a proud Irish name in the North. To come from Derrygarve conjures up poetic meaning. To come from Dungarvan is to come from a location whose very name speaks a grounded and ancient sense of place.

Upstairs at Downey’s

 

Downey’s is a place I’ve been before. The craic is grand and the session playing is spontaneous and authentic. It is the place in Dungarvan that is best known by outsiders as a U2 bar, where the band has visited, and “your man” Bono has been more than once.  In Dungarvan itself, it may be best known for its warm hospitality and a tradition of “bucket singing.”  That is something I may have time to get to in the future.  I can tell you are intrigued.  Right now, I’m interested in telling you about upstairs at Downey’s.  I’ve never been upstairs before last evening.  It seems on Tuesday nights a group gathers upstairs to recite poetry, sing songs, and tell stories. A colleague of mine from Mercyhurst and I had the honor and privilege of being invited upstairs to witness it for ourselves.  To me, it was magical.

Mr. Power, a family name well known in the area as one-time brewers and many times voice of Irish patriotism, was the master of ceremonies. To get us started, he recited two Shakespearian soliloquies in dramatic fashion including from Richard III:

Now is the winter of our discontent

Made glorious summer by this sun of York;

And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house

In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.

Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;

Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;

Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,

Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.

Of course he recited the full version.  We also heard a sonnet recited by a young man, some poetry recited in Irish by an older gentleman, a song by Sarah McLauchlan sung by a visiting young lady, and some original compositions by others as the guitar was passed around the group.  What a beautiful and meaningful way to cap off our first full day in Dungarvan. My hope is there will be many more opportunities to go upstairs at Downey’s on a Tuesday evening.  When the time comes, maybe I’ll even have the moxie to recite.

Back to the Dẻise

 

Tomorrow evening about 24 people from Mercyhurst University in Erie, Pennsylvania will be heading to Ireland.  We will go to Dungarvan, in County Waterford, known historically as The Dẻise, and home to Mercyhurst Dungarvan since 2010.  I’m proud to say I was with the first group who travelled there from Mercyhurst. I’m also humbled to say that this year will not only mark the 15^th anniversary of our relationship with Dungarvan, but also my third time of having the privilege of bringing our students to study there. They are in for a treat. Dungarvan is a lovely seaside town with lovely people. It is the perfect homebase for our students to experience the hospitality and culture of Ireland.

This year many of the students are Criminal Justice majors, but we also have a contingent of English majors and others who will take classes in Criminal Justice, Irish Culture, Irish Literature, and Ethics. We will journey out on short excursions to Dublin and Belfast, and we will travel to the west to visit Dingle, Galway, and the Cliffs of Moher. It will be magical.

How fitting that students in my Irish Literature class will start by reading James Stephens’s novel Crock of Gold, a work chock-full of mythology, folklore, philosophy, and Irish humor. I’m excited to read it again. We will of course also read some Joyce, Yeats, Heaney, Synge, and other great Irish authors. What a delightful way to transition into spring!