For World Poetry Day 2017.
The freedom and the lovely uselessness of poetry is its whole point.
~ Leontia Flynn
My parents were raised in rural County Derry, Seamus Heaney country, where they learned to be thrifty and resourceful, and when all else failed, to believe in the mystical powers of “folk healers,” those individuals uniquely gifted with “the cure” or “the charm” for all ailments. Consulted only after patients had flummoxed the medical doctor, the folk healer meted out charms in all forms – plasters, poultices, and potions in brown bottles. It was to such a man my father once turned after the local doctor told my mother there was nothing he could prescribe for her bout with jaundice. Dissatisfied with this from someone with formal medical training and a string of letters after his name, my father went deep into the Derry countryside to visit the man with “the charm.”
Observant and curious, my father accompanied him into the fields but was of no help in discerning those wild herbs that held curative powers. Thus, he watched and then he waited in a tiny kitchen as the healer wordlessly concocted the charm. With a stone, he beat juices from unidentified herbs, added two bottles of Guinness stout, poured the mixture into a Cantrell and Cochrane lemonade bottle and sent da on his way with instructions for my mother to drink every last drop. No payment. Just faith that it would work a healing magic.
As an adolescent, I was skeptical of the faith healer but not of the faith at work in the transaction. In crisis, when all else fails, we might try anything. When conventional wisdom seems foolish, and the right words are in hiding, where can we go?
Not Google, I wish I could say, but after being diagnosed with cancer, I spent as much time on the Internet tracking down all the worst case scenarios as I did staring down a cursor that blinked on a blank Word document. A conspiracy began. Between us, the winking cursor and me, we would maybe find some words to help me adjust to this altered life. Everywhere else I found only no sense – nonsense. The words that fell from the lips of physicians and friends and people who love me, sent me scrambling into a frightening encounter with my mortality which began with a fast and furious flurry of euphemisms about my inner fortitude. At the same time, there was a silence from those who were frustrated by not having the “right” words and crippled by fear of saying the wrong thing. There were friends and family who, unafraid and angry on my behalf, jumped in, took charge, and said the “wrong” thing anyway, made all the worse because I lacked the right words to explain why. Around this time Van Morrison’s “Inarticulate Speech of the Heart” made most sense.
Clumsily, in the wee hours, I struggled to catch the best words to present my changed life, hoping to save them in a jam-jar with holes poked in the lid, knowing I would need them down the road. Cancer invaded my lexicon, and previously dependable words failed me. “Staging” would never again conjure only the theater and the cheap seats in the ‘gods’ at the Grand Opera House in Belfast; “fog” I would now attach to a state of cognitive loss rather than a misty morning in a Van Morrison song or the cloud that often obscures parts of Pacific Coast Highway on a trip north in the summertime; “cure” no more the idiomatic “hair of the dog that bit you” but a confounding and elusive thing all wrapped up in a pink ribbon; “Mets” was not just the other New York baseball team but a tragic abbreviation for metastatic breast cancer from which no one survives yet of all the millions of dollars raised for breast cancer research in this country, only a small percentage is directed to metastatic breast cancer. Even “sentinel,” which had been reserved, until cancer came calling, for a lonely cormorant perched on a post in the sleepy edges of Morro Bay – transformed, becoming instead the first node to which cancer cells are most likely to spread from a primary tumor. “Infusion” had been something done to olive oil to transform it into a gourmet gift, but because I had turned left instead of right upon leaving my oncologist’s office one day, I found myself on the threshold of the infusion suite, a room I didn’t know was there. Feeling as though I had intruded, I fled. But not before I had registered a row of faces of people who were sicker than me. In one microscopic moment, I made eye contact with a woman and wondered if perhaps she was cold because, as I turned away, I noted a quilt on her lap. I turned away.
Inarticulate, stunned by what the cancer was doing to the efficacy of words, and in need of a charm, I rediscovered County Down poet Damian Gorman. Trapped in cancer land, I also found myself remembering the bombs, bullets, the “suspect incendiary devices” that were part of 1980s Northern Ireland as far less deadly than the “devices of detachment” my people used to distance ourselves from it –
“I’ve come to point the finger
I’m rounding on my own
The decent cagey people
I count myself among …
We are like rows of idle hands
We are like lost or mislaid plans
We’re working under cover
We’re making in our homes
Devices of detachment
As dangerous as bombs.”
On a day like today, when the news back home is all about the death of Martin McGuinness, people will ask me what it was like growing up in that place at that time – hoping to understand “The Troubles” and indeed McGuinness – I will direct them not to some digital archive that chronicles what has happened in Northern Ireland since August 1969, but to “Devices of Detachment.” And in October, when I am pummeled by pink, it will be to this charm I turn. And when people die, and I don’t know what to say to bring any comfort to their loved ones, my condolences will come wrapped up in a Seamus Heaney poem – the right words at the right time.
When Heaney died, I remember wondering if the living poets would have the right words. I imagine most of them thought that only Heaney himself would be capable of composing the condolences that would assuage Ireland’s collective sorrow over his passing. I could not imagine the landscape of my my lovely, tragic homeland without him. Heaney had scored my life with poems about hanging clothes on the line and ironing, about biycyle riding or blackberry picking and of potato-peeling at the kitchen sink with his mother when “all the others were away at Mass.” Sitting at my kitchen table, in Phoenix, Arizona, a lifetime away from Anahorish, my mother once recalled him as a young man with sandy hair, riding his bicycle around Castledawson. He would probably be pleased that her recollection of him is less as renowned Nobel Laureate and more “a son of Paddy Heaney’s.”
In an unguarded moment, when I turn to a page in a picture book to see the complete and smiling family of which I once was a part, I turn again to Heaney until the remembered trauma subsides. I don’t know when my husband died, the moment my daughter lost her daddy. I know only that he was pronounced dead at 1:10PM on November 15th. Posing for a photograph with Barry Devlin at the forge on the other side of The Door into The Dark, on the other side of the world, holding in my hands the anvil that made the sweeter sound, then striking it, I imagine a shower of sparks and wonder if it was at that very moment that Ken died, alone in our Phoenix home. There is something soothing – and right-seeming – in believing I was maybe within Heaney’s spiritual field for just a moment and in knowing I would return to the desert with my daughter to do what we were fit for – to “take up the strain of the long tailed pull of grief” – to move forward.
A reporter once asked me if I thought you had to be Irish to appreciate Seamus Heaney’s poetry. The way she asked it suggested she was unfamiliar with his work, and I responded inadequately. I meant to tell her that in the crucible of Heaney’s poetry, she would no doubt find herself represented along with everyone else; she would find “the music of what happens” then and now; she would find not what it means to be Irish, but all that it means to be human and searching, always searching – digging – for the goodness that’s in us and still for us. She would find the charm; she would understand why we turn to it, as Carol Ann Duffy explains in her response to the devastation of the Haiti earthquake as it unfolded on television:
We turn to poetry at intense moments in our lives . . . when we lose people, or are bereaved, we look for a piece of music or poem to read at the funeral, or when we fall in love we turn to poetry, or when children are born. And I think that can happen at moments of public grief too, as well as personal. It is so close to prayer, it is the most intense use of language that there is. It is the perfect art form for public or private grief.
When we fall in love we turn to poetry . . . and on this World Poetry Day, I am in love, remembering a wintry day on The Flaggy Shore. Thank you.
Post Script by Seamus Heaney
And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightning of a flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
Their fully grown, headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you’ll park and capture it
More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And find the heart unlatched and blow it open.