Glanmore Sonnets

For Ann Saddlemyer,
our heartiest welcomer


Vowels ploughed into other: opened ground.  
The mildest February for twenty years  
Is mist bands over furrows, a deep no sound  
Vulnerable to distant gargling tractors.
Our road is steaming, the turned-up acres breathe.  
Now the good life could be to cross a field  
And art a paradigm of earth new from the lathe  
Of ploughs. My lea is deeply tilled.
Old ploughsocks gorge the subsoil of each sense  
And I am quickened with a redolence  
Of farmland as a dark unblown rose.
Wait then... Breasting the mist, in sowers’ aprons,  
My ghosts come striding into their spring stations.  
The dream grain whirls like freakish Easter snows.


Sensings, mountings from the hiding places,  
Words entering almost the sense of touch  
Ferreting themselves out of their dark hutch—
‘These things are not secrets but mysteries,’  
Oisin Kelly told me years ago
In Belfast, hankering after stone
That connived with the chisel, as if the grain  
Remembered what the mallet tapped to know.  
Then I landed in the hedge-school of Glanmore  
And from the backs of ditches hoped to raise
A voice caught back off slug-horn and slow chanter  
That might continue, hold, dispel, appease:  
Vowels ploughed into other, opened ground,  
Each verse returning like the plough turned round.


This evening the cuckoo and the corncrake  
(So much, too much) consorted at twilight.  
It was all crepuscular and iambic.  
Out on the field a baby rabbit
Took his bearings, and I knew the deer
(I’ve seen them too from the window of the house,  
Like connoisseurs, inquisitive of air)  
Were careful under larch and May-green spruce.  
I had said earlier, ‘I won’t relapse  
From this strange loneliness I’ve brought us to.  
Dorothy and William—’ She interrupts:  
‘You’re not going to compare us two...?’  
Outside a rustling and twig-combing breeze  
Refreshes and relents. Is cadences.


I used to lie with an ear to the line
For that way, they said, there should come a sound  
Escaping ahead, an iron tune
Of flange and piston pitched along the ground,  
But I never heard that. Always, instead,
Struck couplings and shuntings two miles away  
Lifted over the woods. The head
Of a horse swirled back from a gate, a grey  
Turnover of haunch and mane, and I’d look  
Up to the cutting where she’d soon appear.
Two fields back, in the house, small ripples shook  
Silently across our drinking water
(As they are shaking now across my heart)
And vanished into where they seemed to start.


Soft corrugations in the boortree’s trunk,
Its green young shoots, its rods like freckled solder:  
It was our bower as children, a greenish, dank
And snapping memory as I get older.
And elderberry I have learned to call it.
I love its blooms like saucers brimmed with meal,  
Its berries a swart caviar of shot,
A buoyant spawn, a light bruised out of purple.  
Elderberry? It is shires dreaming wine.
Boortree is bower tree, where I played ‘touching tongues’
And felt another’s texture quick on mine.
So, etymologist of roots and graftings,
I fall back to my tree-house and would crouch
Where small buds shoot and flourish in the hush.


He lived there in the unsayable lights.
He saw the fuchsia in a drizzling noon,
The elderflower at dusk like a risen moon
And green fields greying on the windswept heights.  
‘I will break through,’ he said, ‘what I glazed over  
With perfect mist and peaceful absences’—
Sudden and sure as the man who dared the ice  
And raced his bike across the Moyola River.  
A man we never saw. But in that winter
Of nineteen forty-seven, when the snow
Kept the country bright as a studio,
In a cold where things might crystallize or founder,  
His story quickened us, a wild white goose
Heard after dark above the drifted house.


Dogger, Rockall, Malin, Irish Sea:
Green, swift upsurges, North Atlantic flux  
Conjured by that strong gale-warning voice,  
Collapse into a sibilant penumbra.
Midnight and closedown. Sirens of the tundra,
Of eel-road, seal-road, keel-road, whale-road, raise  
Their wind-compounded keen behind the baize  
And drive the trawlers to the lee of Wicklow.  
L’Etoile, Le Guillemot, La Belle Hélène  
Nursed their bright names this morning in the bay  
That toiled like mortar. It was marvellous  
And actual, I said out loud, ‘A haven,’  
The word deepening, clearing, like the sky  
Elsewhere on Minches, Cromarty, The Faroes.


Thunderlight on the split logs: big raindrops  
At body heat and lush with omen
Spattering dark on the hatchet iron.
This morning when a magpie with jerky steps  
Inspected a horse asleep beside the wood  
I thought of dew on armour and carrion.
What would I meet, blood-boltered, on the road?  
How deep into the woodpile sat the toad?
What welters through this dark hush on the crops?  
Do you remember that pension in Les Landes  
Where the old one rocked and rocked and rocked  
A mongol in her lap, to little songs?  
Come to me quick, I am upstairs shaking.  
My all of you birchwood in lightning.


Outside the kitchen window a black rat
Sways on the briar like infected fruit:
‘It looked me through, it stared me out, I’m not  
Imagining things. Go you out to it.’
Did we come to the wilderness for this?
We have our burnished bay tree at the gate,
Classical, hung with the reek of silage
From the next farm, tart-leafed as inwit.
Blood on a pitchfork, blood on chaff and hay,
Rats speared in the sweat and dust of threshing—
What is my apology for poetry?
The empty briar is swishing
When I come down, and beyond, inside, your face  
Haunts like a new moon glimpsed through tangled glass.


I dreamt we slept in a moss in Donegal
On turf banks under blankets, with our faces  
Exposed all night in a wetting drizzle,  
Pallid as the dripping sapling birches.  
Lorenzo and Jessica in a cold climate.  
Diarmuid and Grainne waiting to be found.  
Darkly asperged and censed, we were laid out  
Like breathing effigies on a raised ground.
And in that dream I dreamt—how like you this?—
Our first night years ago in that hotel  
When you came with your deliberate kiss  
To raise us towards the lovely and painful  
Covenants of flesh; our separateness;  
The respite in our dewy dreaming faces.
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