Gangs of Shadow E-Book

Michael O'Neill

• Herausgeber: Arc Publications
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 51

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

This book is also available as a eBook. Buy it from Amazon here. There is a reaching for the unsayable throughout this collection, whether it is thinking about the future, people's inner lives or the shadows of place, O'Neill is wholeheartedly engaged with the unfathomable nature of living. To read these poems is to be part of his exuberance for the physical and visual experience of living, be that lying in a field, being with loved ones or watching the movement of light through a day. Each moment is brimming with imagery of its past and future, so these poems bring out the mutability and movement that both blurs and pinpoints events. Michael O'Neill has lectured at Durham University since 1979, where he is a Professor of English. He co-founded and co-edited Poetry Durham from 1982 to 1994. His critical studies include The All-Sustaining Air (OUP, 2007), an exploration of Romantic poetry's influence on poets since 1900. His first collection The Stripped Bed, was published by Collins Harvill in 1990, Arc published his second collection, Wheel, to critical acclaim.

Leseprobe

GANGS OF SHADOW

Published by Arc Publications

Nanholme Mill, Shaw Wood Road

Todmorden OL14 6DA, UK

www.arcpublications.co.uk

Copyright © Michael O’Neill, 2014

Copyright in the present edition © Arc Publications, 2014

Design by Tony Ward

978 1906570 64 4 (pbk)

978 1906570 92 7 (ebk)

978 1906570 82 8 (hbk)

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Acknowledgements are due to the editors of the following publications in which some of these poems (or versions of them) appear: The Arts of Peace: A Centenary Anthology (ed. Adrian Blamires and Peter Robinson), Being Human: Paintings by Chris Gollon (ed. David Tregunna and Tamsin Pickeral), English, Kathleen Jamie: Essays and Poems on Her Writing (ed. Rachel Falconer), Keats-Shelley Review, London Magazine, A Mutual Friend (ed. Peter Robinson), An Unofficial Roy Fisher (ed. Peter Robinson), Oxford Magazine, PN Review, Reader, TLS, and Warwick Review. ‘Meeting’ is part of a version of Purgatorio, XXI, which will appear in its entirety in The Poets’ Purgatorio, ed. Nicholas Havely and Bernard O’Donoghue (forthcoming). ‘Georg Trakl’ quotes a line from ‘Kaspar Hauser Song’, Georg Trakl: Poems and Prose, trans. Alexander Stillmark (Libris, 2001).

Cover image:

Drawing for ‘The Dance’ by Paula Rego, 1988

(ink on paper)

by kind permission of the artist.

This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to provision of relevant collective licensing agreements,no reproduction of any part of this book may take place without the written permission of Arc Publications.

Editor for the UK and Ireland: John W. Clarke

Michael O’Neill

Gangs of    

      Shadow

2014

for Posy, Daniel, Melanie

& Millie

CONTENTS

The Garden

Louis MacNeice

Shadows

Even If

Intimates

Cluny

For Whom

You

Happy Birthday

Lift

Detained

Chapter and Verse

Memory (after Rimbaud)

Twice

The Baths of Caracalla

Editing

Let It Happen

Never

Companions

Near Flatford Mill

Tryst

Until

Money

Pilgrims

The Voyage (after Baudelaire)

Loose Change

Scalinata della Trinità dei Monti

Secret Agent

Meeting (from Dante, PurgatorioXXI)

Human

The Call

Trilogy

Departure

Belief

Towards Sixty

Diagnosis

Convergence

Beatrice Cenci

The Rival

And These Too

Two for Millie

Lesson

So It Goes

Three for the NHS

Snowbound

Memorial

Georg Trakl

Covenant

Elsewhere

Sirmione

Biographical Note

THE GARDEN

There was, there had to be, a garden.

Traffic noises eddied, but it gave space

for citizens to refresh themselves,

overlooked by the palace.

Police occupied toy

sentry-boxes; behind, there must have been

briefings, e-mails, people having their say.

Beyond, though, parents helped their children

launch yachts across a wind-crisped pond, then hook

them back to safety with a long stick.

It is, a poet wrote, the nearest thing

to the idyll we deserve; we are allowed

once more to enter Eden as of right.

Many who came to the city stayed

on for the garden; drank coffee,

glimpsed meaning in the vague, arranged horizon.

One day the notices appeared: The garden

has been closed; you are advised that entrance

is unauthorised and will result in prosecution.

And then another day a message read:

By order of the undersigned(whose names

include those who roam elsewhere, being dead)

the garden is, it had to be, abolished.

LOUIS MACNEICE

That saturnine, mercurial Irishman

would sit in bars and scribble lines

on beer-mats, not bothering tra-la to scan

mechanically or fret about his rhymes.

His ear pitch-perfect, he would dive

into the flux with gusto and delight

in revelations of the cave

while ironizing Plato’s radiant light.

Who else comes close to coming close

to showing what a lyric might amount to,

a miracle of freedom you can parse,

elegance topped by sprezzatura?

Who else can match his dash

or darkness? Before Charon sticks

his oar in (‘if you want to die’), I’d wish

to praise his maker with words tricked

into place like a cab that finds

its destination in a room

that holds reflected doubles, or like minds

kindling a shared thought into flame.

SHADOWS

You stop on a bridge

towards the edge of town,

dusk already settled

over shadows from willows

angling out of the river banks.

Something to do with

the recent appointments,

perhaps, the fact-sheets of

advice, and the chances this

way and that, but, without warning,

you seem to see your own spirit

balloon beyond your lips

and spread itself as an indistinct

shadow above the mass

of shadows gathered in the water.

A couple passes, laughing.

You look at your BlackBerry,

might be a man with a life

that needs guiding through

dates, meetings and even a

decision once in a while. But

that’s only, you sense, with a chill

at the edge of your thoughts,

make-believe – the truth’s

your essence drifting

off into the night air,

unable to prevent its

conscription by the gangs

of shadow that half-beckon

towards you as you look at them.

EVEN IF

It had poured and was still raining

in Lady Katharine’s Wood.

Late evening and the days were waning.

Matting protected fresh growth underfoot.

Umbrella furled, I trod carefully,

intent on the path’s end and a signal

to bleep back to my blocked gadgetry,

when trees relayed a sound – half rustle,

half like a woman clearing her throat,

aware that speech meant risk.

I stepped on a twig, then stopped again,

edgy, keen to pick up any new note

– a fox or deer, say, hurrying through the dusk –

even if it seemed I only heard the rain.

INTIMATES

I took my illness to Valladolid;

it didn’t do much there; it merely hid

among the tapas, Castile stone, and laughter,

the visits to the Plaza late at night.

My illness and myself became good friends;

we knew the road ahead had hidden bends,

but tramped in close communion round Wastwater,

not letting one another out of sight.

We found our way to Venice, worries now

bravely laid aside, ready to allow

for alterations – richer maybe, maybe poorer –

to rise from all that water, sky, and light.

Severance at times was clearly on the cards;

San Marco in the evening pressed us hard.

The drawn-out small hours, though, brought us together,

hinting through shutters at a common plight.

Soulmates, we studied Ezra’s church,