by Eavan Boland
folded in and over, stacked high,
neatened flat, stoving heat and white.
Nocturne
After a friend has gone I like the feel of it:
The house at night. Everyone asleep.
The way it draws in like atmosphere or evening.
One-o-clock. A floral teapot and a raisin scone.
A tray waits to be taken down.
The landing light is off. The clock strikes. The cat
comes into his own, mysterious on the stairs,
a black ambivalence around the legs of button-back
chairs, an insinuation to be set beside
the red spoon and the salt-glazed cup,
the saucer with the thick spill of tea
which scalds off easily under the tap. Time
is a tick, a purr, a drop. The spider
on the dining-room window has fallen asleep
among complexities as I will once
the doors are bolted and the keys tested
and the switch turned up of the kitchen light
which made outside in the back garden
an electric room—a domestication
of closed daisies, an architecture
instant and improbable.
The Fire in Our Neighborhood
The sign factory went on fire last night.
Maybe “factory” is too strong a word.
They painted window-signs there when times
were good, wooden battens, glass, plaster-board.
The paint cans went off like rifle fire.
By the time we heard sirens we were standing
at the windows watching ordinary things—
garden walls, pools of rain—reflecting
violent ornamentation,
our world grown elaborate as if
down-to-earth cloth and wood became
gimp and tatting, guipure and japanning.
Familiar figures became curious shadows.
Everyday men and women were the restless
enigmatic shapes behind glass.
Then the sirens stopped; the end began.
It didn’t take long. The fire brigade
turned their hoses on the sawmills where
the rock band practices on Saturdays
with the loud out-of-tune bass guitar.
And the flames went out. The night
belonged to the dark again, to the scent
of rain in the air, to its print on the pavement
and the neighbors who slept through the excitement.
On Holiday
Ballyvaughan.
Peat and salt.
How the wind bawls
across the mountains,
scalds the orchids
of the Burren.
They used to leave milk
out once on these windowsills
to ward away
the child-stealing spirits.
The sheets are damp.
We sleep between the blankets.
The light cotton of the curtains
lets the light in.
You wake first thing
and in your five-year-size
striped nightie you are
everywhere trying everything:
the springs on the bed,
the hinges on the window.
You know your a’s and b’s
but there’s a limit now
to what you’ll believe.
When dark comes I leave
a superstitious feast
of wheat biscuits, apples,
orange juice out for you
and wake to find it eaten.
Growing Up
(from Renoir’s drawing Girlhood)
Their two heads, hatted, bowed, mooning
above their waist-high tides of hair
pair hopes.
This is the haul and full
of fantasy:
full-skirted girls,
a canvas blued and empty with the view
of unschemed space and the anemic
quick of the pencil picking out
dreams blooding them with womanhood.
They face the future. If they only knew!
There in the distance, bonneted,
round as the hairline of a child—
indefinite and infinite with hope—
is the horizon, is the past and all
they look forward to is memory.
There and Back
Years ago I left the guest-house
in the first September light
with no sense
I would remember this:
starting up the engine
by the river, picking up
speed on the road
signposted Dublin,
measuring Kilkenny, Carlow, Naas
as distances not places,
yearning for my own
version of the world
every small town was
taking down
its shutters to
and I was still miles from;
until I shut the car door sharp
at eight years ago and you were
with the children,
with their bottles,
at your heels, the little radiances
of their faces turned up,
heliotropic,
to our kiss.
The Wild Spray
It came to me one afternoon in summer—
a gift of long-stemmed flowers in a wet
contemporary sheath of newspapers
which pieced off easily at the sink.
I put them in an ironstone jug
near the window; now years later
I know the names for the flowers
they were but not the shape they made:
The true rose beside the mountain rose,
the muslin finery of asparagus fern,
rosemary, forsythia; something about it was
confined and free in the days that followed
which were the brute, final days of summer—
a consistency of milk about the heat haze,
midges freighting the clear space between
the privet and the hedge, the nights chilling
quickly into stars, the morning breaking late
and on the low table the wild spray
lasted for days, a sweet persuasion,
a random guess becoming a definition.
I have remembered it in a certain way—
displayed yellows and the fluencies
of colors in a jug making a statement of
the unfurnished grace of white surfaces
the way I remember us when we first came here
and had no curtains; the lights on the mountain
that winter were sharp, distant promises
like crocuses through the snowfall of darkness.
We stood together at an upstairs window
enchanted by the patterns in the haphazard,
watching the streetlamp making rain into
a planet of tears near the whitebeam trees.
The Journey
(FOR ELIZABETH RYLE)
Immediately cries were heard. These were the loud wailing of infant souls weeping at the very entrance-way; never had they had their share of life’s sweetness for the dark day had stolen them from their mothers’ breasts and plunged them to a death before their time.
—Virgil, The Aeneid, Book VI
And then the dark fell and “there has never,”
I said, “been a poem to an antibiotic:
never a word to compare with the odes on
the flower of the raw sloe for fever
“or the devious Africa-seeking tern
or the protein treasures of the sea-bed.
Depend on it, somewhere a poet is wasting
his sweet uncluttered metres on the obvious
“emblem instead of the real thing.
Instead of sulpha we shall have hyssop dipped
in the wild blood of
the unblemished lamb,
so every day the language gets less
“for the task and we are less with the language.”
I finished speaking and the anger faded
and dark fell and the book beside me
lay open at the page Aphrodite
comforts Sappho in her love’s duress.
The poplars shifted their music in the garden,
a child startled in a dream,
my room was a mess—
the usual hardcovers, half-finished cups,
clothes piled up on an old chair—
and I was listening out but in my head was
a loosening and sweetening heaviness,
not sleep, but nearly sleep, not dreaming really
but as ready to believe and still
unfevered, calm and unsurprised
when she came and stood beside me
and I would have known her anywhere
and I would have gone with her anywhere
and she came wordlessly
and without a word I went with her
down down down without so much as
ever touching down but always, always
with a sense of mulch beneath us,
the way of stairs winding down to a river
and as we went on the light went on
failing and I looked sideways to be certain
it was she, misshapen, musical—
Sappho—the scholiast’s nightingale
and down we went, again down
until we came to a sudden rest
beside a river in what seemed to be
an oppressive suburb of the dawn.
My eyes got slowly used to the bad light.
At first I saw shadows, only shadows.
Then I could make out women and children
and, in the way they were, the grace of love.
“Cholera, typhus, croup, diphtheria,”
she said, “in those days they racketed
in every backstreet and alley of old Europe.
Behold the children of the plague.”
Then to my horror I could see to each
nipple some had clipped a limpet shape—
suckling darknesses—while others had their arms weighed
down, making terrible pietàs.
She took my sleeve and said to me, “Be careful.
Do not define these women by their work:
not as washerwomen trussed in dust and sweating,
muscling water into linen by the river’s edge
“nor as court ladies brailled in silk
on wool and woven with an ivory unicorn
and hung, nor as laundresses tossing cotton,
brisking daylight with lavender and gossip.
“But these are women who went out like you
when dusk became a dark sweet with leaves,
recovering the day, stooping, picking up
teddy bears and rag dolls and tricycles and buckets—
“love’s archaeology—and they too like you
stood boot deep in flowers once in summer
or saw winter come in with a single magpie
in a caul of haws, a solo harlequin.”
I stood fixed. I could not reach or speak to them.
Between us was the melancholy river,
the dream water, the narcotic crossing
and they had passed over it, its cold persuasions.
I whispered, “Let me be
let me at least be their witness,” but she said,
“What you have seen is beyond speech,
beyond song, only not beyond love;
“remember it, you will remember it”
and I heard her say but she was fading fast
as we emerged under the stars of heaven,
“There are not many of us; you are dear
“and stand beside me as my own daughter.
I have brought you here so you will know forever
the silences in which are our beginnings,
in which we have an origin like water,”
and the wind shifted and the window clasp
opened, banged and I woke up to find
the poetry books stacked higgledy- piggledy,
my skirt spread out where I had laid it—
nothing was changed; nothing was more clear
but it was wet and the year was late.
The rain was grief in arrears; my children
slept the last dark out safely and I wept.
Envoi
It is Easter in the suburb. Clematis
shrubs the eaves and trellises with pastel.
The evenings lengthen and before the rain
the Dublin mountains become visible.
My muse must be better than those of men
who made theirs in the image of their myth.
The work is half-finished and I have nothing.
but the crudest measures to complete it with.
Under the street-lamps the dustbins brighten.
The winter flowering jasmine casts a shadow
outside my window in my neighbor’s garden.
These are the things that my muse must know.
She must come to me. Let her come
to be among the donnée, the given.
I need her to remain with me until
the day is over and the song is proven.
Surely she comes, surely she comes to me—
no lizard skin, no paps, no podded womb
about her but a brightening and
the consequences of an April tomb.
What I have done I have done alone.
What I have seen is unverified.
I have the truth and I need the faith.
It is time I put my hand in her side.
If she will not bless the ordinary,
if she will not sanctify the common,
then here I am and here I stay and then am I
the most miserable of women.
Listen. This Is the Noise of Myth
This is the story of a man and woman
under a willow and beside a weir
near a river in a wooded clearing.
They are fugitives. Intimates of myth.
Fictions of my purpose. I suppose
I shouldn’t say that yet or at least
before I break their hearts or save their lives
I ought to tell their story and I will.
When they went first it was winter; cold,
cold through the Midlands and as far West
as they could go. They knew they had to go—
through Meath, Westmeath, Longford,
their lives unraveling like the hours of light—
and then there were lambs under the snow
and it was January, aconite and jasmine
and the hazel yellowing and puce berries on the ivy.
They could not eat where they had cooked,
nor sleep where they had eaten
nor at dawn rest where they had slept.
They shunned the densities
of trees with one trunk and of caves
with one dark and the dangerous embrace
of islands with a single landing place.
And all the time it was cold, cold:
the fields still gardened by their ice,
the trees stitched with snow overnight,
the ditches full; frost toughening lichen,
darning lace into rock crevices.
And then the woods flooded and buds
blunted from the chestnut and the foxglove
put its big leaves out and chaffinches
chinked and flirted in the branches of the ash.
And here we are where we started from—
under a willow and beside a weir
near a river in a wooded clearing.
The woman and the man have come to rest.
Look how light is coming through the ash.
The weir sluices kingfisher bl
ues.
The woman and the willow tree lean forward, forward.
Something is near; something is about to happen;
something more than spring
and less than history. Will we see
hungers eased after months of hiding?
Is there a touch of heat in that light?
If they stay here soon it will be summer; things
returning, sunlight fingering minnowy deeps,
seedy greens, reeds, electing lights
and edges from the river. Consider
legend, self-deception, sin, the sum
of human purpose and its end; remember
how our poetry depends on distance,
aspect: gravity will bend starlight.
Forgive me if I set the truth to rights.
Bear with me if I put an end to this:
She never turned to him; she never leaned
under the sallow-willow over to him.
They never made love; not there; not here;
not anywhere; there was no winter journey;
no aconite, no birdsong and no jasmine,
no woodland and no river and no weir.
Listen. This is the noise of myth. It makes
the same sound as shadow. Can you hear it?
Daylight grays in the preceptories.
Her head begins to shine
pivoting the planets of a harsh nativity.
They were never mine. This is mine.
This sequence of evicted possibilities.
Displaced facts. Tricks of light. Reflections.
Invention. Legend. Myth. What you will.
The shifts and fluencies are infinite.
The moving parts are marvelous. Consider
how the bereavements of the definite
are easily lifted from our heroine.
She may or she may not. She was or wasn’t
by the water at his side as dark
waited above the Western countryside.
O consolations of the craft.
How we put
the old poultices on the old sores,
the same mirrors to the old magic. Look.
The scene returns. The willow sees itself
drowning in the weir and the woman
gives the kiss of myth her human heat.
Reflections. Reflections. He becomes her lover.
The old romances make no bones about it.
The long and short of it. The end and the beginning.
The glories and the ornaments are muted.
And when the story ends the song is over.
An Irish Childhood in England: 1951
The bickering of vowels on the buses,
