by Philip Terry
‘If that’s the case,’ I said, ‘then who is in that fire
Which splits in two at its tip,
Like that flame which, if Graves speaks truly,
Sprang up once from the funeral
Pyre of Oedipus’ warring sons?’
‘Within,’ said Berrigan, my guide, ‘lie the
Souls of Peter Hulme and David Musselwhite,
Suffering in anger with each other,
Over the direction the department should take.
Poetic justice makes them walk together now.
Inside the flame they lament the compromises
That let The Enlightenment course fall by the wayside,
And led languages to all but disappear.’
‘Master,’ I said, ‘if the souls within these flames
Can speak, please, can we have a word with them now?
I never quarrelled with either of these just men,
And hold them both in high esteem,
The one for his work on Columbus and
Postcolonialism, the other for his
Work on Hardy and the phantasmatic.’
‘I can understand why you’d want to speak
With these two,’ said Berrigan, ‘and I’m not
Going to stand in your way, but hold your tongue,
Let me do the talking, for I can guess
What you want to ask, and perhaps, since they
Were hispanists, they would not pay attention
To your words with the respect they showed your father.’
When the flame had come close enough for Berrigan
To call out to it, I heard him speak these words:
‘You there, two souls trapped within one flame,
Perhaps you recall my face, for I was once
A visiting professor here, many years ago,
When I took over from Robert Lowell.
If you remember me, or remember my verses,
Which still stand on the shelves of the library,
Then speak to me now, and tell me, if there
Was ever a time when one of you, sailing the
High seas of scholarship, bit off more than you could chew.’
When Berrigan had finished speaking the
Greater horn of the ancient flame began
To shake itself, murmuring, just like a flame
That struggles with the wind, then, flickering
At the top, as if it were the tongue that spoke,
Threw out a quiet voice, and said:
‘When I’d done my third stint as HoD,
A job that by then I could do in my sleep,
I set my sights on loftier goals.
Neither the thought of retirement in the
Yorkshire Dales, nor the debt of love that I
Owed Susan, could quench my thirst for knowledge.
The British Academy had launched a new funding
Round, aimed exclusively at those with a
Good track record, encouraging A-list scholars
To break new ground, going beyond the
Merely interdisciplinary to develop
New synergies between the disciplines.
Our project was bold, and stretched the available
Expertise of a department already
Weakened by maternity leaves, retirement,
Cuts, and the relentless expansion of
Creative Writing – but its combination
Of rigour and flair gave it a sporting chance.
We called it Project Darwin, and its aim,
Put crudely, was to retrace the voyage
Of the Beagle from the Cape Verde Islands
To Mauritius, with a team of experts,
And developing talent, from a range of
Disciplines: Biological Sciences were central
As was the Centre for Latin American Studies,
But the crew included travel writers,
Historiographers, cartographers,
Representatives from Myth Studies,
Art History and Philosophy, and colleagues
Working in the History of Science.
Inevitably, with restrictions on
Humanities funding tightening by the hour,
Our bid failed – the cruiser alone would have cost
An estimated £6,000,000 – but
We didn’t abandon our idea altogether.
Cutting our losses, we borrowed the VC’s yacht,
And I set sail with a group of colleagues,
Not many, who had not deserted me.
We could see the shore until we passed Tenerife,
Then we struck out from the Cape Verde islands,
Leaving all land far behind us, for days on end,
Till at last we sighted Bahia, where we took on
Fresh provisions. From here we stuck to the coast,
Leaving Rio de Janeiro and Montevideo
Behind us. We were old and tired academics,
Not used to the rolling of the ocean.
“Colleagues,” I said, “you’ve sat through departmental
Meetings nearly as long as this voyage,
And much duller; but if you’re short of things to do
This is as good a moment as any to check
Your Course Material Repositories.
And as we near our goal, don’t forget why we came here,
You’re Essex men and women, not sea dogs,
And you’re here to pursue paths of excellence and knowledge.
The next RAE is only round the corner,
And for the humanities it’s time to sink or swim.”
I could not have known how prophetic my words were to be.
As we rounded the cape a tempest rose from the west
Striking the fore-part of our yacht. Three times it made
Her whirl round, at the fourth it made the stern rise up,
And the bow sink down, till the sea closed above us.’
CANTO XXVII
By now the flame was straight and still,
It spoke no more and began to drift away
From us, with sanction from Berrigan,
When another, that came behind it,
Drew our attention to its tip
With the strangled sounds that issued from it.
As a torture victim, shut in the romper room,
Will let out cries of pain as the Prods
Set about their sectarian DIY,
But because his mouth is strapped with
Insulation tape, the voice remains muffled,
So the dismal words here seemed eaten up by the flame.
Yet just as the voice will grow clear when the tape
Is ripped off, so now the words, having found
Their way to the tip of the flame,
Which gave them outlet like a tongue,
Became audible, and we heard it say:
‘Did I hear you talking in the voices
Of the living? If so, and if you
Have recently descended from the sweet air above,
Tell me, is Northern Ireland at war or at peace?
For I was once curate at Cullion,
Near the village of Desertmartin.’
I was still leaning forwards, trying to tune in
To his wavelength, when Berrigan touched me
On the shoulder and said to me:
‘You speak to him. He is of your land.’
And I, who was unprepared for my speech,
Leant further still towards the burning flame,
And said: ‘Spirit, flickering below in the pit
Of flames, the land of which you speak is not,
And never was, without war in the hearts
Of its zealots and paramilitaries,
But since the Good Friday Agreement
The guns have quietened down,
There is no open conflict as I speak.
Yet in much the situation has not changed.
Rogue IRA units still assassinate
/> Catholics in the RUC and plant car bombs,
And only recently the Queen’s visit
Was threatened by a bigot in a balaclava
At the 1916 Memorial
At Cregan cemetery in Londonderry.
And every year on the twelfth of July
The battle lines are drawn up fresh.
Today the city on the Lagan lies as ever
Between tyranny and freedom,
As it lies between the mountain and the sea.
And now I ask you to tell me who you are,
And to speak as freely as I’ve spoken to you,
So may your name on earth keep its flame burning.’
It flickered a while
Shifting the sharp point to and fro
And then blew out these words:
‘If I thought for a moment I was talking to
A fellow who might return to the world
This flame would shake no more;
But if what I’ve heard is true, nobody
Has ever returned alive from this depth,
So without fear of infamy I answer thee.
I was a Republican and a priest,
Believing that the dog collar was the perfect
Cover for my misdemeanours:
And, to be sure, I was right enough,
Till that interfering High Priest showed up,
May his soul be damned!
Let me tell you exactly what happened.
While I still wore the bones and the flesh that
My mother gave me, my deeds were not those
Of the lion, but of the fox.
I was a dab hand at the fundraiser,
Bingo, dances, gymkhana, you name it,
I even set up a wee radio link now and then
So those who weren’t there could still be part of it.
When the event was over, I’d tip off the boys,
And they’d make off with a fair share of the loot.
We were robbed so many times at these events,
That rumours began to circulate,
People started to say things, but
There was nothing anyone could prove.
Nonetheless, I thought the time had come,
As it comes for every man, to tighten
The rigs and pull down the sails, but little
Did I know what lay round the corner.
It was then I was approached by the High Priest.
The ceasefire had broken down, and he wanted
Something to take the heat off the fighting in Derry,
The dog collar I wore was of no concern.
As Constantine once sent for Sylvester
To cure his leprosy, so this one implored me.
“What do you want from me?” I asked him,
Looking him in the eye. He shifted in his seat
A little, then said: “We need someone to
Deliver a few packages to Claudy.”
I knew what he meant, straight away, and I
Gave him a look as if to say you must be mad.
Then he spoke again, saying: “The cause is good.
The Lord will forgive you. Afterwards, we
Can find a parish for you in the Republic.”
Eventually, when his arguments had
Pushed me to the point where silence seemed
No longer to be an option, I said: “I’ll do it,
But I don’t want any dead.”
It was around ten o’clock that we planted
The bombs, the place was busy with shoppers.
When we’d made our getaway, we stopped in
Feeny to make a call, but the phone box
Was out of order. We went on to Dungiven
And tried again in the shops, but it was
The same story, all the phones were out
Following an attack at the exchange.
The men told the shop assistants to warn
The police, but by now it was too late.
The bombs exploded, causing total carnage,
Leaving nine dead, Protestants and Catholics alike.
It was a day that haunted me for as long
As I lived, there was no peace for me after that,
Even across the border this horrible
Affair hung over me like a black cloud.
When the time came for me to meet my maker
I made confession to Father Liam,
I wanted to go to the grave with a clear conscience.
I was hoping to go to the other place
But the moment I died I was whisked down here,
Todd Landman greeted me with a knowing smile
And consigned me to this pit of flames forever.’
When his words had ended, the flame,
In sorrow, departed, writhing
And tossing its sharp horn.
We passed on, Berrigan and I,
Making tracks for Zone 8, Area I,
Where the bridge crosses the pit in which those
Who have sown discord pay Hell’s tariff.
CANTO XXVIII
Who could, even in the goriest movie,
Tell the tale of blood and guts
That I saw now – no matter how he filmed it!
I guarantee you every effect would fail,
Our minds cannot deal with such terror
Beside which all representation must pale.
If one could pile up all the wounded
Who once on Vinegar Hill
Mourned their blood, spilled by the Brits,
And those from that long siege,
Fed on a diet of ‘dogs, mice
and candles’, as Kee writes,
And pile them with the ranks mown down
On the banks of the Boyne,
And with all the bodies left sliced apart
In heaps by Cú Chulainn, and add those
Torn apart by car bombs or letter bombs,
Conquered, weaponless, on the way to work –
If all these dismembered and maimed were brought
Together, the scene would be nothing to
Compare to Zone 8, Area I’s bloody sight.
No wine cask with its staves all ripped apart
Gaped wider than this man I saw split
From his chin to where we fart.
His guts hung out,
I saw his lungs, his liver,
and the coiled tube that turns all to shit.
While I stared at his inner organs
He caught my eye and with both hands
Opened his chest: ‘See how I tear myself!
See how the Reverend Ian Paisley is
Ripped asunder by his own bare hands!
And look over there, where my wee boy is,
He’s not a pretty sight, not with his
Face cut up from his chin to the crown.
The sinners that you see here
Are all the same – we’re the ones
Who in life tore everything apart with schism,
And so in death you see us torn apart.
A surgeon stands back there who trims us all
In this cruel way, and each of these wicked souls
Feels anew the sting of his scalpel
Every time we make the round of this sad road,
For our wounds have all healed up again
By the time we get back to his surgery.
But who the Hell are you, hovering by the bridge
Trying to wriggle out of the
sentence passed on you?’
‘Death doesn’t have him yet, he’s not here
To suffer for his sins,’ answered Berrigan,
‘I, who am dead, lead him from gyre to gyre
So he may see how it is in Hell.’
More than a hundred in that place stopped
Short, when they heard these words,
Forgetting, in their amazement, what they
Suffered, to gaze at me a living freak.
‘Well then, you who will see the
sun,
Tell that Gerry Adams that he’d better
Get the Fenians to stop stockpiling arms,
Or he might just fall victim to a stray bullet.’
With the heel of one boot raised, as if to go,
Paisley spoke these words,
then was off.
Another, with no legs, and his throat slit,
And his nose torn off
to where his eyebrows met,
Who had stopped to gawp like all the rest,
Stepped out of the group and opened up
His throat to speak:
‘You there, who walk this path uncondemned,
Remember the face of Seamus Twomey
Who planted the car bomb in Donegal Street,
Killing six, and maiming more than the
Souls you see here. And tell those
Dealers from Bogside, Martin and Shaun,
That if our foresight here is no deception,
They’ll be turfed off a yacht in Lough Neagh,
To feed the fishes, by a double-dealing crook.’
‘If you want me to tell your story up above,’
I said, ‘tell me now, who is that one without
