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Yvonne Seale

I'm saddened to hear of the passing of Michael Longley. It's more than 20 years now since I studied his poetry for the Leaving Cert, and yet there are still passages and images from his work that have stuck with me all that time.

rte.ie/news/2025/0123/1492500-

Yvonne Seale

The two in particular that have stayed with me are "Wounds" and "Ceasefire", with their focus on the victims of violence and the demands—and costs—of peace. (The latter poem I think does something more emotionally imaginative with Greek myth in four stanzas than recent movie "The Return" managed in more than two hours.)

Ceasefire 1 Put in mind of his own father and moved to tears Achilles took him by the hand and pushed the old king Gently away, but Priam curled up at his feet and Wept with him until their sadness filled the building. 2 Taking Hector’s corpse into his own hands Achilles Made sure it was washed and, for the old king’s sake, Laid out in uniform, ready for Priam to carry Wrapped like a present home to Troy at daybreak. 3 When they had eaten together, it pleased them both To stare at each other’s beauty as lovers might, Achilles built like a god, Priam good-looking still And full of conversation, who earlier had sighed: 4 I get down on my knees and do what must be done And kiss Achilles’ hand, the killer of my son. Poem © Michael Longley 1994.
ALT
Here are two pictures from my father’s head — I have kept them like secrets until now: First, the Ulster Division at the Somme Going over the top with ‘Fuck the Pope!’ ‘No Surrender!’: a boy about to die, Screaming ‘Give ’em one for the Shankill!’ ‘Wilder than Gurkhas’ were my father’s words Of admiration and bewilderment. Next comes the London-Scottish padre Resettling kilts with his swagger-stick, With a stylish backhand and a prayer. Over a landscape of dead buttocks My father followed him for fifty years. At last, a belated casualty, He said — lead traces flaring till they hurt — ‘I am dying for King and Country, slowly.’ I touched his hand, his thin head I touched. Now, with military honours of a kind, With his badges, his medals like rainbows, His spinning compass, I bury beside him Three teenage soldiers, bellies full of Bullets and Irish beer, their flies undone. A packet of Woodbines I throw in, A lucifer, the Sacred Heart of Jesus Paralysed as heavy guns put out The night-light in a nursery for ever; Also a bus-conductor’s uniform — He collapsed beside his carpet-slippers Without a murmur, shot through the head By a shivering boy who wandered in Before they could turn the television down Or tidy away the supper dishes. To the children, to a bewildered wife, I think ‘Sorry Missus’ was what he said. Poem © Michael Longley 1973. Source: An Exploded View by Michael Longley.
ALT
Jan 23, 2025, 15:45 · · Web · 0 · 1
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