Filíocht Nua:New Poetry Michael Longley This sprig of poems, selected by Michael Longley himself, comes from the poet's latest collection, The Candlelight Master (Wake Forest, 2020), which was reviewed by poet Francis O'Hare in the Autumn 2020 issue of NHR. This selection is representative of the main themes and preoccupations of The Candlelight Master. It reveals Longley as a poet concerned with memories, which he turns into moving memorials, for his father, who served in World War I, and for war poets such as Wilfred Owen, for example. But these memorials are rightly described by the publisher as "freshly fluid structures," as they are not merely monuments to the past but humane and insightful reflections that "speak to our own dark times," reminding us of the human propensity for violence, and warning us of the cost. Other poems celebrate love, friendship, and nature—made all the more precious in the shadow of our shared human mortality and our shared planet's fragility. See, for example, "Sedge-warblers," a lament for Seamus Heaney. On making this selection of poems, Longley wrote: "Years ago when I edited Twentieth Century Irish Poems for Faber, Paul Keegan asked me to include a couple of my own poems, but I said no, anthologists shouldn't include their own work. If I had said yes, I would probably have chosen 'Ceasefire' and 'The Linen Industry.' But … my favourite poem of my own is 'Harmonica.' You see what you've started! I don't normally go on so about myself. It's not good for the soul." You can read, and listen to, Longley's 'Harmonica' at poetryarchive.org/poem/harmonica. In a 1992 essay entitled "Blackthorn and Bonsai," Longley wrote that "poetry is a normal human activity, its proper concern all of the things that happen to people." In his latest collection (published after his eightieth birthday) and in the selection below, we see that he has kept true to his word, capturing some of "the music of what happens" with craft, elegance, and an eloquence that spans the classical and the colloquial. He wouldn't say it himself, but one can say it of him: his poems, if you let them, could be good for your soul. Frank Sewell [End Page 18] glossary I meet my father in the glossaryWho carried me on his shoulders, a legOver each, hockerty-cockerty, whoWould spend ages poking the kitchen fire,An old soldier remembering the trenchesAnd telling me what he saw in the embers,Battlefields, bomb craters, firelight visions:A widden-dremer, yes, that's my father. —. hockerty-cockerty, seated with one's legs astride another's shoulders —. widden-dremer, one who sees visions in the firelight [End Page 19] ors I I am standing on the canal bank at OrsWilling Wilfred Owen to make it acrossTo the other side where his parents wait.He and his men are constructing pontoons.The German sniper doesn't know his poetry. II My daughter Rebecca lives in twenty-fourSaint Bernard's Crescent opposite the homeWilfred visited for "perfect little dinners"And "extraordinary fellowship in all the arts."I can hear him on his way to Steinthals. III Last year I read my own poems at CraiglockhartAnd eavesdropped on Robert, Siegfried, WilfredWhispering about poetry down the corridors.If Wilfred can concentrate a little longer,He might just make it to the other bank. [End Page 20] war I Because he was his youngest,And dearest child, old PriamBegged Polydorus not to fight,But this champion athleteWanted to show off his speedAnd in a foolhardy displayRaced against the front-runners—Until he died, for AchillesWas just as fast and struck himWith his javelin full in the backWhere the golden belt-bucklesFastened his leather corselet,The spear-point penetratingRight through to his navelAnd he fell to his knees groaningAnd blacking out and claspingIn his hands his intestines. II When Hector saw his brotherPolydorus on the groundMortally wounded, blacking out,His intestines in his hands—His eyes misted over with tearsAnd he made straight for...
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