I alluded to this poem by Paul Durcan, and I figured it would be cruel to brag on a poet’s talent without actually sharing the goods.  Particularly when I’m mentioning an Irish poet right before the Potomac Celtic Festival, which honors Ireland this year.  Paul Durcan is one of my favorite poets from Ireland.  He’s funny.  He’s lyrical.  He’s irreverent. His poems beg to be read aloud, and by someone who knows how to do it.  I should make him a cake, for this poem alone: 

Making love outside Áras an Uachtaráin.

When I was a boy, myself and my girl
Used bicycle up to the Phoenix Park;
Outside the gates we used lie in the grass
Making love outside Áras an Uachtaráin.

Often I wondered what de Valera would have thought
Inside in his ivory tower
If he knew we were in his green, green grass
Making love outside Áras an Uachtaráin.

Because the odd thing was–oh how odd it was–
We both revered Irish patriots
And we dreamed our dreams of a green, green flag
Making love outside Áras an Uachtaráin.

But even had our names been Diarmaid and Gráinne
We doubted de Valera’s approval
For a poet’s son and a judge’s daughter
Making love outside Áras an Uachtaráin.

I see him now in the heat-haze of the day
Blindly stalking us down;
And, levelling an ancient rifle, he says "Stop
Making love outside Áras an Uachtaráin."

I think Durcan is not that widely known outside of Ireland because many of his poems require a certain knowledge of Irish history or culture that many folks just don’t have.  It’s easy for me to forget that, because my head is stuffed with the country.  For this poem to make the best of sense, lemme ‘splain some things. 

The easy stuff:
Phoenix (a bastardization of fionn uisce, or Clear water) Park is a huge  (over 1,700 acres) gorgeous walled garden in Dublin that houses the American Ambassador’s house, one of the oldest zoos in the world, the HQ of an Garda Síochána (the Irish police force), hurley pitches and, of course,  "Áras an Uachtaráin" , which is the official residence of the president of Ireland. 

Durcan is using one of my favorite linguistic tics Irish people have developed while speaking English–saying "used" instead of "used to."  It’s a back form–the "to" isn’t necessary in Irish, so why use it in English?  It also does a lovely thing to the rhythm of these lines.

Diarmaid and Gráinne are star-crossed lovers from Irish myth.  Gráinne is promised to Fionn mac Cumhaill, a great leader of warriors–the Fianna.  Diarmait (read Dermot) is Fionn’s friend and retainer.  He falls for Gráinne.  Chaos ensues. 

And finally, the big stuff:  Ireland has a modified parliamentary system, and the president (aka Uachtarán) is essentially the head of state, but has no legislative powers.  De Valera was president for many years and a huge influence on the foundation of the Irish state, having been the only male participant in the Easter Rising (beginning of the Irish war for Independence) to escape execution.   He was spared because he was born in the US, and thus not a subject of the British crown.  And de Valera was a devout Catholic, a lover of the Irish language, and apparently quite a prude.  He used piles and piles of Catholic imagery, much of it extolling the martyrdom of his compatriots from Easter Monday 1916, to bully Ireland into shape.  His shape. 

But, of course, Ireland wasn’t a repressive, Catholic place way back in the way back, as we know from the mythology–it’s chock full of sex.  Naughty, hot, inappropriate, promiscuous, cheating sex.  And the leaders of the revolution alluded to mythology all of the time to rouse their people to action.  They tried to use just the proud, nationalistic bits of the myth to their end, but they couldn’t keep the hot sex in the bag.  And it drove many of the Catholic Nationalists wild (and not in a sexy way). 

So there you go.  Questions?

Trackback URI | Comments RSS