More Yeats, also from his earlier work.  I think he’s calling me a witch, here, but I don’t think I’ll bother to be offended.

The Withering of the Boughs

I cried when the moon was murmuring to the birds:
"Let peewit call and curlew cry where they will,
I long for your merry and tender and pitiful words,
For the roads are unending, and there is no place to my mind."
The honey-pale moon lay low on the sleepy hill,
And I fell asleep upon lonely Echtge of streams.
No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind;
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.

I know of the leafy paths that the witches take,
Who come with their crowns of pearl and their spindles of wool,
And their secret smile, out of the depths of the lake;
I know where a dim moon drifts, where the Danaan kind
Wind and unwind their dances when the light grows cool
On the island lawns, their feet where the pale foam gleams.
No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind;
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.

I know of the sleepy country, where swans fly round
Coupled with golden chains, and sing as they fly.
A king and a queen are wandering there, and the sound
Has made them so happy and hopeless, so deaf and so blind
With wisdom, they wander till all the years have gone by;
I know, and the curlew and peewit on Echtge of streams.
No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind;
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.

by William Butler Yeats, from In the Seven Woods
Being Poems Chiefly of the Irish Heroic Age
1903

So, I’m increasingly obsessed with poems and songs about fiber arts.  Of course I am.  But now I’m going to start posting them here, for my own enjoyment, no matter the protest.  And we’ll just go ahead and categorize them as "wool poems" because that’s much more elegant than "poems on wool, silk, linen, cashmere, yak, ramie, cotton, alpaca, llama, and other fibers, and fiber arts in general."

This is an early piece by William Butler Yeats, whom I love.  Of course I do.  You don’t very well go to the trouble of getting a Masters in Paddy Studies (no, my diploma doesn’t say that) if you don’t love Yeats. 

The Cloak, The Boat And The Shoes

‘What do you make so fair and bright?’

‘I make the cloak of Sorrow:
O lovely to see in all men’s sight
Shall be the cloak of Sorrow,
In all men’s sight.’

‘What do you build with sails for flight?’

‘I build a boat for Sorrow:
O swift on the seas all day and night
Saileth the rover Sorrow,
All day and night.’

What do you weave with wool so white?’

‘I weave the shoes of Sorrow:
Soundless shall be the footfall light
In all men’s ears of Sorrow,
Sudden and light.’

by William Butler Yeats, From Crossways, 1889

I’m backfilling some book reviews, like I do. 

And frankly, Virginia has broken my heart.  I normally keep work and politics off the screen here.  Most people have jobs they don’t love, and most people have political views that they can fight with their neighbors about for hours on end.  I don’t want that here.

But I don’t think I can let yesterday’s election pass without comment.  This Commonwealth, where I’ve spent most of my life, just voted to scar our constitution with bigoted, hateful language that will enshrine homophobia in our Capitol, denying equal protection to a minority that deserves protection and equality, and rip rights away from hetero couples who have chosen not to marry for whatever reason.  It makes me heart-sick. 

I’m trying to console myself with the knowledge that 43% of Virginians said no to the amendment, but it’s cold comfort.  The bigots won, and they’re going to continue to harm people I love, simply because of who those people love.  Traditionally, we amend constitutions in the US to expand freedom and improve the lot of citizens.  Not lately. 

If you think it’s ok to discriminate against homosexuals, don’t bother to tell me.  I don’t want to hear it. 

Land of Women: Tales of Sex and Gender from Early Ireland by Lisa M.  Bitel

When I buy a book with a big old Síle na Gig* on the cover, I expect to like it.  Not so much this time around.  It had its good parts, but it also has some big problems. 

First, there’s a problem with the title.  It should be "medieval Ireland."  Early Ireland, to me at least, implies pre-Medieval.  Gimme some Iron Age, damn it. 

Secondly, the author did a good amount of research in the Vitae,  medieval legal tracts like Cain Adomnain, and some mythology.  But oh, what a mistake she made in interpreting the myths.  Frankly, she made a blunder that most Freshman students would make just once, and then they would be so ridiculed by any prof worth even a teaspoon of salt that they would never make it again.

Let me make this clear: There is almost always a huge span of time between when a myth, saga, or epic is composed and when it is transcribed.  Huge.  Hundreds of years.  Imagine how much any society changes in hundreds of years.  Sadly, Bitel conflates the Ireland of the Táin Bó Cúailnge and the Ireland of monks in the scriptorium copying the Táin Bó Cúailnge.  That conflation allows her to make some huge errors in judgment about what the Ireland of the Tain was like for women.  Of course it does. Ireland changed utterly in the span of time between 100 BC or so to the early Christian era.  Tribal systems collapsed, external influences from pre- and post-Christian Rome filtered across the water, invading Northmen found and sacked Britain and Ireland.  Hundreds of years, left out of the explanation.  Badly played, dearie.  Sloppy.

In Old-Irish texts, we know that the monks did not understand the Irish they were transcribing.  It contains linguistic forms that were out-moded and ill-understood by the early medieval period.  Scholars far more qualified than I have dated the language of the Irish epics, and identified the periods in which they were composed.  Doing one’s homework is truly all that’s required for those of us who wish to interpret mythology.  So do it, damn it.  Sheesh.

I get that many scholars want to focus on Patrician Ireland in their studies.  But, as in all forms of scholarship, once you pick your specialty you either need to stick to it or you need to do huge gobs of extra research and work when you decide to branch out.  I don’t think Bitel did.  I think her mind remained ensconced in the context of Patrician Ireland, and that prevented her from better understanding the Ireland of the sagas.  More’s the pity. 

All that said, I’m glad I read the book.  Bitel makes a lot of great points.  But I think her mistake in dates wrecks her thesis, and that’s a shame.  She could have moved the debate forward with this book.  Instead, she negated her own opinions.  She’s wrong when she rails about how powerless women were in ancient Ireland, and she’s wrong because she messed up her dates and neglected her studies. 

* Pronounced Sheila nuh Gee or Sheila nuh Gig (either option with a hard g, by the way).  It means either hag on her haunches, or hag with her breasts out, or one of many other things depending on who you ask.  Most of the Síle na Gigs in Ireland date from the 12c onward.

Glue by Irvine Welsh

Before I get to the meat of the matter, I should take the chance to point out that I love Powell’s Books, and I particularly love the used book trade because it keeps me in hard-to-find imports and it reduces waste and consumption of paper.  These little links to Powell’s theoretically earn me a small commission, should anyone ever use them to buy books I talk about.  No one does.  I’m ok with that.  Just, please, buy lots of books from good people.

Right, so, Glue.  Irvine Welsh wrote Trainspotting, which is one of my favorite books.  Some people read romance novels–I read Scottish/British/Irish/American gen-x/drug/crime/sex/drunkenness/poverty  books by folks like Welsh.  I don’t consider Trainspotting and the like pulp, mind you.  I consider it groundbreaking contemporary fiction.  Welsh’s other books aren’t quite as good as his first, because they’re a bit less compact, and perhaps because the shock of the new has worn off a bit.  But throughout, Welsh writes great coincidences and reconciliations and develops fantastic characters, and Glue has plenty of them. 

What I like about Welsh is his willingness to completely alienate a large portion of his potential readership by covering unsavory topics and writing in blue-collar and underworld Edinbro slang and idiom.  At several moments while I was reading this book on the train, I was a bit embarrassed to be reading his character Terry’s lurid sex tales while sitting next to a nice old lady, but simultaneously comforted by the fact that there was no way she could read it over my shoulder, since it makes no freaking sense until you’ve immersed yourself in Welsh’s wacky system of transcribing Scots.  Speaking of Terry, Welsh doesn’t try too hard to make all of his characters likable.  These boys are given to us straight, warts and all.  It’s great.  Few writers are this brave. 

In this novel, we meet four boys from the scheme (aka housing project), a few years younger than the Trainspotting crew.  We follow them as they grow up and end up dealing with their lot as schemies–we get some football hooliganism, some drug use, some rave-scene ideology, some petty crime, some romance, some tragedy, and a lot of insight into men who have managed to remain friends despite growing utterly apart.  We also get cameos from a few of the Trainspotting crew, which is always fun. 

The book’s a gas.  It’s not Shakespeare, but it still matters. 

The Blue Woman and Other Stories by Mary Flanagan

This collection centers on stories of women.  A few focus on women within a family, but the rest cover women in various stages of their lives.  Some are traveling, some are mothers, some are just entering adulthood, some are elderly.  I always find it tough to discuss books of short stories, because it feels like describing a single story will ruin it.  Several of these stories shine above the rest, as is generally the case.  But on the whole, I came away from the book feeling that Flanagan really respects and likes women, but that she doesn’t write her female characters with an axe to grind or an agenda in mind.  I appreciate that.

I’m guessing that few people are familiar with Flanagan.  I don’t know why she doesn’t get more attention.  She’s an American ex-pat who apparently lives in London these days, and her willful dedication to travel allows Flanagan to write the dispossessed and foreign quite well.  The stories are set either in the US, the UK, or in Greece, where Flanagan has apparently spent a fair amount of time.  Her distance from the country of her birth shows up every once in a while–at one point, an American kid in a story refers to her "maths" homework.  We don’t say maths here–it’s a British-ism.  But apart from small things a better editor could have corrected, I think this book is a great showing, and I’m likely to re-read several of the stories.

We held Samhain at John the Ferrier’s this year, which was a big shift from the old 4-H site.  It felt much more intimate and familial than usual.  We camped in the back meadow, which is where we’re building the long hall.  Without the cabins, and with the cold weather, we really did spend most of our time together in one group.  The fires were bigger, the meals were simpler, and I think there was more singing and general "woooohooooo this is fun, let’s  stay up all night"  and less  "oh crap, this is stressful and over-scheduled" than we’ve had in a few Samhains. 

I mentioned cold.  Samhain was cold.  Cuuuuu-holllllddddddd.  I had to skip Friday night, because I was, well, my joints are made of glass, and common sense and my husband and pets ganged up on me.  Friday night was in the teens, which simply does not happen the first weekend in November in Virginia, by the way.  It’s just not done.  Foul play.  I headed down first thing Saturday morning, and was so happy to find everyone hanging out in the (roofless, wall-less) long hall around the fire, as opposed to just shivering or something.

I think Samhain was a true freeze-out, which we haven’t had in ages.  You can tell it’s a freeze out by what it does to attendance: lots of localish regulars bail, but the folks from far away cold places, like Michigan, come and remind all of the Appalachians that it’s not really cold at all.  And things like hot spiced cider and homemade chicken soup become far more prized than beer.  Discussion of layers also marks a freeze-out.  I know I looked like a paper doll, because I was wearing so much that my skirts were truly triangular and my arms were incapable of hanging straight down.   

I got a lot of requests for knitted items from folks.  It was pretty funny, the hinting.  "Boy, those are nice hobo gloves, Lanea.  I love those colors.  I sure like hobo gloves" and "Ooh, a silk-wool hat.  What a good idea.  I bet that’s nice for sleeping at winter camping events.  I love winter camping, but my head is just never warm enough when I go to sleep.  Imagine that."  Message received, everyone.  I’ll see what I can do between now and Imbolc.  Maybe I’ll even have folks come over and knit with me, if we can find a good time. 

I wasn’t taking a lot of pictures.  I got a few, which I’ll add when I find the camera. 

Originally posted by Rachel

As is want to happen with dead poets every now and then, they found another early Sylvia Plath poem. Like most of her juvenilia, it doesn’t do much for me, but read the first paragraph of the introductory essay. It’s pretty righteous. Sing it sister! (Or brother–an author isn’t actually identified.)

All I know is a door into the dark.
Outside, old axles and iron hoops rusting;
Inside, the hammered anvil’s short-pitched ring,
The unpredictable fantail of sparks
Or hiss when a new shoe toughens in water.
The anvil must be somewhere in the centre,
Horned as a unicorn, at one end square,
Set there immoveable: an altar
Where he expends himself in shape and music.
Sometimes, leather-aproned, hairs in his nose,
He leans out on the jamb, recalls a clatter
Of hoofs where traffic is flashing in rows;
Then grunts and goes in, with a slam and a flick
To beat real iron out, to work the bellows.

This poem is the source for the title of Heaney’s second published collection, Door Into the Dark. As a kid, Heaney passed a farrier’s forge on the way to and from school.  It’s that simple–he takes a common-enough memory and transforms it via vocabulary, compression, and rhythm.  As Rachel and I were discussing a little while ago, there is a strong connection between Heaney and Roethke.  Each poet elevates the everyday, celebrating both beauty and ugliness. 

Poems about blacksmiths are particularly important to those of us who are obsessed with mythology, of course.  In just about any myth system, smiths are also gods or magicians.   In Irish myth, smiths are the kin of Brigid, the goddess of fire and poetry.  Heaney knows this, of course, and "altar" was chosen with purpose in mind.  His smith is the man behind the curtain, working fire and metal and denying access to curious children and onlookers.  And Heaney, as a poet, is now symbolic brother to the smith.  It’s simple, and it’s wonderful.

Now, I know I spend more time with smiths and farriers than does the average American.  I’ve probably done more assistant-smithing than most people will ever dream of, so perhaps it gives me a better or different appreciation of this particular poem.  I’ve heard one person after another complain that Heaney’s work can be too local, even parochial.  I think that’s nonsense.  Heaney’s works shines because of its specificity, because it is so linked to place and time.  Some poets become  so attached to the concept of writing some cosmic truth that they lose all connection to actual experience.  Heaney never does. 

And for people who complain that local works end up being "hard" because true understanding of them requires some preparation or research.  Well, suck it up.  Poetry is considered the most elevated form of literature because it requires consideration and re-reading.  Laziness and drivel needn’t take over our every word, thought, and action.  Maybe I’m a snob.  Or maybe I am just willing to work to find beauty.

Originally posted by Rachel

Did I mention that the thing I miss most about school is structure? That I can get twice the reading done under the deadlines of a semester than I can in a full year of non-studenthood? All of this is to say, I am a bad, bad blogger. Lanea keeps reassuring me that it’s not school, it’s okay, but I keep secretly hoping she’ll play teacher and give me deadlines.

But something else I learned in school is that it’s easy to bluff when discussing poetry as long as you stick to the ones you’ve actually read. I think they call that “close reading.” Anyone want to call my bluff? Anyone? I didn’t think so. So, yeah, let’s focus particularly on the poems from The Death of a Naturalist. Um, because I’ve read those ones, dang it.

One of the things that I find surprising about Heaney’s work, at least this early work, is how influenced he seems to be by formal verse. Even where there isn’t a set rhyme scheme or particular form in use, his work has such distinctive rhythms and frequent rhyme and off-rhyme, that the poetry often seems to echo that of an earlier time. (I don’t want to tell you how much time I wasted one day trying to figure out if there was a particular form in use in “Ancestral Photograph,” and if so, what might he have been saying by using that form. I failed miserably, in case you’re wondering, though I did find some similarities to Chaucer.) I’m used to John Ashbery’s off-beat tinkerings with villanelles and sestinas and the like, but despite a title about farm implements, they have nothing to do with the poem. Whereas, um, Heaney’s poems actually do. Have to do with farm implements, that is.

So, I spotted some recurring themes in the first book. As the title might indicate, many of the poems here are, in many different ways, about humanity vs. nature. The poet’s father, as in the first poem, “Digging,” is a skilled tamer of nature: “By God, the old man could handle a spade. / Just like his old man.” Heaney, on the other hand, is distracted by other pursuits: ” But I’ve no spade to follow men like them. // Between my finger and my thumb / The squat pen rests. / I’ll dig with it.” While his father and grandfather’s work is the hard labor of digging earth, Heaney is doing a more intimate digging with his pen, digging through his identity and the identity of his family, as he does again in “Follower.”

All I ever did was follow
In his broad shadow around the farm.
I was a nuisance, tripping, falling,
Yapping always. But today
It is my father who keeps stumbling
Behind me, and will not go away.

Here we see something resembling guilt or remorse on the part of the poet, the belief that he has disappointed his father for his ineptitude in farming. His father now follows, or haunts him, because he was not able to live up to what he believed his father’s expectations to be.

As a result of Heaney’s lack of skill with taming nature, nature appears again and again in these poems as something wild and unruly. My favorite example is in “Blackberry-Picking”:

But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.

This poem reminds me so strongly of Theodore Roethke, whom I love. The couplet at the end, and the childish hopefulness, it all makes me think of “My Papa’s Waltz,” you know? The childish innocence of always believing something will end well, even when you know from experience that it always turns out the same way. Anyhow, my point was, there’s a lot of gross-out in these poems. I mean, there are no bog bodies here, but there’s slime, mold, rats, drowning kittens, curdled milk. This is not an easy, idyllic nature, but one hard-fought and not always won.

The last selection from this collection, “Personal Helicon”, ties well into the digging theme of the first poem.

Now, to pry into roots, to finger slime,
To stare, big-eyed Narcissus, into some spring
Is beneath all adult dignity. I rhyme
To see myself, to set the darkness echoing.

Heaney still seems to see the act of writing partly through the lens of his father, as a selfish act. But Heaney also sees it as a lens with which to view his “roots”, and that work, he argues, is just as dirty and hard as that of a farmer.

P.S. So, I never did pick the next poet. Shall we do something so obtuse that it will be nearly impossible to discuss? Yes, let’s. Let’s do Ann Lauterbach. Now, the collection I want to do is out-of-print and extremely expensive to acquire……Holy crap, I take that back. Suddenly there are, like 3 copies out there for less than $10. Go get yourself one of those! I spent $75 on a paperback copy of the damn thing. And I spent 8 years searching for a copy that cheap. I need to quell my hoarding instincts before I buy them all myself. I was going to tell you to get the Selected Poems and we’d just read the poems from her first book, and I’d supplement it with some of my favorites not included, but this, of course, is much better.