RALLIES IN IRELAND; POET PAULA MEEHAN SPEAKS

Thursday, July 12, 2012

Poem of the Week

Yesterday's clip gave an excerpt of Kinsella's poem "A Lady of Quality" about when his wife, Eleanor, was in the hospital recovering from tuberculosis.  Here it is in its entirety:



A Lady of Quality

In hospital where windows meet
With sunlight in a pleasing feat
         Of airy architecture
My love has sweets and grapes to eat,
The air is like a laundered sheet,
         The world's a varnished picture.

Books and flowers at her head
Make living-quarters of her bed
        And give a certain style
To our pillow-chat, the nonsense said
To bless the room from present dread
        Just for a brittle while.

For obvious reasons we ignore
The leaping season out-of-door
        Light lively as a ferret,
Woodland walks, a crocused shore,
The transcendental birds that soar
        And tumble in high spirit

While under this hygienic ceiling
Where my love lies down for healing
        Tiny terrors grow,
Reflected in a look, revealing
That her care is spent concealing
        What, perhaps, I know.

'Ended and done with' never ceases,
Constantly the heart releases
        Wild geese to the past.
Look, how they circle poignant places,
Falling to sorrow's fowling-pieces
        With soft plumage aghast.

We may regret, and must abide.
Grief, the hunter's, fatal stride
        Among the darkening hearts
Has gone too long on either side.
Our trophied love must now divide
        Into its separate parts

And you go down with womankind
Who in her beauty has combined
        And focused human hungers,
With country ladies who could wind
A nation's love-affair with mind
        Around their little fingers,

While I communicate again
Recovered order to my pen
        To find a further answer
As, having looked all night in vain,
A weary prince will sigh and then
        Take a familiar dancer.

Now the window's turning dark
And ragged rooks across the Park
        Mix with branches; all
The clocks about the building mark
The hour. The random is at work
        Between us: two petals fall.

A train lifts up a lonely cry...
Our fingertips together lie
        Upon the counterpane.
It will be hard, it seems, and I
Would wish my heart to justify.
        What qualities remain.

1 comment: