Remembering Uncle Conor

Remembering Uncle Conor

When I was a chubby, well-rounded three-year old,
Weighing more than a stack of Trinity library tomes,
You carried me on your sturdy avuncular shoulders,
Every inch of the steep, winding, dirt-and-grass path,
That leads from the Bailey Lighthouse to Whitewater,
Your Herculean efforts that day established an affection,
That would endure and grow for well-nigh on fifty years;

I was enchanted by the theatrical inflections of your voice,
As you read classic children’s stories on the road to Dunquin,
Or discussed the respective merits of Kings Billy and James,
As we partook of the salmon of wisdom by the river Boyne,
Later, we considered the philosophy of the Founding Fathers,
As we strolled around Dartmouth College campus and lake,
Just a stone’s throw away from the great Connecticut River;

You could be a stubborn companion and I had difficulty
Persuading you to shelter from New York’s teeming rain,
You felt it not a little demeaning to shelter under porches,
Or dodge in and out of the Big Apple’s relentless rain-drops,
But fortunately your strict code and rigid rules allowed us,
To take refuge in a crowded, welcoming, oak-panelled bar,
And down some fortifying, truly erudite pints of Guinness;

By any standard, you were a resilient and complex man,
Unprepared and unwilling to conform to the stereotypes,
In which some would have imprisoned or confined you,
Your endless capacity to redefine and reinvent yourself,
Frequently surprised and confounded your sternest critics;
Many of whom had written your obituary in anticipation,
Only to find out, time and again, that you had other ideas;

The outspoken public man is well and truly documented,
The histories, the articles and the essays are on the record,
Their contents probing, original and frequently unrepentant,
Their sparse literary style, economical, invariably immaculate,
But despite the erudition and the academic achievements,
You still live in my mind, deeply embedded in my thoughts,
Through different memories and for quite different reasons;

I will always remember those mornings when we set out,
On warm summer days or at the early outset of winter,
To cross over Shiel Martin and negotiate the Hill of Howth,
You would tap out the rhythm with Parnell’s walking stick,
And we would wind our way over thick purple heather,
Before proceeding unsteadily down loose crumbling shale,
Plunging from a height to the shores of the edgy sea;

As we tackled succeeding crest and plummeting trough,
You would impart your insights, perspective and wisdom,
Opening wide-ranging vistas, afforded to the very few;
Privileged, I absorbed historical data and pointed opinion,
For you were a thoughtful, probing, imaginative teacher,
Never shirking the thorny questions, ever likely to ask:
“Would you have voted the death of the King?”

I never really worked out the answer to that question,
But when, years later, I stood alone in reflection,
At the tragic bloody spot on Place the la Concorde,
Where Louis and Marie-Antoinette lost their heads,
I said a silent prayer for the forlorn King and Queen,
Mindful that you had never pronounced definitively,
Within my hearing, on God’s existence or otherwise;

A conversation with you could isolate many a paradox,
Conjure and fashion a string of philosophical paradigms,
But in this illusory, deceptively-shaped elliptical world,
You were a relentless searcher after historical truths;
Truths which were not necessarily fixed or immutable,
Truths which were shaped by scholarship and conviction,
You were never afraid to make up your mind, and take a side;

You were sustained by an extraordinary sense of humour,
And understood the various foibles of human nature,
Sensing that there was much that was good in the world,
And that that which was good was worth defending,
You had the courage, physical and intellectual, to confront,
Some old, formidable, traditional, well-established foes,
Never afraid, even if the odds seemed pitted against you;

And, Conor, you patiently listened to all my preoccupations,
And analysed them with all your political and human skill,
Always willing to advise me as we journeyed around the Hill,
So, as I think of you today, I remember those happy moments,
When we wound our way, beneath the sky, above the silver sea,
Two curious walkers talking of life in this topsy-turvy world,
Cutting a path through the purple heather and the yellow gorse.



Maurice Biggar
11 May 2010

A beauty that started long ago

A beauty that started long ago

It never seemed to matter,
Or to make any great sense,
When Father Rafferty spoke,
In his stylish mannered English,
Of Keats’ search for permanence;

The world was very young then,
And so, thank God, were we;
But the years have since gone by,
And they have taken their toll;
Quietly, silently, relentlessly;

Father Rafferty is gone now,
And so are a great many more,
My parents and grandparents,
Having fought the unequal fight,
Vacated their appointed seats;

And if you were to ask me:
“Where’s the sense in it all?”
I couldn’t even hazard a guess,
And I wouldn’t be the only one
In that particular predicament;

But despite the passing years,
The passion and the pathos,
I still maintain a conviction
About this rounded Earth,
Spinning in God’s Heaven;

For men and women still sing,
Still dance and talk of love,
For men and women still kneel,
Still recollect and quietly pray
For life, they believe, is for living;

For living, enjoying, absorbing,
From its wondrous beginning,
To its sudden unpredictable end,
In the belief that we are all part
Of a beauty that started long ago.



Maurice Biggar
17 February 2010

My father's armchair

The nicest thing about your parents is just having them. The saddest thing is that, more often than not, you will have to say goodbye to them some day. My father died when I was 17.

My father’s armchair

My father,
Sat in an armchair,
A big book on his knees,
As I prayed to God;

I prayed,
Fervently to God,
That he might spare my Dad,
At least, until he finished his book;

My Old Man,
Sat back in his armchair,
The place from which he usually held court,
But tonight it was home to his reading;

I didn’t want my father to go,
Not now, not ever,
But I was about to find out,
That he was a very fast reader.



Maurice Biggar
24 January 2010

Apples and Trudy

Owing to a spell of bad health, I haven't posted any poems to my blog for almost three months now. I thought that I might return to the fray by giving my impressions of an evening spent in a night club in Dublin almost a quarter of a century ago. Plus ça change, ...

Apples and Trudy

In calm,
Deliberation,
Fighting,
My patch,
At the counter;

Eyeing,
Sipping,
Meaning,
Intending,
Never doing;

Weighed down,
Under that,
Pink dark light;

Transfixed,
Skewered,
And pierced;

Yellow narrow beams,
Down pinning me;

Blue music rocking,
Hard or slow,
But not for me;

Just swinging,
Still singing,
Of apples and Trudy …



Maurice Biggar
24 May 1986

Forty pence

Note:
This is the first poem I ever wrote.

Readers should note that, at the time, the currency in Ireland was the Irish pound and not the euro. Forty pence would be worth less than forty cents today. The symbol on the five pence silver coin was a bull; on the ten pence silver coin (sometimes also known as a "florin") a salmon. The reverse side of each coin bore the emblem of a harp. Coins of smaller denomination were made of copper and decorated with Celtic emblems.

This poem was published in "Poetry Ireland Review".



Forty pence

The world is full of things,
One can buy for forty pence …
A cup of coffee, a little milk perhaps ?
No sugar, thank you very much.

On the theatre lobby’s walls,
White-washed white,
How else?
Hang gaudy garish drawings,
Quite daring,
Far from soothing;

Four jingling silver florins fetch
A plastic processed cup
Of half-hot, half-magic brew …
Four salmons leap
From pin-stripped pockets
And fall in flat, flat heaps
Twisting a chord;

The first sip nibbles,
The second bites,
Slightly hot
And slightly bitter;

Silver harp strings
Shyly tingle,
Quiet murmurings
While critics quibble,
Chatter, babble, talk,
Discuss;

If with four salmons,
I had bought some tea,
My change would be
A noble bull,
Gnawing and pawing
A silver line;

On the flip side
Would be a harp,
Smaller, softer,
Lilting music,
Echoing the calls
Of distant musings;

If tea can
Over saucer-edges
Drip,
And coffee stains
On crisp clean shirt-fronts
Land,
Surely thoughts can outwards
Fly;

To great enslaving dusty fields,
Or merciless sweaty jungle growths;
There men and women,
Beasts of burden,
Labour under a savage yoke.
Backs bent double,
Ribs protruding,
Grinning and wincing,
For forty pence;

With beads of sweat,
On darkened brows,
Like restless, countless ants,
They feel the sting,
Pay constant tribute
To their ruthless Kings,
Coffee, tea and coffin;

The second half’s
Division bell
Brought me back
To another
Present.
Belfast’s sadness
Replaced Hi-Brazil;

Then I thought
That the swiftness
Of Northern madness
Might just perhaps
Be less cruel.
Suffering
Is always senseless,
But through the shouts
Of Northern pain
Did I hear proud Northern laughter,
A little singing in the rain ?

As I left that brilliant play,
I heard once more
The songs
Harps are meant to sing.
I heard fine lilting voices
And strong rolling bases
In thunderous reply;

They sang
As people always will
Of love and dignity,
Freedom and liberty;

It was chilly out,
I fastened my coat
And set off,
In immediate hot pursuit
Of a demon chocolate bar;

As I handed over two jingling florins,
Plus a few copper Celtic emblems,
I realised
The world isn’t just full of pretty things …
You may say:
“What did you expect for forty pence?”
That wasn’t much consolation
On the twenty-ninth of August 1985
At 11.13 pm.




Maurice Biggar
31 August 1985

King David's Book

King David’s Book

Like an earnest cleric or labouring scribe,
I am seated, black ink and quill in hand,
By my red-covered, gold-lettered copy,
Of King David’s Book of Psalms;

I can easily see the thin boy with the sling,
Decipher the bearded visage of the King,
Hear the warning to the muttering Nations,
And savour the precepts of the Just Man;

It was a sacred message, an enduring covenant,
But, if God’s voice can summon a guiding spirit,
It can just as easily breathe new life into another,
And preach a message appropriate to our time;

The strings of King David’s harp have tingled,
Its tuneful music has resonated from age to age,
The old King’s crowned and anointed forehead,
Has bowed before the child born in Bethlehem;

As the lords spiritual and temporal of the day,
Engage on paths motivated by war and profit,
A zephyr turns the pages of King David’s Book,
Urging untimely darkness to give way to light;

For those who endure humility and poverty,
And are led to question the justice of their fate,
Should know that goodness and hope still persist,
In the music of a harp and a smiling new-born child.



Maurice Biggar
4 October 2009

The ageing of the world

The ageing of the world

As long as the world was young,
Before shame was ever invented,
You and I could play in the garden,
Taste the freshness of grass underfoot,
Pluck the purple flower overhanging,
Stop to sneeze lightly at its pollen;
Swim swiftly through clear water,
And shower ‘neath the great cataract;

But, as the world slowly grew old,
You and I first experienced decay,
When youth and health departed,
A wintry autumn struck the garden,
The eternal sun grew dim and dark,
Until in a brutal millenarian flash,
The very pillars of Heaven buckled,
Crumbled and abruptly came to dust.

Burying the green and verdant garden,
Where we walked and lightly danced,
At the bright beautiful dawn of creation,
Where we held hands and gently touched,
At the unwritten threshold of earthly love,
And hugged and kissed a thousand times,
Heeding the urgent call of ages to come,
Partaking fully of the fragile immortality,
Of the vulnerable, sensitive human race;

Our golden garden has now vanished,
Our treasures and happiness with it,
And the hope of the world is reduced,
To a single, solitary speck of inert dust,
Lost far away in a bleak and distant night,
Darkness will only generate confusion,
So that we have lost all understanding,
And taken to asking bitter questions,
Unwanted sources of painful wounds,

But, now, taking each other by the hand,
We have come to kneel before the altar,
To lay down our love, pure, indivisible,
And the bright world is young once more.


Maurice Biggar
21 September 2009