a song of love and loss

Absent-mindedly stitching onto a little square of linen this afternoon, I found myself incanting one of my favourite poems, 'Donal Og'. A centuries old poem of Irish origin and uncertain date, I first heard it read by Seamus Heaney at a reading to celebrate the publication of The Rattle Bag. Sadly, it was shortly before Ted Hughes died, and he was too ill to attend. Heaney concluded the evening by reading this poem on behalf of Hughes, for whom it held a powerful, personal resonance. 

I've read the poem so many times I know most of it by heart. But it's never my voice that I hear. Often it's the voice of a young, Irish girl; sometimes Heaney's gentle murmur. But mostly, I hear the deep, doleful crack of Hughes' voice, making the lines ring.

Donal Og

It is late last night the dog was speaking of you;

the snipe was speaking of you in her deep marsh.

It is you are the lonely bird through the woods;

and that you may be without a mate until you find me.

You promised me, and you said a lie to me,

that you would be before me where the sheep are flocked;

I gave a whistle and three hundred cries to you,

and I found nothing there but a bleating lamb.

You promised me a thing that was hard for you,

a ship of gold under a silver mast;

twelve towns with a market in all of them,

and a fine white court by the side of the sea.

You promised me a thing that is not possible,

that you would give me gloves of the skin of a fish;

that you would give me shoes of the skin of a bird;

and a suit of the dearest silk in Ireland.

When I go by myself to the Well of Loneliness,

I sit down and I go through my trouble;

when I see the world and do not see my boy,

he that has an amber shade in his hair.

It was on that Sunday I gave my love to you;

the Sunday that is last before Easter Sunday.

And myself on my knees reading the Passion;

and my two eyes giving love to you for ever.

My mother said to me not to be talking with you today,

or tomorrow, or on the Sunday;

it was a bad time she took for telling me that;

it was shutting the door after the house was robbed.

My heart is as black as the blackness of the sloe,

or as the black coal that is on the smith's forge;

or as the sole of a shoe left in white halls;

it was you put that darkness over my life.

You have taken the east from me; you have taken the west from

    me;

you have taken what is before me and what is behind me;

you have taken the moon, you have taken the sun from me;

and my fear is great that you have taken God from me!

Anon. from the 8th century Irish (trans. Lady Augusta Gregory) from

The Rattle Bag ed. Heaney & Hughes, (Faber & Faber 1982)

Comments

[Denise | Chez Danisse]

I like reading poetry, but I've never memorized poetry. I wonder if I'd enjoy it. There's only one way to find out.

[little house]

I find I absorb poems incidentally rather than deliberately, and it isn't perfect recall. It seems the ones that stick choose themselves and I find that interesting. Love to know how you get on!

[Cochonfucius]

My French version :



Tard dans la nuit passée, le chien parlait de toi,
Ainsi que la bécasse au fond du marécage ;
Serait-ce toi, l'oiseau qui va seul dans les bois,
Puisque sans moi, tu n'as aucun compagnonnage.

Ce que tu m'as promis, tu en avais menti,
Que parmi les troupeaux tu voulais bien te rendre ;
J'ai sifflé, j'ai lancé des centaines de cris,
Un pauvre agneau bêlant m'observe sans comprendre.

Tu m'as promis ce qui n'est pas à bon marché,
Un bateau fait en or, aux mâts d'argenterie,
Douze villes avec leurs douze grands marchés,
Puis une place blanche emprès la mer jolie.

Tu m'as promis ce qui toutefois ne se peut :
Des gants faits de la peau d'un frais poisson de l'onde,
Des souliers faits en peau d'un bel oiseau des cieux,
Un habit de la plus coûteuse soie du monde.


Au Puits de Solitude allant seule m'asseoir,
Je regarde en moi-même et vois ma meurtrissure ;
Je regarde ce monde où je ne peux te voir,
Toi dont un éclat d'ambre orne la chevelure.

Un dimanche j'ai fait de toi mon amoureux,
Dimanche qui celui de la Pâque précède,
Du Seigneur je lisais le trépas douloureux,
Mes yeux t'offrant l'amour sans fin et sans remède.

Ma mère ne veut pas qu'on se parle aujourd'hui,
Demain, ni aucun jour, il faut tourner la page.
De dire ça, le temps n'en fut pas bien choisi :
Quand l'oiseau est parti, pourquoi fermer la cage ?

Mon coeur est aussi noir que la prunelle au bois,
Ou que le noir charbon dans une forge sombre,
Ou qu'un débris de cuir sous de blanches parois :
Tu as noyé ma vie dans la noire pénombre.

Tu m'as pris le Levant, tu m'a pris le Ponant,
Ce qui est devant moi et ce qui est derrière,
La lune et le soleil qui vont au ciel tournant,
Tu m'a pris, j'en ai peur, le Dieu de mes prières.