It’s not merely its title that truly embodies a poem. The very essence of a blue, hump-backed chair can be captured in these simple words, as can the description of a 1970s orange glass coffee mug. Recording the word “poem” instils an image of its rectangular layout. The poem, however, surpasses the boundaries of its own construction, reaching into the realms of time and location.
In a way, the longevity of a poem outlasts that of its author, extending its lifecycle and influence beyond the life span of the poet. It isn’t stagnant nor confined, but an evolving entity. A poem is analogous to a relic, carried in peoples’ hearts like polished stones in assorted pockets. Even the demise of a poet doesn’t restrict its journey, as these poetry pebbles continue to be admired and interpreted in myriads of unique ways. My own pocket holds a rich collection of such creations.
Come 200 years from now, a scholar might stumble across a poem penned by me about my father. A short notation on the side of their digital copy is likely all they’ll leave behind before moving on to the next piece. Their interpretation might be indifferent, but their notes might record it as a reflection of its era, echoing the intolerance prevalent then. They would swiftly move on to explore other works.
I often ponder on Eibhlín Dubh Ní Chonaill’s thoughts as she penned her famous lament for her slain husband, Art O’Leary, known to be one of 18th-century Ireland’s most distinguished works. I question if she ever contemplated how her unrestrained passion, her unfulfilled desire for O’Leary’s thighs, his outlandish, energetic wardrobe would engross successors in numerous evenings at separate desks centuries later. Even with Ní Chonaill failing to record her keen, the mourning doesn’t cease with the passing of the aggrieved party. It persists for as long as one’s imagination, a concept that has symbolised my methodology for writing Devotion, my first collection of poems published under The Gallery Press.
The focal point of this novel is ‘Keen for A–’, which is a reinvention of Ní Chonaill’s ‘Caoineadh Airt Uí Laoghaire’. The narrative describes a man grieving the loss of his murdered male partner. The passion for the concept resulted in intense writing, yielding the result of a 35-page work of art that transformed a popular caoineadh into a passionate anthem for the living.
A critical element in my thought process while penning ‘Devotion’ was to explore how the past, even if it is alien to someone like myself, can potentially scaffold and bring forth fresh interpretations in the present if given the opportunity to. I am intrigued by how distinct lifestyles can educate others; how the wild longing of Eibhlín for Art, irrespective of her nobility (and certain nuances of an 18th-century aristocratic viewpoint), could echo a gay man’s determination to make his emotions known. Eibhlín set me free, and it’s highly unlikely she ever contemplated that someone would crave as I do.
The haunting line from Doireann Ní Ghriofa’s poignant ‘A Ghost in the Throat’ (Tramp Press, 2020), “This is a female text,” continued to resonate with me. Additionally, the real grief of someone else. My male partner sleeps a few rooms away as I compose this. To put it another way, the challenge attached to grafting a pre-existing poem onto an alien context is that keening, as scholar Angela Bourke highlights, is an expression unique to women.
The ultimate message of ‘Keen for A–’ may be that our perceptions are most enriching when they are intersectional, covering a broad spectrum, rather than narrowed down, one-dimensional, and made feeble by only resorting to what is readily available.
By re-narrating Ní Chonaill’s iconic verse, was I stripping her of something important? Your perspective on this may be influenced by your literary disposition. With my rendition, I put forth a maxim of mine – empathy often resides in unexpected corners. If we are only capable of empathetic connection with individuals we identify with, our species is in quite a predicament. Possibly, A-‘s focus, or at least a portion of it, suggests that an intersectional, comprehensive comprehension offers a richer understanding than a restrictive, single-lane perspective, which suffers due to a reliance solely on immediate resources.
Simply put, Devotion is a poetry anthology of ardour and affection, drawing inspiration from historical wisdom (from ninth-century monks to cats, from Virgin Mary to a fallen officer), recontextualising them to shed a unique light on contemporary times. I am enamoured by the fact that Ireland’s most celebrated cat’s (Pangur Bán) owner—an old monk—is subtly implicated in a homosexual poet’s musings about his own feline. Or the heavy scriptural landscape of Northern Ireland pricked by the same poet’s interpretation of a gospel piece.
This anthology traverses these backdrops to inquire deeply: what does it mean to love in the present? What are the implications of being gay or Irish?
These historical inputs assemble like knowledgeable kin at a funeral – telling how circumstances ought to be, but also affording hope that everything may eventually become bearable. The settings for most of these verses are domestic—painting images of a queer home environment (in Ireland) that is intriguing and joyful. At the fringes, non-human perspectives (cats) infiltrate these spaces, expanding a humble human’s outlook akin to the illuminations in seventh-century scripts. The anthology traverses these landscapes to question thoroughly: what does it mean to love in the present? What does it imply to be gay? Or Irish?
“Devotion”, as I hope, is a literary work that keenly observes and lovingly scrutinises the paradoxical nature inherent in rhetorical devices. The essence of the book could be summarised as an energetically vibrant piece, as is evident from its engaging cover artwork, “Meeting on the Gallery Stairs” by Sarah Beegan. This artwork itself, is an innovative reinterpretation of the Irish masterpiece “Meeting on the Turret Stairs” painted by Frederic William Burton. The book delves into the strange, yet emotive flurry of intimate instances, possibly overlooked as mundane occurrences, like crossing paths with a loved one on the staircase or a dimly lit corridor.
The recording of the peculiar markings on elbows, often missed, is indeed a treasure in itself. I envisage a scholar in the distant future, thoroughly immersed in these books, invoking an understanding of our present era. For a fleeting moment, our day-to-day happenings become part of their narrative, briefly experienced and never truly forgotten.
“The Gallery Press” will be releasing “Devotion” on the 17th of May.