EPIC
Niall McGrath
I have witnessed the tail-end of extreme situations,
I am privileged to have shared time and space
With these men and women, giants who bestrode nations
Like Greek or Roman gods, yet who have acted with such grace,
Dignity and integrity, they might justly be proud of all
That they have achieved; for they are the generation who fought
The cosmic battle; and those who did not fall
Made these fields flourish, through austerity they wrought,
Hunger and privation they endured, they built these cities
And towns, engineered these machines, nursed these sick,
Transformed a tired old sphere of spite and enmities
Into a commonweal’ of comfort and hope Ð I marvel at efforts epic.
WAR’S END
(i.m. Wilfred Owen)
Niall McGrath
Do you still frown
As you frowned each time
You forced a twenty inch bayonet
Into the gut of an enemy?
Enemy Ð I use the term loosely,
For I know you didn’t hate
Any of the men you fought.
What strange meetings
With fellow victims
Have you had since piteous war
Scythed short your twenty-five years?
None more pitiful, no doubt,
Than your last encounter
A week from peace
When, crossing a canal,
Your platoon was startled
By the thunder of gunfire
And you fell on your back
On that makeshift bridge,
One hand in the water
Going blue with November cold.
Yet I envision you doubling on
Having flitted through
A silver portal of light
Into the eternal plane,
To embrace others whose weapons
Are discarded, arms wide open;
Or jogging on gleeful as a child
Into a golden hayfield;
Or skipping on somewhere
Where there is a salving sun.
No, don’t frown; you may not
Have seen an end to war,
But you did not
Leave the truth untold:
You did not
Serve or die in futility.
THE DEVOTEE
Niall McGrath
I am indifferent to their stares,
Know-all taunts, laughter,
Even sympathetic nods Ð
I am in communion with Godhead,
The Lord Krishna himself.
The experience is sufficient proof
When the Supreme asborbs consciousness
In eternal, absolute bliss.
They see saffron robes, shaven head,
Sandals Ð austerity, asceticism;
I sense liberation from need,
Material desires, enticement of hips
And breasts, no notion of martyrdom Ð
I shall pass on with the mantra on my lips.
ETHIC CLEANSING
Niall McGrath
Every woman is my mother
Except the mother of my children
Yet I appreciate the beauty
Of their auras, the ethereal radiance
Of upturned faces when minds and souls
Are fixed upon the all-attractive,
Hearts beating in mantric melody.
To consume any flesh is murder;
Not just some creature’s lost, my own
Actual effulgence becomes bloody.
And passion for gain is a hindrance
When material thrills are goals
Rather than means to the objective
Of substantive spiritual harmony.
If my consciousness I alter
Through some form of intoxication
Or base stimulation Ð tea, coffee,
Alcohol, mushrooms, the transience
Of trips to dream-states on pills Ð
I come down-to-earth with a self-destructive
Wallop. Yet, realising an other reality,
My freed essence gets high forever.
BHAGAVAD-GITA, 2.11-28
Niall McGrath
Thus consoled Krishna:
My friend’s tears are for those who are beyond tears.
Listen to yourself Ð are you making any sense?
Don’t grieve for the living, they can look after
Themselves; and to grieve about death is nonsense Ð
This existence’s life and death are transient.
In reality, we aren’t mortal creatures.
We have existed for all time: me, you, those souls
Lined up against us; and we will be eternal.
Just as our Spirit survives the body’s changes
Through youth, adulthood to old age, so it ranges
From beyond birth to beyond death, without doubt.
This world of senses offers cold and heat,
Pleasure and pain: but these are temporary.
So, I urge you, Arjuna, transcend the body.
The person these sensations can’t affect, whose soul
Is strong, is worthy of the bliss that’s eternal.
The unreal never is; the Actual never is not.
Those who realise this truly know what’s what.
Permeating all existence, the spirit
Isn’t something matter can destroy or create.
Though beyond the dimensions of space and time
Spirit dwells in our bodies; though they’re mortal,
The spirit within remains immeasurable, immortal.
If anyone believes they slay or are slain
They’re deluded. The Eternal within
Is not the part of us which dies or kills.
We are born, we do not die. We are
Eternal. We survive the body, live forever.
Sorry to harp on, Arjuna, but when you know
This to be true you’ll realise no blow
Can kill either you or any enemy in war.
Death is casting off this body like a suit of armour;
Then, the Spirit slips into something more comfortable.
That weapons maim us is just a fable.
Fire may scorch flesh but it doesn’t burn the Self;
Droughts don’t parch us, floods fail to engulf.
Beyond the might of sword and fire, beyond
The powers of waters and winds, the Spirit is found Ð
The never-changing, never-moving Unity.
Invisible to sense perception, virtually
Beyond thought, only your psyche’s intimations
Relate the Absolute’s subtle manifestation.
Even if you are born and die relentlessly,
Victorious Arjuna, forget your despondency.
All things in truth must die, and out of death
In truth comes life. What must be must be; accept death.
You’re invisible before birth and after death, my friend;
You’re seen between two unseens. But there is no end.
REVERSION
(for Joni Mitchell)
The priestess sang of liberation, love
And parking lots reverting to forests,
She sang of sharing, happiness, the groove
Of psychedelic, romantic drop-outs;
Generations of daydream believers
Worship her cult of other-worldliness,
A wisdom that embraced deceivers,
Crazy and damned as well as truly blessed.
But we are not just stardust,
We’re radiant as dimensions
That transcend sensation;
To be golden is lacklustre
Compared with an intensity
That escapes gravity.
REVELATION
(for Cathal Searcaigh)
Niall McGrath
Something keeps calling me back Ð
Some fatal flaw, perhaps;
And whether it pulses in my own blood
Or struggles like a twist of DNA
Or mesmerises like some long forgotten,
Innate recognition as irrevocable as dharma
Maybe I’ll never know.
Maybe those childhood holiday trips
To the ancestral county were what did it;
Or could they have been catalytic,
Triggering more ancient yearnings
For Errigal’s splendour?
All I do know is I was fascinated
By this natural cone then
And always am, every time I view
This mountain peaking into the heavens.
Something keeps calling me back
To gaze upon this serene, majestic hill.
And I know I shouldn’t be obsessed
With something merely material;
If I could detach soul from senses
Perhaps at last I could possess
The liberty I’ve always craved.
Yet every time my eyes feast upon
This beautiful work of art
I can’t help but convince myself
There is a creative energy
More magnificent than my own kind,
For all our ziggurats and pyramids;
So why shouldn’t I indulge in worshipping,
Though it is in itself a false idol,
When I do so out of reverence?
And, as if to bless my realisation,
The cloudbank’s heart is caught
On the sharp point of the summit,
Mist parts like torn silk,
The sun’s radiance permeates my being.
FUTURE SHOCK
Niall McGrath
(i)
Here is a map of reality
I say again
Here is a map of reality
We live in this territory
And I say again
We live in this territory
(ii)
I see reality
Silhouetted before me
Like an ink blot
Maybe two faces, maybe a vase?
Black or white?
The reflections of a phase?
(iii)
If there is a tomorrow
Buried in yesterday
It will be murdered today
NORTHERN IRELAND
Niall McGrath
Drawn A.D. fifteen ninety-nine,
Boazio’s ‘Map of Irlande’ depicts
Munster, Leinster and Connaught
Distinct in details and coastline;
But the way the North’s indistinct,
With towns and loughs a mess,
Traces Ulster’s persistent instinct,
A perverse, infinite ingress.
LANES
Niall McGrath
I’ve been trudging
This rocky road
For so long
Through rain and cold
So many times
I’ve felt so low
Just at the last moment
Someone’s come along
To ease my way
With words of comfort
But before long
They’ve found a bye-lane
And though intrigued
I’ve resisted
Straying from this path
Sensing miles to go
Suddenly sunshine
Warms body and soul
I see eyes smiling
Across a hedge
Know I’ve a friend
To accompany me
The surface smoothes
The incline vanishes
I’m striding on
With fresh vigour
For I’m close to
My fellow traveller
And up ahead soon
These forks join
FREE LOVE
Niall McGrath
Consciousness rises like the shimmer of heat
On a balmy summer night,
Drifts above roads between high hedgerows
To where I saw you in your nightclothes
This morning, the hem of your teeshirt
Trembling, goosebumps beginning to flirt
Along smooth, slender, feminine thighs.
There’s a glow behind the frosted eyes
At this threshold I’ve never crossed.
If my Ka passed through, as if self-compelled
Into the unknown, would you gasp, start,
Be paralysed by fear? Or would your heart
Thump to have me there, embroil me in an atmosphere
Of affectionate chat and laughter?
Would you relax on the sofa, recline near my shoulder,
Absent-mindedly playing with your wavy hair?
If we achieved ultimate union, intimately embraced
So that everything is everything and both could taste
The ecstasy of being at-one, would my entity
Be sucked back to that other body
Prone in my own home, rippling along
The umbilical astral cord, to where I belong
Presently? Would I wake exhausted
And yet ache for such joy to be repeated?
TREASURES OF THE UNCONSCIOUS
Niall McGrath
The cortege drove from the church to the cemetery
Past the end of the farm lane where he used to park,
Wandering along banks in waders
Most weekends for decades; in autumn dark
One evening at last season’s close
The bailiff spied him still perched
On his stool after long hours, had to prise
Him to his feet, as his eyes searched
The river valley with the same implacable stare
As his prey, whose eyes never shut;
I walk the banks he’ll never see again,
A duckling dives beneath the surface, but
Fails to surface; herons rise,
Wings slapping air like pterodactyls’,
Swans glide amidst weeds’ herbaceous scent,
Still the weir vaporises as it spills.
BREAKFAST AT RANKIN’S
Niall McGrath
Coffee aroma permeates sharp morning air,
Brewing the darkness, invites the hungry
Who have walked from car parks, ready for the office,
Almost ready to face phonecalls, emails, in-trays.
Familiar smiles greet them, and displays of pastries,
Sandwiches, fajitas, raspberry and almond scones,
A choice of blends, herbal, tea or frothy cappuccino,
Warm, moist cake caresses the palate, creamy, buttery.
They drift from newspapers back out into the spate
Of the streets, vaporising into the human current;
Lipstick stains kiss cup rims, crumbs on plates bear witness
As waitresses clear tables, welcome other clients.
ADORABLE
Niall McGrath
We’ve only just met though we’ve known each other
Forever: I find you instantly attractive,
Recognise some connection between us. Together,
Life suddenly becomes colourful, instructive,
Youths dance for us as gracefully as flocks
Of doves sweeping through the skies above;
I’m captivated by the warmth of your aura, the bounce of your locks,
The scent of your limbs as they embrace me in love.
My psyche swirls with rapture as my senses soar
To a higher plane; cares no longer niggle,
Dull out of determination, only the myriad beauties
Of orchid and tulip, lilac and lotus matter;
And I turn to you with longing in my eyes, a prodigal
Returned to the long-lost love’s eternal sureties.
ISN’T IT A PITY
Niall McGrath
You’re standing at a pedestrian crossing
Waiting for the signal,
Turn to see me waiting in the car, kissing
Goodbye to my partner
As we go to our separate offices.
You’re going to work in the same building
You did seven years ago.
Since that time, not a single cell
Of our bodies is the same;
And I may propose the experiences
I’ve had since then have made me
A completely different person.
I don’t know about you;
I can’t tell from that sullen look
If it’s disgust,
Or jealousy, or mere disregard,
Early morning weariness, even,
Perhaps the anguish I caused you
No longer stirs,
Perhaps at last the hatred’s subsided.
How much suffering
Must we endure or inflict
In pursuit of selfish goals;
Do our shortcomings stain forever,
Or can we erase pain and regret?
I half expect
You to come over, say something mundane,
Wonder should I open my doorÉ
But you’re crossing the road,
Indicating, I’m checking my mirror.
SATANISM IN SUBURBIA
Niall McGrath
A derelict, curving art deco shopping arcade,
Skylights smashed, timbers tau-crossed on the rubble-strewn floors,
Black and white tiles arranged in geometric patterns
Suggesting the Kabbalistic; rusting H-irons bare,
Light flexes dangling as if execution chamber
Cables; litter swirling in corners, glinting as dusk
Casts gloom, as if it were the horns of goats, fangs of rats;
Chilly gusts raise up the musty aromas of cats.
A sedan passes, its number plate reads 6-6-6;
A black hound growls sinisterly out at the world as
A party of Goths march in boots and black uniforms,
Collars studded, faces streaked with paint like witchdoctors;
A drunk staggers by, bottle in hand, will lie the night
In that devilish grotto; will be found tomorrow
A stiff heap in rotting rags, a humming lord of flies.
THE PROXIMITY OF MARS
(26th August 2003)
Niall McGrath
I hadn’t seen these friends for two years;
The kid was in her womb at our wedding;
He bounced on his daddy’s belly, wanting
To go to the planetarium to see Mars.
I stared out the back window as mother
Chatted on the phone; they’d been out
For a look at the Heavens, because the paper
Said today was the day and it was a clear night.
We shivered in the dark garden as we searched
For that orange blob in the sky, separating
Capricorn and Pisces; the neighbours deliberating
Which bright light it was as constellations marched.
I went up the road beyond the cast of neon
With the binoculars but found my vision
Better with the naked eye; passed by a lichen-
Covered stone that meant more to other humans.
Just as this unique occasion almost drew
Strangers together Ð Hale Bopp, Halley’s Comet,
The total eclipse, we’ve witnessed all these Ð yet,
How much more they knew.
SATANISM IN SUBURBIA
Niall McGrath
A derelict, curving art deco shopping arcade,
Skylights smashed, timbers tau-crossed on the rubble-strewn floors,
Black and white tiles arranged in geometric patterns
Suggesting the Kabbalistic; rusting H-irons bare,
Light flexes dangling as if execution chamber
Cables; litter swirling in corners, glinting as dusk
Casts gloom, as if it were the horns of goats, fangs of rats;
Chilly gusts raise up the musty aromas of cats.
A sedan passes, its number plate reads 6-6-6;
A black hound growls sinisterly out at the world as
A party of Goths march in boots and black uniforms,
Collars studded, faces streaked with paint like witchdoctors;
A drunk staggers by, bottle in hand, will lie the night
In that devilish grotto; will be found tomorrow
A stiff heap in rotting rags, a humming lord of flies.
SOHO SQUARE
Niall McGrath
i
A certain fog was slithering through the streets
In puffs of miserable despair as if a wound
Had ruptured and fluids seeped, and air-raid sirens
Woke from slumber to scream urgently,
Warn the darkness of erupting bonfires,
When the muffled thumps from some cellar
Speakeasy or furtive alleyway encounter
Left a haunting whiff of blood amongst fallen leaves.
ii
A skip in their step, a gleam in their eye
They come, crossing the cobblestones as rain
Spots the minibus windscreen, saffron robes
Rippling like foliage as a breeze refreshes
The park; where film company offices and pubs
Huddle, here too hear their mesmeric chant.
MATCHLESS GIFTS
(i.m. A C Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada)
Niall McGrath
The Calcutta shopkeeper, with eight dollars
In his dhoti has two heart attacks in two days,
As he is rowed across the Atlantic by his friend;
Disembarks in Boston, finding the way,
Sets up stall in New York’s Bowery,
Matchless Gifts on offer to the disillusioned,
Psychadelic generation with their crewcuts
And hippy long hair and scraggly beards;
They get high on mantras instead of rock,
Groove to the sitar instead of electric guitars,
Embrace his austere principles, forsaking
The false pleasures of the age, the free love,
Cheap drugs, fuck-the-man, Johnson and ’Nam
Protests as Mom and Pop hold their heads
In their hands. If they could only realise
The sincerity they’d strike a light, too.
OUT OF SEASON
Niall McGrath
Will there be wildflowers at the backs of hedges
And mosses yellowing underfoot,
Brown silt drying to cracking at the edges
Of sheughs as summer’s heat
Intensifies; will there be a wasp
Flitting down your neck, out through your shirtfront,
Snowflakes gusting through tractor doors
As you tedd swards of hay; will prints
Taken by American tourists capture
You silhouetted against orange sunsets
Pitchforking bales high onto the trailerload
In the field passed by future Presidents?
Will you stand expressionless, greatcoated,
Dog by your side, wince, gasp?
ST VALENTINE’S
Niall McGrath
The customer on his own is reading National Geographic
As he prods noodles with a fork, cosy in polo-neck;
Wall mirrors behind him are studded with paper hearts;
A vendor moves between tables, offering bouquets.
The diner’s mobile purrs; he answers: it’s a business associate;
He chats cheerily for a moment, as if it were an old mate.
But his face becomes downcast as soon as he ceases,
Returns to his article, his sweet ‘n’ sour pieces.
By the window a couple sporting rings gaze down
At pedestrians crossing at lights in the busy town,
Across at the dark church, then their eyes meet, shine
With a sudden, unexpected, comforting, comfortable conspiracy
More reassuring than the waitress’s forced empathy,
As virtually complete as recognising something divine.
Under Cave Hill
Niall McGrath
Autumn breezes disrobe branches,
Leaves swirl in morning sunshine:
Off work, relaxed, that Sunday feeling
As I carry next week’s TV Quick
To you in the car, cradling it
In my arms as if a foundling.
Wondering, what are your chances?
Knowing it’s 50/50 that growth
Could be the death of you
As you get out of the passenger seat,
Join me on the way into the surgery.
Air meets the heights of Cave Hill
And casts a shadow as the door opens,
Drizzle blesses double-glazed panes.
WILD CATS OF FUERTEVENTURA
Niall McGrath
I carry the dead bird on my paddle bat,
Toss the fragile little creature over
The court fence; play on, watched by a lazy cat
Strolling lean between palm and azalea.
In Zanzibar, the vocalist breezes as pleasantly as ocean,
Aegean and calm as a feral feline of Fuerteventura;
I wish I could rest naked on sand as sun
Pulses through my veins, dispels cares like sangria.
But the cat skulks, ignores a proffered hand,
Indifferent to strangers’ affection as I am to your advances;
You approach, skin perspiring, warm as beach; but main land
Has already claimed me - discarded holiday romances.
WILD RASPBERRIES
Niall McGrath
One Sunday morning in high summer
Clipping the hedge, sweat dripping,
I came across these heart-shaped berries
Among the thorn I’d never
Noticed before. You were lying in
The hospital, had just had
Your by-pass; were starting, with Zimmer,
To shuffle on swollen feet again.
White butterflies were drifting
Across the lawn like elegant sprites;
When you told the nurse how your mother
Died young, step-mother was hard
On you, she wept into a hankie,
Said she’d not met before someone who’d
Had the same childhood as her.
My shears swished together with the threat
Of sharp steel; monitors bleeped beside
Your bed, their rhythms forming
Cacophonous harmony;
Always the promise of some
Unexpected discovery.
RECOLLECTION
(Cogito ergo sum Ð I recollect therefore I am Ð Descartes)
Niall McGrath
Sonny, are you there? his mother had called,
Glancing through the panes of the scullery
Window, admiring the green fields of home.
The boy was out behind the thatched cottage
In Malahide, checking the snare, had caught
Something. His siblings had gathered around;
She peered over their heads, noticed wriggling,
Murmured, It’s still alive as the hare leapt.
Sonny, are you there? Jenny pleaded over
The phone from Northamptonshire, to the Leeds
Pensioner she’d contacted, who could tell
The same tale about bleak hospital wards;
And when they met up, though their pulses throbbed
Like breath beneath warm fur, their lips were still.
KARMIC DEBT
Niall McGrath
The first time I looked in your eyes I knew
There was something ancient to be worked out
Between us, some karmic debt I owed you.
The pity is, I didn’t recognise you,
My mind was clouded by illusion; yet
The first time I looked in your eyes I knew
It was something eternal, it was true
Love, even if I nearly ruined it
Between us Ð some karmic debt I owed you.
Why’ve I repeated faults made in the blue
Yea yonder? Why should I relive regret?
The first time I looked in your eyes I knew
We’re free to choose, but it’s high time I drew
An end to cycles of mistakes, my pet Ð
Between us, some karmic debt I owed you.
It’s more than my duty to be with you,
I couldn’t expect a more fulfilling fate;
The first time I looked in your eyes I knew:
Between us, some karmic debt I owed you.
DÉJA VU
Niall McGrath
When I’ve met people with your name
I’ve always thought it should mean something,
But they’ve never struck me as being
Someone who’s important, the same.
With you, it’s different. The first time
Our eyes met I knew you so well,
As if our friendship’s an eternal
Harmony, each meeting a new rhyme.
And this moment Ð as you smile, pour
Me tea Ð it’s uncanny: it seems
As if I’ve stepped into a dream
Or a scene we’ve lived through before.
Now that I am with you and am told
Who you are, it’s as if I’ve blinked Ð
Freeze-framed for a second, resynched;
Are we meant to right past mistakes made?
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