It started on 15th September 2018. I have been writing and posting a poem a day for nine months. I reckon it takes longer to make a book than a baby.
Later this morning I will be showcasing the written work done by nine 9-12 year olds who attend a two room-two teacher school at Curravagh in the West Cavan uplands. Funded by Cruinniú na nÓg (Creativity for Youth) programme I was able to spend sixteen classroom hours with them developing story – from the purely imaginative to writing a first person narrative of a real person or historical character they had to research. There is a small exhibition of their work and a recording of them reading some of the finished product happening at Dowra Courthouse Creative Space today at noon.
For inspiration for today’s poetry practice I look back on the week and an expedition with those children and the 5th and 6th classes from Blacklion’s national school. We had a field trip connected with another project I am collaborating on with a local ceramic artist, Jim Fee. We went to the Cavan County Museum in Ballyjamesduff. There is an outdoor exhibition that recreates a trench system from the Battle of the Somme in 1916.
The epigraph that sparks today’s poem is from Plato. Someone quoted it on Twitter. (Yes, truly!)
Poetry is nearer to vital truth than history. – Plato
History as Poetry
The latrine was used by thousands.
It was a hole in the ground.
Barely yards away. As close as the enemy.
When it rained it overflowed.
It ran into the trenches
where soldiers crouched in stench,
to avoid the sniper's reach.
The nurses in Casualty Clearing
were as close to the enemy
as any man. With less say.
They had no vote, but
died for King and country,
mopped up blood, closed eyes
of dead men - mostly young.
One was aged twelve.
One was aged sixty-seven.
Victory tastes of vinegar and gall.
Few are spared, less saved.
It stinks of old men's money,
the rattle in the bag of guineas gold
swapped for a load of sabres.
Watch the children pause
at the peace sculpture,
doves rising like the wheel of fortune
from the blasted bog oak tree.
Rising as the water falls
from figures weeping
on their knees.
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