Sunday, January 11, 2015

Summer 1969 -- Seamus Heaney

While the Constabulary covered the mob   
Firing into the Falls, I was suffering
Only the bullying sun of Madrid.
Each afternoon, in the casserole heat
Of the flat, as I sweated my way through   
The life of Joyce, stinks from the fishmarket   
Rose like the reek off a flax-dam.
At night on the balcony, gules of wine,
A sense of children in their dark corners,
Old women in black shawls near open windows,   
The air a canyon rivering in Spanish.
We talked our way home over starlit plains   
Where patent leather of the Guardia Civil   
Gleamed like fish-bellies in flax-poisoned waters.

‘Go back,’ one said, ‘try to touch the people.’   
Another conjured Lorca from his hill.
We sat through death-counts and bullfight reports   
On the television, celebrities
Arrived from where the real thing still happened.

I retreated to the cool of the Prado.   
Goya’s ‘Shootings of the Third of May’   
Covered a wall—the thrown-up arms   
And spasm of the rebel, the helmeted   
And knapsacked military, the efficient   
Rake of the fusillade. In the next room,
His nightmares, grafted to the palace wall—
Dark cyclones, hosting, breaking; Saturn   
Jewelled in the blood of his own children,   
Gigantic Chaos turning his brute hips   
Over the world. Also, that holmgang
Where two berserks club each other to death   
For honour’s sake, greaved in a bog, and sinking.
He painted with his fists and elbows, flourished
The stained cape of his heart as history charged.
British troops in Belfast, 1969

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