A Midnight Gathering

The ghosts of greats past drop by to say hello to Boland, have a whiskey amongst the misty cliffs then melt away once again into eternity

A small thatched, whitewashed, cottage stands desolate on a barren, windswept cliff top. It comes into focus every now and then as the mist diffuses alongside the shiftings and evasions of the wind. The only hint of the life within are the wreaths of smoke escaping in little puffs every now and then into the steel clad sky. A depressed collie lies at the door, snout on it’s paws, shunned from the warmth within. The glow of a turf fire emanates into the cobwebbed corners of the inner sanctuary, shedding light on necessities now long forgotten. A stuffed pheasant casts a bitter eye on the congregation who are deposited around the hearth like moths to the flame, the chink of whiskey and brandy tumblers amplifying their interchange.

Indeed, I have been too ‘long in city pent’. This racking in my chest will not relent, I did think the sea air would haply provide me with some respite, but alas the remedy is lacking. I now ‘have fears that I may cease to be, Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain’ and oh my heart aches. ‘That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim’.

Here man, drink up I say. You must fight these inner demons you know, can’t let the b******s win. One mustn’t heed the darkness, only seek to outshine it. There are fleeting moments in time, gilded seconds which may set the sight on fire. Miracles occur, for it could happen even in this dull ruinous landscape. I admit, I desire occasionally some backtalk from the mute sky, though with luck, trekking stubborn through this season of fatigue, I shall patch together a content of sorts.

My radiant angel, what sweet hope falls thus from thy lips in beads of pearls and amber honey. My dream thou brok’st not, but continued’t it; Thou art so true, that thoughts of thee suffice to make dreams truths and fables histories. Cast thine eye on this wretched creature, not me my imp. Mark but this flea..it sucked me first and now sucks thee, now in this flea our two bloods mingled be. Thou know’st that this cannot be said a sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead. Yes, enter these arms, for since thou thought’st it best, not to dream all my dream, let’s act the rest.

Don’t mind that dreamer Sylvia. He’s a total chancer that one. All he wants is his wicked way and then he’s off. What use will all his pretty words be to then when you’re left holding the baby? You will be little more than a porcelain bride in an airless glamour...under glass, under wraps. Even if you are discreet about visits, fevers, quickening and lusts you will be trapped within a loveless marriage, never feeling satin rise and fall with the vows. Here, look at this. It was the first he ever gave her, my mother that is. These are wild roses, appliquéd on silk by hand, darkly picked, stitched boldly, quickly. They stayed in the city for the summer. They met in cafes. She was always early, he was late. You see whilst initially its all fun and games, there has to be a leveling of such. Look here, the rest is tortoiseshell..and it keeps even now an inference of it’s violation. The lace is overcast as if the weather it opened for and offset had entered it. Oh don’t look at me with such sour faces, I get cynical with drink, it’s the brandy I think. Ok, ok. I’ll become optimistic and pensive like our little hopeless romantic Keats over there. See, this fan could also be a thing of hope, of beauty, a symbol of lasting love. It reminds me of the blackbird..in summer, finding buds, worms, fruit. Suddenly she puts out her wing - the whole, full, flirtatious span of it.

Why yes darling, that’s perfect, absolutely perfect. Birds are a constant source of inspiration for me too you see. I only know that a rook ordering its black feathers can so shine as to seize my senses, haul my eyelids up, and grant a brief respite from fear of total neutrality. And just yesterday, a magnificent thing happened, a glorious thing. It startles me still, the jut of that odd, dark head, pacing through the uncut grass on the elm’s hill. It is something to own a pheasant, or just to be visited at all...is it not? I am not mystical : it isn’t as if I thought it had a spirit. It is simply in it’s element. But a dozen would be worth

having...it’s a little cornucopia. It is rare...a fine thing! But I trespass stupidly.

Oh, I know full well of what thou speak’st fair one. Only yesterday I came across a light - winged Dryad of the trees, in some melodious plot of beeches green..singest of summer in full-throated ease. Said’st I, Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful death, call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme, to take into the air my quiet breath, while thou are pouring forth thy soul abroad in such an ecstasy! For who is more happy, when, with heart’s content, fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair of wavy grass...returning home at evening with an ear catching the notes of Philomel.

Yes, I think you’re spot on. Such sweet sounds as nature may emit can free the soul and numb the senses, but that can also assault them don’t you think? I ordered this, this clean wood box, square as a chair and almost too heavy to lift. I put my eye to the grid. It is dark, dark, with the swarm feeling of African hands, minute and shrunk export, back on black, angrily clambering. It is the noise that appalls me most of all, the unintelligible syllables. It is like a roman mob, small, taken one by one, but my God, together!

Jeez, you guys are all the same, waxing lyrical about your wishes and want, your desires and your yearnings. I’d hate to see how you’d handle a real problem. You can stick all your birds and your bees. Here, top that up would ya sweetheart. Can’t a girl get a drink around here? Anyways, where was I? Yeah, you guys have no clue about real srtuggle, real pain. I once knew a guy, real sweetheart he was too. The brown enormous odor he lived by was too close. Sometimes, mornings after drinking bouts ..the sunrise glazed the barnyard mud with red; the burning puddles seemed to reassure. And then he thought he might endure his exile another year or more. But evenings the first star came to warn. The farmer came to feed the animals, safe and companionable as in the ark. The poor guy had to watch as that old farmer went back to the warmth of his home and family, leaving him with the pigs, light - lashed, self-righteous. The lantern - like the sun going away- laid on the mud a pacing aureole. This one night, he was was going about his usual routine if you know what I mean ( he hid the pints behind a two-by- four) and a of bats burst out from the rafters, frightened the crap outta him he said. But do you guys know what? Something changed inside him then, he felt the bats’ uncertain staggering flight, his shuddering insights, beyond his control, touching him. Took a long time finally to make up his mind to go home. I know that feeling, can’t stay still, gotta keep movin’. You wanna talk about birds? What childishness is it that while there’s still a breath of life in our bodies, we are determined to rush to see the sun the other way around? The tiniest green hummingbird in the world? But surely it would have been a pity not to have seen the trees along this road, really exaggerated in their beauty.

Aw Emily, look at you getting all nostalgic and reflective. I knew there was a softie in there somewhere. Shuddup Eavan, you Irish know all about alcohol too. It’s a wonder you’re still standing. At least I travelled, went places, saw things. You guys should take a leaf outta the American’s book, spend more time livin’ and less fighting’. Look at the so called troubles you insist on whinging on about every time we get together. It’s no one’s fault but your own. Get over your prejudices and sectarian hatred once and for all. But then that’s your problem isn’t it, your inability to accept the part of your country allocated to you as home, aways wanting more. Or could Paschal have been not entirely right about just sitting quietly in one’s room? Continent, city, country, society; the choice is never wide and never free.

Maybe you’re right Emily, when I think of the pain and suffering caused, now forgotten. Oh but we, we are safe, our unformed fear of fierce commitment gone...for a second only my blood is still with atavism. Oh man, here we go, I’m sorry I said

anything. Listen, change the subject. Hows about we all go fishing tomorrow? Nothing I like more...who’s with me?

I don’t know Emily. I don’t really like fish. They make me uncomfortable. I don’t even like the water. Sometimes when I look in the mirror I imagine it to be alive and it talks about me behind my back. It’s possessed you know, that mirror. I can hear it sometimes. It whispers that it is silver and exact, unlisted by love or dislike..not cruel, only truthful. It thinks it is the eye of a little god or even a lake, said an old woman rises...day after day, like a terrible fish. That’s me it’s talking about you know! I hate this constant agitiation of hands, it gets worse when I’m tormented.

Ok, you’re off the hook Plath, no pun intended. I’m gonna go though. This one time I caught a tremendous fish. He didn’t fight..battered and venerable and homely..his brown skin hung in strips like ancient wallpaper. I could just imagine the coarse white flesh packed in like feathers..the pink swim bladder like a big peony..the irises backed and packed with tarnished tinfoil. That old guy had seen some battles I guess, just like me...he had a five-haired beard of wisdom, just like me...I stared and stared and victory filled up the little rented boat..until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go.

The collie curls himself up into a ball to shield himself from the bitter cold. The weak morning sun begins to reach through the clouds, caressing the skeletal frame of what was once an old Irish shebeen, or public house. From her holiday home across the way, Boland begins to waken from her sleepless slumber, as the ghosts of the greats gone before her dissolve into the morning mists, rolling across the silver expanse of glittering sea. 

Author's Note

I wrote this to try and help my students understand the different personality types of the poets as they think they're all the same - depressed! Not sure if it works however someone with talent could possibly work such an idea into a Stage Play some day.