Anna's Postcard

Recently, while walking the dog, I had an idea: I would return to a draft poem that I had abandoned some ten years ago, and have another go. In its present form it runs to four pages of A4; and though it is good in places, I had abandoned it because I had failed to get much beyond the sequential and the literal. What I had tried, and failed to do, was to take the reader on pilgrimage: to one of the most penitential religious shrines in the world; and in doing so, to capture the experience in all its rawness; and to point up the seeming contradiction: the struggle between a spiritual life that caused me to go there twice in my teenage years, and my nature, that instinctively rebelled against the idea of being there. And if my first thought was to reconstruct the poem, my second, was to tell the story in narrative form. A story encapsulated in, "Anna's Postcard".

On a map of Ireland you would have to look closely to spot Lough Derg: (the place we are headed for), because your eye would instantly be drawn to Lough Neigh: a large hole in the ground, that borders all six counties of what is known as Northern Ireland. Legend has it, that Lough Neigh is the consequence of a dispute between giants. Finn McCool, (I think it was), picking up a clod of earth, flung it at his rival in Scotland. But, either it was too heavy (even for a giant), or his aim was poor. Because instead of going north, the clod went east, and landing in the Irish Sea became the Isle of Man. The Lough Derg that we are interested in, (for there are two of them), is over to the west and altogether more obscure, in Donegal, in a far corner of which, is a small austere island, not much bigger "than a postage stamp". Since Medieval times, it has been a place of pilgrimage: of fasting, prayer and penance. It is St. Patrick's Purgatory; the shorthand for which is, "Lough Derg".

Now as I, failed in my task, of writing a poem on the subject, I think I should draw your attention to two of my fellow countrymen, accomplished poets, men of the same generation, but of different social backgrounds, who, succeeded in writing about Lough Derg. They are Patrick Kavanagh and Dennis Devlin. As a poet, Kavanagh was largely self-taught. The son of a cobbler, he began life as a shoemaker, before turning his hand to farming, which he later abandoned in search of a literary life in Dublin; a life that was only moderately successful. He worked as a film critic, and gossip columnist, and wrote his autobiography: "The Green Fool", which, along with his poems he rejected, describing them as "stage Irish rubbish". But despite his harsh self criticism and his acknowledgment that heavy drinking had marred his later career, he had some noted literary achievements. Dennis Devlin, on the other hand, was a classical scholar and diplomat, who besides being educated at the National University in Dublin, studied at Munich and the Sorbonne; and at the time of his death was the Irish Ambassador to Italy. And both men called their poems, Lough Derg.

In the preamble to Kavanagh's poem in the Field Day Anthology of Irish Writing, we are told that he is "trying to come to terms with his own ambiguous feelings about Irish Catholicism". And in that portion that is presented in the Anthology, (for the poem runs to 21 pages), it is suggested, that at this point he is, seeking "to discover a mystical significance to the Medieval ritual." Devlin's poem, on the other hand, is peppered with classical references, because he is attempting in his approach to the subject, to set: "Irish Catholicism in the context of European expressions of the Roman Catholic faith." What he sees in Lough Derg, are: "Irish manifestations of aesthetic tendencies in the universal church and in religion in general..."

Of the two I prefer Kavanagh, because it is less scholarly and therefore more accessible. But this passage from Devlin is a clearly expressed sense of what is going on:

   "The poor in spirit on their rosary rounds,
The jobbers with their whiskey-angered eyes,
The pink bank clerks, the tip-hat papal counts,
And drab, kind women their tonsured mockery tries,
Glad invalids on penitential feet
Walk the Lord's majesty like the village street."
_____

In his poem, and perhaps echoing Christ's disciples, Kavanagh claims to be writing about what he has experienced:

   "All happened on Lough Derg as it is written
In June nineteen-forty-two
When the Germans were fighting outside Rostov.
The poet wrote it down as best he knew,
As integral and completed as the emotion
Of men and women cloaking a burning emotion
In the rags of the commonplace will permit him.
He too was one of them. He too denied
The half of him that was his pride
Yet found it waiting, and the half untrue
Of this story, is his pride's rhythm."

_____

Be that as it may, in Kavanagh's poem, I detect poetic licence; something that I will return to later. But first, a picture.

St Patrick's Purgatory is a small island the very antitheses of Venice: an austere place, where, in keeping with the idea of penance, there is nothing that is pleasing to the eye; not even the basilica, that has the feel of a tomb rather than of a church. To the front of the basilica, by the waters edge, is an area of jagged rock, into which are set a network of low circular walls, the remnants of hermits cells. These are known as the penitential beds, and in close proximity, are other focal points for prayer. St Patrick's Cross and St Brigid's Cross. The only other buildings are a small chapel set well apart from the Basilica, a priests house, separate hostels for men and women, and the jetty for the boats that bring pilgrims to and from the island. The pilgrimage is a three day period of fasting, prayer and penance, that begins after midnight on the first day, and ends at midnight on the third day. It is the fast that begins on the first day, before the pilgrim has left home; and the only food to be eaten on the evening of the first day on the island, will be black tea and dry bread. On each day there is a prescribed sequence of prayers and religious services to be followed. The prayers said in and around the basilica, and in and around the penitential beds, are known as Stations, and the prayers associated with these Stations, are repeated ad nauseam. And the black tea and dry bread on the first day, can not be taken until a specified number of these Stations have been completed. From arrival to departure, the pilgrims, young and old, and regardless of the weather, make their way among the jagged rocks in their bare feet. A process that can involve queuing, and painfully slow progress according to the number of pilgrims. And young and old, on the first night, are deprived of sleep. Instead, through the night hours, many of the the Stations that otherwise would be completed out of doors on the second day, are completed inside the basilica. Here, the prayers are lead by a pilgrim, sometimes a pilgrim priest, and the responses recited aloud as the pilgrims shuffle the isles, standing and kneeling and moving in the same circular motion as they would around the exterior and interior of the penitential beds. Between the stations, there are periods of rest, when the pilgrims may go outside to breathe in the night air. And not withstanding the vigil, this period ends with the exposition of the Blessed Sacrament, morning prayers, the celebration of Mass, the blessing of pious objects, and the issuing of indulgences attached to the pilgrimage. With new pilgrims arriving each day, the temptation to envy is guaranteed. For as you struggle to stay awake through the long night, you know that those pilgrims who have completed the second day on the island, are sleeping soundly in their bunks.

As a consequence of the all night vigil, and though there are a specified number of Stations to be completed on the second day, the pilgrims have time to themselves, ideally to prepare for Confession and absolution. But it is time also for making the acquaintance of fellow pilgrims, and for not thinking too much about those pilgrims who, on the third day have recovered their shoes, and are making their way to the jetty for the journey home.

Now perhaps I was unwise to try to capture all this detail, and more, in a poem, as well as the paradox of wanting and not wanting to be there at one and the same time. But now, with a lifetime of experience behind me, and the need to re-evaluate some important aspects of my life, it was inevitable that I would look back. And what surprised me when I first began working on the poem, was my response on re reading the program for the 1961 pilgrimage. As I read through the highly prescriptive and intense ritual of prayer, I was struck by what I saw as its excess: what I called, "spiritual gluttony", for it seemed a mirror image of the self indulgence, that among other things, brings people to Lough Derg to pray and do penance. It was as though we were being asked to over indulge spiritually, as a counterbalance to our lesser natures; and somehow, this form of prescribed excess, seemed misplaced.

So what then of my poem: the bits that I liked, or that I thought were especially significant, (even if, I failed to convey them effectively), and of Patrick Kavanagh, Lough Derg today, and Anna's Postcard.

One of the interesting things about what it is to be human, is the lengths to which we sometimes go to circumvent the rules. In my own case, the fast associated with the pilgrimage; and with a little help:

   "I went there for my sins, twice,
And was a hero before leaving home.
Even my landlady, Molly, wearied from toil,
Cooked a huge fry fornenst midnight,
Then left me alone to eat it."

The thought of my going on pilgrimage, hungry, was more than Molly's generous heart could bear. And that despite the fact that she was weary from toil: from looking after her own teenage children, and four adult lodgers; and from having (for perfectly honourable family reasons), to live apart from her husband, Peter, who came visiting twice a week. She had never been to Lough Derg, and had I been her own son, rather than a lodger, she could not have been more generous.

And here is how, (again, from the human point of view), I tried to capture that awesome moment: the point of no return:

   "Then quietly herded into broad-beamed boats
And set strangely low in the water,
We ploughed our way across the swell
The ripples shaded, spouting as they passed,
Like wearied souls, warning us of our fate
On that purgatory of cold grey stone."

The basilica, I described as a "living tomb", into, and out of which, "living souls" silently passed in what was, an "orgy of prayer and carnal pain", before going on to describe that first approach to the penitential beds:

   "Those circular walls set in jagged rock,
Around which, before which, and within which,
Pater's, Ave's and Creed's subdued the flesh.
And where the pilgrim, with faltering gait, Welcomed -
The silent guardian with outstretched hand."

Now for all that I would experience and grumble about later in the poem, this for me, was the most symbolic and therefore spiritual moment in the pilgrimage; a moment that far surpassed my willingness to do penance. The silent hand, outstretched, was that of a stranger, a fellow pilgrim, who, having time to spare on the second day, was helping the faint-hearted to overcome their fear of the stones, and get going. And when that, silent hand, was outstretched to me, at my moment of need, it was a truly spiritual experience, a moment of release and grace. But it didn't stop me grumbling, for here is how I described the Vigil:

   "Then as respite from unfamiliar penance,
And as assurance and fortification for the vigil,
(That penitential period of abstinence from sleep),
A feast - of varied and familiar devotions
Before the drab basilica echoed and re-echoed
To voices in unison proclaiming -
"Our Father, who art in Heaven...".
And flatly, "Hail Mary full of grace...",
While still in our cold, bare feet.
And with the oppressive blackness of night
Pressing in through the high sanctuary windows,
We walked the isles and as instructed,
Stood, and knelt, enacting the penitential beds.
At 12:15 am, the fourth Station commences.
More Pater Noster's, more Ave's, and a Creed.
At 1:45 am, the fifth Station commences.
More Pater Noster's, more Ave's, and a Creed.
At 3:15 am, the sixth Station commences.
More Pater Noster's, more Ave's, and a Creed.
At 5:00 am, the seventh Station commences.
More Pater Noster's more Ave's and a Creed.
And between each Station, seemingly dreary homilies,
From seemingly dreary and vain pilgrim priests.
Until hope in daylight, and fresh air
Began to permeate through the basilica doors.
And longing - to be embraced by nature's light.
And drink the draught of natures space."

Now this is the point in the story, where, I am minded of Patrick Kavanagh, who, in his poem, drifts between the banal and the mystical, as here, in his account of the vigil:

   "A schoolmaster from Roscommon led
The vigil prayers that night.
"Hail Queen of Heaven" they sang at twelve.
Someone snored near the porch. A bright
Moon sailed in from the County Tyrone
By the water route that he might make
Queer faces in the stained glassed windows.
Why should the sun have all the fun?"

A part of Patrick Kavanagh's technique in constructing his poem, was, as it were, to refer back to the wider island of Ireland, and draw the people in. As here, where he references the county of Tyrone. But what left me with a sharp intake of breath, was his idea of the Moon, personified, making "Queer faces in the stained glassed windows". Was it, I wondered, a case of my aged memory playing tricks? And if not, what was Patrick up to? given his description of the basilica as a "prison" and my describing it, as, a "whited sepulture". Here, I think, is a case of poetic licence, a moment in the poem where we are reminded of other worlds, and not least, the uncomplicated and accepting world of the child. For here I am reminded of Silver, by Walter de la Mare; one of the first, children's poems, that we learned at school:

   "Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon;
This way, and that, she peers and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Crouched in his kennel like a log
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep;
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam,
By silver reeds in a silver stream."
_____

And Patrick Kavanagh's poem, is also more all embracing than my own, for in its construction he makes the acquaintance of specific people, and purports to know of their many and varied motives for doing penance: from the defrocked friar who got a girl pregnant, to the solicitor who, wants a good job; and the mothers who either want their husbands restored to health, (perhaps to stop drinking), or their daughters to do well in their exams. For my own part, on the actual pilgrimage, I never thought to question, or presumed to know, what it was that had brought others to this particular purgatory, seeing their reasons for being there, as private. But I followed my uncle Bernard's advice, and on the second day, made my way to the men's hostel to listen to the conversation of those gathered around the stove. A pious and sentimental man, and a pharmacist by occupation, uncle Bernard had assured me that this too was a hallowed spot: a place renowned for its oratory, where men of unknown pedigree, scholars and non scholars alike, by tradition, held forth as equals. Here is that moment, as I described it, but with an ending that was unforeseen:

"And I for my part, as recommended,
Sought legendary inspiration from among the hospice sages
Men of the sod, who, herded together
Around the vat of Lough Derg soup.
Old weather-beaten, and young robust men.
Legendary masters in the art of conversation.
So I listened intently and more intently
As their babble rebounded on bare stone,
Until I withdrew, amazed and uncomprehending
Of mysterious brogues from as far South,
As mine, was from the far North."

Now if I was guilty of gently pointing the finger at Patrick Kavanagh, for presuming to know the motives that brought his fellow pilgrims to Lough Derg, I too am guilty of the same offence, in my treatment of the "Second day". For I attributed to my own fellow pilgrims, my less noble sentiments:

"And now embarked on the second day
With confession and the ninth station completed,
And mindful of the adage old:
"That the devil makes work for idle hands",
The penance now was to stay awake;
While subduing the pangs of hunger
For wads of bread and black tea.
So noting the timelessness of the Lough,
And sensing the oppressiveness of the place,
We drew strength from the certain knowledge
That we were not in that boat
Of new pilgrims arrived at the jetty.
Or in that new and patient queue
Of young and old in their rainwear,
For the first of the penitential beds.
And we noted with envy, the priest,
Who, in his cassock and in his shoes
And eagle eyed, scrutinised the young
For the slightest hint of unbecoming character."

Now as we sailed away from Lough Derg on the third day, and though I am uncertain about it, something deep inside, is telling me, that someone struck up the hymn "Hail Glorious St Patrick". A dry hymn if ever there was one; and one that after fifty years of living, "in the real world", I have come to dislike, as I have the shamrock, that in my poem, "The Red Hand Of Ulster" I describe as "insipid". It is a case, I think, of wanting to get away from the mythical Ireland, and the lie, that we were a virtuous race and somehow a uniquely oppressed people. As I see it, now, with the passage of time, we were, and are, no more virtuous than the rest of humanity. And the most basic truth of all, is, that we need each other; as I at Lough Derg needed the silent outstretched hand. As for the future of this form of penance that goes back at least a thousand years, "Bob's your uncle"; for change is upon us! And as they used to say, (and probably still do), "God moves in mysterious ways!"

So why didn't I call my poem Lough Derg, as I might have done, and at least have had that in common with Patrick Kavanagh and Dennis Devlin? Well, here's why.

I was about fourteen at the time, and staying at my grandmothers house, when my aunt Kathleen came into the kitchen with the post, and remarked that there was a postcard from Lough Derg. She was a woman of simple faith and simple habits; and in her generally disheveled state, you would never have guessed that she had a past that was uniquely her own. But I got an unexpected insight, when I overhead her wistfully reflecting on what might have been: "when I think", she said, "of some of the old boyo's that I could have been away with!" Well reaching across the counter for her glasses, and looking studious, she had barely glanced at the card when she roared with laughter. A knowing laugh from the very depth of her being. The card was from Anna, her niece; and on it, in one crisp sentence, she had unwittingly spoken for centuries of pilgrims: for all but the most devout. For on it, Anna had written:

"Wishing you were here, instead of me!"

_____

© Cormac McCloskey

The full and revised version of this poem can be found:  here
Lough: The Anglo-Irish spelling of loch
Finn McCool: (Fionn mac Cumhaill ) Mythical figure associated with the legends of Ireland, Scotland and the Isle of Man

Dennis Devlin: 1908-1959
Lough Derg: The Field Day Anthology Of Irish Writing Vol. III : 1991
ISBN 0 946755 20 5

Patrick Kavanagh: 1904-1967
Louygh Derg: Penguin Modern Classics.
Patrick Kavanagh Collected Poems: 2004
ISBN 0-141-186-933

"huge fry fornenst midnight": An assortment of meats and breads cooked on a frying pan, and almost certainly in those days, in pure Lard, (fat).

Vigil timetable: Patrician Year Pilgrimage... 1961
Molly & Peter NcGill: The last of the four families that I lodged with in Larne, between 1958-1960
"living souls" as distinct from Nikolai Gogol's "Dead Souls"
Pater's: alluding to Pater Noster, the Latin version of the Lords Prayer
Creed: A prayer that is a quite specific statement of belief. i..e. The Apostles Creed: "I believe in God..." etc.
Walter de la Mare : English poet and author. 1873-1956
"Bub's your uncle": colloquial expression, that implies, not knowing, or having no idea.
Anna: Anna Chretien: An older sister.
St Patrick's Purgatory, Lough Derg:
Lough Derg: Visit here
(Apart from the new buildings that have appeared since 1961, it appears from the photographs, that they have invested in a job lot of grass-seed, especially in the area of the penetential beds)

Note: This blog, "Anna's Postcard", was first published on Windows Live Spaces, by me, on 10th July 2009