Why?

Since Rupert and James Murdoch appeared before a select committee of the House of Commons in the hope that they might throw some light on the shenanigans at the News of the World, "that's a very good question" has become a stock phrase among interviewees. Apart from anything else, it shows the ease with which we can be influenced. The Murdoch's use it, the guy next to them uses it, and before you know it, we're all using it!

My understanding is that this form of flattery originated in America, but that it was more devious than that, because besides flattering the inquisitor, it was calculated to throw them off guard:. a stalling tactic, especially when there was something that the interviewee wasn't keen to talk about.

Well I have an in built resistance to all things American, even though I have no problem whatever with Americans. Like the rest of us they can be warm and friendly, and hard working, and personally and globally at times, a nuisance, but then, so too can we. What gets me going is not Americans, but creeping America, which drove me to distraction when we ascended a high mountain, (the name of which escapes me,) above the city of Barcelona. We were there for a day, and did the most important thing first; we took Leo to worship at Camp Nou. It was summer, and there wasn't a footballer in sight. So we sat high up among the gods listening to the sounds of pneumatic drills in the stadium below, and Leo loved it. But as soon as we arrived at the top of the mountain, for a panoramic view of this great Spanish city, my heart sank, for what first caught my eye were the table-tops, plastered in the Cocoa Cola logo. But believe me, I do like Americans, especially people like Mark Twain who wrote, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and George Steinbeck, who among other things, wrote The Grapes of Wrath, and East of Eden, but whom I remember best for, Travels With Charlie, an account of his search for America, and of course, his companion, Charlie, was a dog. And strange though it might seem, given that I am Irish, the poet that I feel most in touch with, is the American, Robert Frost.

Now if you are wondering what all this has to do with the question Why? and especially as I began with the Murdoch's and ended up with American Literature, it is simply a case of sitting down to write, and as we say, "going with the flow." And at that moment, the Murdoch's came immediately to mind. So going with the flow, and as I have just self-published my own poems, I want to explain Why? and convince you of the fact that self-publishing by authors who later went on to bigger and better things, is not that unusual. Our old friend Mark Twain did it, with Huckleberry Finn. Walt Whitman did it, with Leaves of Grass. Edgar Alan Poe, and  George Bernard Shaw, did it, as did T. S. Eliot, and Virginia Wolf. Among my own collection,  are limited and autographed editions of the poetry of Freda Downie, who was in her 50s before she published limited editions of her work. Today, (she died in 1993,) the "Collected" Freda Dowine is on sale, edited by George Szirtes.  

Though I started late, I have been writing poetry for at least a decade, correction, two decades, as I had  forgotten just how quickly time passes. And some of it was written in quiet places, the sort that lend themselves to quiet reflection and composition. But others, some of the best, were written sitting on the edge of a camp bed in a cramped room, with my niece and nephew round about; which, is as good an illustration as any, of the truth, that if you have something to say, and saying it is important, you will find a way.

Now like most writers, (and as I wasn't in the business of deluding myself,) I needed a yardstick by which to judge the quality of my work, so it wasn't long before my thoughts turned to poetry magazines, and poetry competitions. I entered a few, but without success. And in the absence of feedback I was really none the wiser. But that apart, and at first, I was disgruntled at being restricted to a maximum of forty lines, until I came to appreciate how much you could say in twenty. But a turning point of a sort came, when a family friend asked for my opinion of two poems written by a university teacher. They were in an anthology of new poems, and as Val had no special insight into the merits of poetry, but had kept the book, she wanted an opinion from me. Val and the teacher had met on holiday, and the poems were based on personal stories that she had told. The one that I especially remember, (and Val had given permission for the story to be used,) was an account of how, when living in Africa, and in an emergency, she had driven twenty miles on dirt roads to the nearest hospital, steering the car with one hand, while trying, with the other, to resuscitate the baby on her lap. It was Val's child, a cot death.

Well it was a delicate moment, not just because Val was a friend, but because I hadn't  heard of the magazine before; and whatever my opinion of the poems happened to be, I knew myself well enough, to know, that I wouldn't be lying to Val.

So I thought it best not to look specifically for her poems, but instead, to read the magazine from cover to cover, that way, I would be able to consider Val's poems in the context of the rest of the published work. The magazine was Envoi, and the more I read, the more impressed I was, so that when it came to discussing the poems with Val, I was able to be doubly reassuring.

Well, Envoi was just what I had been looking for, so I took a chance and submitted poems to be considered for publication, but without success. But I got a huge uplift from the then Editor. Not only was he not telling me, in his carefully constructed worksheet, that I needed to go back to the drawing board, or read more poetry, but he asked to see more of my work, and that for me was equivalent to winning the lottery.

But as time passed, so too did my view of poetry magazines, and poetry competitions. However good or useful they might be, you could never be certain as to what they were looking for, and more to the point, I though it wrong, that I should be writing with one eye as to what might be acceptable. What I should be doing, I told myself, is writing with conviction, and care, about what was important to me, and leave it to posterity to determine its value. But in taking this stand, I knew also, that standards apply, that it is not simply the case that because you think, a poem, is worthwhile, that it is. If it doesn't in one way or another capture the imagination of the reader, there is not much point.

Now on the question of standards and quality, this has been my biggest challenge. Jenny by training is a mathematician, and while she has always been a good reader of contemporary writers, poetry is to Jenny, what fog is to the traveller. So I don't have, what we might call a natural buddy, someone who shares my interest, will challenge my ideas, and push me beyond the boundaries of what I know I am capable of. Which is not to say that I haven't tried to find one. But poetry is a minority interest, and you would be surprised to know, just how reluctant people are, despite encouragement, to lay their opinions, and themselves, on the line.

So in broad terms, I know that my work has suffered on that account, for though I am constantly reminding myself of the standards that should apply, it is the hardest of all things, to push yourself beyond your known limits, in isolation. But that accepted, there is no excuse for not constantly heading in that direction.

Now whatever my deficiencies, a key word in this discussion is, belief, and it is belief that has taken me this far, and that has given me the confidence and will, to self-publish my poems. Why?

When distributing the book as a gift to family and friends, I made the point that it, of itself, was not going to change the world. But I expressed the hope that: "in some small way it will make a difference, as literature and art, (either consciously or unconsciously,) has made a difference in all our lives." And as a justification, I went on to say, that while each poem stands alone, taken together, "they represent a more complete, and, distinct voice, which is why I have decided that they are worth publishing."

As for the poems being taken together, to represent "a more complete and distinct voice," this idea is something that we can usefully look at, in the context of my parents.

If we take those poems that relate to my parents, while any one may be complete in itself, it does not represent a definitive view. To get a complete picture, you must bring together all those poems in which they are referenced. If, when reading, The Vigil, you focus solely on the awful conditions that I had to endure while sitting through the long hours of the night, with my drunken father, you have missed the point, because what I am driving towards, is a conclusion, which should be unexpected, and profound:

"But more remarkable, nay miraculous, is the truth
that despite what had gone before, and would come after,
she, whom you defiled,
would, when the time came,
wail at your passing."

A "passing" that I describe in, The End.

Here, and not withstanding  all that she had suffered, and the fact that she was being left a widow with eleven young children, and no money in the bank, a part of my mother, at the moment of my father's passing, was unquestionably dying:

""In pairs, and on either side, and on our knees,
we interceded, until the Almighty laid claim to his soul;
and his helpmate, whose very essence was being ripped apart,
cried to Heaven."

 And we can go further, when we read "Lodged in the caverns of my being."

"The caverns of my being," are the recesses of my memory, from which I recalled discoveries, fleeting moments of insight into the private and personal worlds that each of my parents inhabited. "A Few Words of Encouragement," was a religious tract, from which my mother drew strength, and which I came across by chance. And the crucifix that I found in an "undignified disheveled bed," was an unintended insight into my father's deepest feelings of need. These were fleeting moments, that almost defy description, like an intrusion into the confessional. And what in the broader context of these poems are we to conclude from Remembering.

This poem could be about any number of things, but for me what makes it shocking, is my response to my mother's plight: "Cast off she was, for the rock of self-reliance." What I have described, elsewhere, as the double whammy, or price that she, my mother paid, for being married to an alcoholic. The rejection was neither conscious nor wilful, but inevitable, once I concluded, (and it didn't matter whether I was right or wrong,) that I couldn't count on my mother, any more than on my father, for emotional support. And of course, it was only as an adult, that I came to the understanding that that was what had happened.

And just as I had no idea as to what was going on as a child, in relation to my mother in particular, I had no  comprehension either in, Genesis, of what was really going on, which is why, the last word in the poem is "Unwitting." An aspect of many of these poems is the extent to which, I was an observer, absorbing my surroundings. But while I studied the sea in all it's forms, I had no comprehension whatever as to how these turbulent forces were shaping my character, and so as to be an effective counterbalance to the negative influences at home. But the final stanza of the poem makes it unmistakably clear, because the waves, with "their writhing tentacles," were not pounding towards the shore, but "towards the nucleus of my being." Slowly I was learning not to be afraid, but to know that you can survive the worst excesses in nature; an understanding personified in, The Lifeboat.

Of course my poems are wide ranging, (as the provocative title suggests,) and go well beyond the immediate family. Many, such as, Paddy Johnson, Miss Mills, and Grandma, are character studies in context. There are contrasting views of Christmas, poems on travel, and poems on religious and political themes, and poems that you have to come from Ulster to fully appreciate. But however diverse, they are all part of the same fabric. But, given those poems that we have looked at in some detail, and however perverse it might seem, if you peel away at what I describe as the, "dark poems", at their core, the message is one of optimism, and that is what makes this voice, distinct. There is no self-pity. If you find anything else, then I have failed - to tell the truth.

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© Cormac McCloskey

  

If you would like a copy of these poems, contact me at cormace.mccloskey@yahoo.com There will be a charge for the book and the cost of posting, which I will advise you of. And you can pay via PayPal. Alternatively you can read these poems online, but having the book will be a user friendly experience. It ia nicely presented, and has has been  scrutinised by no less than three proof readers. Alternatively, you can go in to your library and ask for it, quoting ISBN 978-0-9568455-0-4.