Frank Ormsby in conversation with Anne Morrison for the Irish Cultural Centre, 2 May 2021 - now on YouTube. His second Ireland Professor of Poetry Lecture online 4...
They claim that cows won’t feed where sheep have fed.
Pathetic.
Don’t say the outcast has his dignity.
Perhaps it’s something not to thrive
on brawn, or trample those whose small stampedes
hurt no one; such victories are thin, cold
consolation.
Unbowed I claim my rights – to herd alone,
and be accepted. When I skirt
the rim of cattle drives, salute me,
and when I come to share your bunkhouse fire,
make room.
*
fromA Northern Spring
6 I Died In a Country Lane
I died in a country lane near Argentan,
my back to a splintered poplar,
my eyes on fields
where peace had not been broken
since the Hundred Years’ War.
And a family returned to the farm
at the end of the lane.
And Patton sent his telegram: ‘Dear Ike,
today I spat in the Seine.’
And before nightfall Normandy was ours.
8 I Stepped on a Small Landmine
I stepped on a small landmine in the bocage
and was spread, with three others, over a field
of burnt lucerne.
The bits they shipped to Georgia at the request
of my two sisters were not entirely me.
If dead men laughed, I would have laughed the day
the committee for white heroes honoured me,
and honoured too the mangled testicles
of Leroy Earl Johnson.
13 Apples, Normandy, 1944
Was it D+10 or D+12 we caught
the war artist sketching apples?
‘I’m sick of tanks,’ he said. ‘I’m sick of ruins.
I’m sick of dead soldiers and soldiers on the move
and soldiers resting.
And to tell you the truth, I’m sick drawing refugees.
I want to draw apples.’
For all we know he’s still sitting under a tree
somewhere between the Seine and Omaha,
or, russet with pleasure, striding past old dugouts
towards the next windfall –
sketch-books accumulating as he becomes
the Audubon of French apples,
or works on the single apple
– perfect, planetary – of his imagination.
*
The War Photographers
Working with one eye closed or heads buried
under their drapes, they focus to preserve
the drowned shell-hole, the salient’s rubble of dead,
the bleached bones of sepoys torn from the earth.
Their stills haunt us: a stretcher piled with skulls
at Cold Harbour, graves in a barren wood
that in one hour’s carnage lost its name
to history and the world’s memory of death.
The worst has happened, they confirm the worst:
but show us too the makeshift hospital,
the sad errand of the hospital van
among the ruins. Also enough of sky
to suggest the infinity of angles,
that behind sandbags, under the hostile towers
someone is finding time for a wry note
on bowel movements, an entry that affirms
the loved salience of what is always there:
flower of Auschwitz, bird of the Western Front.
*
Helen Keller
Brighter than gold trumpets, swords of light,
tougher than mailed fist or splendid spur
and softer than pelts in young fur-traders’ hands.
White as the white wings lifting from the ark,
those fingers moving in a soundless dark.
*
The Gate
I
There’s a gate in the middle of the field.
It leads into the middle of the field and out of it.
We lean on the gate in the hedge that leads into the field
and stare at the gate in the middle.
II
Travellers point to the gate in the middle of the field.
They approach and investigate. They invest the gate
with mysterious purpose. They want to interrogate
whoever put it there. They admire a gate
that has gatecrashed the middle of a field.
Let all gates have such freedom, they think, bar none.
III
We swing on the thought of a gate in the middle of a field,
where it has no business, long after the gate has gone.
‘Remember that gate?’ we say and at night in our dreams
we head for the space in the middle.
We pass in file through the space in the middle of the field
and close, always, reverently, the gate behind us.
*
Bog Cotton
They have the look
of being born old.
Thinning elders among the heather,
trembling in every wind.
My father turns eighty
the spring before my thirteenth birthday.
When I feed him porridge he takes his cap off. His hair,
as it has been all my life, is white, pure white.
Contents List
10 Introduction by Michael Longley
from A Store of Candles (1977)
19 The Practical Farms
19 /1 The Small Ads
19 /2 Economies
20 /3 A Fly in the Water
21 Landscape with Figures
22 Wet Leaves
23 Old Man on a Country Bus
24 McQuade
25 Calendars
26 Sheepman
27 My Friend Havelock Ellis
28 Spot the Ball
29 In Lieu of Carols
30 Stone
31 A Day in August
32 Ornaments
33 Winter Offerings
34 Mrs G. Watters
35 The Barracks
36 Windows
37 Moving In
38 Floods
39 In Memoriam
40 Passing the Crematorium
41 Aftermath
42 Under the Stairs
from A Northern Spring (1986)
45 Travelling
46 from A Northern Spring
46 /1 The Clearing
47 /3 Cleo, Oklahoma
48 /4 Lesson of the War
49 /5 The Padre
50 /6 I Died In a Country Lane
51 /8 I Stepped on a Small Landmine
52 /9 For the Record
53 /10 The Flamethrower
54 /11 The Liberation
55 /12 Maimed Civilians, Isigny
56 /13 Apples, Normandy, 1944
57 /14 They Buried Me in an Orchard
58 /15 The Night I Lost World War II
59 /18 On Devenish Island
60 /23 Darkies
61 /24 The Convoy
62 /25 A Cross on a White Circle
63 /26 Ste-Mère-Église
64 /30 Soldier Bathing
65 /31 Safe Home
66 /33 From the German
67 /35 Some of Us Stayed Forever
68 /36 Postscripts
69 Home and Away
70 News from Home
71 My Careful Life
72 The Bees’ Nest
73 Dailies
74 The War Photographers
75 Street Life
75 /1 Near Windsor Park
75 /2 Slum Terrace
76 /3 Mechanics
77 Survivors
78 Incurables
79 King William Park
80 Home
from The Ghost Train (1995)
83 Helen Keller
84 The Ghost Train
85 Geography
87 One Saturday
88 The Gatecrasher
89 The Gap on My Shelf
90 At Stoke Poges
91 The Graveyard School
92 from The Memoirs
93 In Retrospect
94 The Photograph
95 The Charlotte Gibson Bed
96 from A Paris Honeymoon
96 /1 L’Orangerie
96 /4 Le Père Lachaise
98 Lullaby
99 The Heart
100 You: The Movie
101 The Names
102 The Crossing
103 The Easter Ceasefire
104 Travellers
105 Come As You Are
106 Helen
from Fireflies (2009)
108 Fireflies
109 One Looks at One
110 The Kensico Dam
112 At the Lazy Boy Saloon and Ale Bar
113 from Valhalla Journal
113 /1 Next Stop
113 /3 In Kensico Cemetery
114 /4 After the Storm
115 Stormy Night, Route 87
116 What Will Survive
117 New World
118 Two Birthday Poems
118 /1 for Eoin Walden
118 /2 for Conor Walden
120 Some Older American Poets
121 On Not Hearing the American Nightjar
122 Catching Fireflies
122 /1 Fireflies in a Belfast Garden
122 /2 After the Japanese
123 /3 Firefly Hour
123 /4 The Celtic Firefly
125 The Aluminium Box
126 Silent Reading
127 The Rabbit
128 Smiling Foetus
129 The Hole in the Roof
130 Blackbirds, North Circular Road
131 from City Journal
131 /1 Aubade
132 /3 The Shirt Factory
133 /6 The Three Czechs
134 Small World
137 Colin Middleton: Lagan, Annadale (1941)
138 The Statues
139 The Gate
140 Some Spring Moons, North Circular Road
141 The Whooper Swan
142 The Builder
New Poems (2015)
I
144 Goat’s Milk
145 Photograph
146 Vigil
147 Winter
148 Treasure
149 Beauties
150 Sim Sala Bim
151 Bog Cotton
152 The Listener
153 Water
154 The Dippers
155 Holy Ireland
156 Crossing the Border
157 The Eleventh Hour
158 Captain Richard Outram Hermon
159 The Shoot
160 The Crows
161 Paris
162 The Confession Box
163 Blessing
164 The Book Lovers
165 The Tilley Lamp
166 The Goats
167 Judy
168 The Last Train
169 Tinkers
170 Dawn
171 Home Is the Hero
172 Cold Cases
173 Too Late to Ask
174 The Darkie
175 My Criminal Record
176 In the Dark
177 The Death of Brian Ború
178 Wake
179 Last Glimpse
180 My Father’s Funeral
181 Remains
II
182 The Second Joyful Mystery
183 The Birds
184 Forty Shades of Green
186 Small World (2)
187 Overdue
188 For Gabrielle
189 The Hour-glass
190 The Zebra Fish
192 Acknowledgements
Related Audio
Frank Ormsby was Editor of The Honest Ulsterman during one of the most illustrious phases of Irish poetry. He talks about the involvement of poets such as Heaney, Longley, Carson and Muldoon, and his own long career as a writer. His poems – modest, humorous, deeply felt and generally slow to appear – have latterly been written in a 'mad excitement' he remains suspicious of – 'the belated release of something'. Ormsby also talks movingly about suffering from Parkinson’s disease and its effect on his writing. He reads his poem 'Grandfather’s Week', published in The Poetry Review, 105:4. His latest book is Goat's Milk, New & Selected Poems, published by Bloodaxe in 2015.