Celebrating Irish Culture. Matthew Sweeney: "It is often said that behind the English of an Irish poet is the ghost of the Irish language..."

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Matthew Sweeney is a contemporary Irish poet who writes poetry both for grown-ups and for children. He was born in County Donegal in 1952, went to school in Ireland and to University College, Dublin, then studied English and German in London and Germany. His poetry is  rich with tone and atmosphere, as well as humour, although, rather black humour! An interview with Matthew Sweeney can be found here.

Here are some of his poems that I personally like very much. 
None of them is your typical children's poem, mind you, one needs to read them out loud several times to feel the rhythm, find the rhymes (there are rhymes in them! just look closer!), and finally fall in love with them. They are truly beautiful

Fishbones Dreaming (press the title to hear Matthew Sweeney read it)
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Fishbones lay in the smelly bin.
He was a head, a backbone and a tail.
Soon the cats would be in for him.

He didn’t like to be this way.
He shut his eyes and dreamed back.
 
Back to when he was fat, and hot on a plate.
Beside green beans, with lemon juice
squeezed on him. And a man with a knife
and fork raised, about to eat him.

He didn’t like to be this way.
He shut his eyes and dreamed back.
 
Back to when he was frozen in the freezer.
With lamb cutlets and minced beef and prawns.
Three months he was in there.

He didn’t like to be this way.
He shut his eyes and dreamed back.
 
Back to when he was squirming in a net,
with thousands of other fish, on the deck
of a boat. And the rain falling
wasn’t wet enough to breathe in.

He didn’t like to be this way.
He shut his eyes and dreamed back.
 
Back to when he was darting through the sea,
past crabs and jellyfish, and others
like himself. Or surfacing to jump for flies
and feel the sun on his face.

​He liked to be this way.
He dreamed hard to try and stay there.


THE FIELD

Where the boy sees cattle
there was a battle
but the boy doesn’t know it.
How could he know it?
He sees a field,
no sign of a shield
or an axe, or a sword,
not a cross word,
not a single shout,
just grass on the snout
of a bullock
as he stands on a rock,
chewing,
then mooing
till the boy walks on.
But when the sun
sinks in the sea
the boy would see,
Instead of a farmer,
Ghosts in armour
On ghost-horses.
He’d hear curses,
and the night-sky
miles high
would ring with steel
striking steel,
and the ghostly dead
and the odd head
would lie on the ground,
but not a sound
will the boy hear.
He won’t be near.
He’ll be home in bed,
as good as dead.

It's interesting how easy it is to forget about old times and old fought battles, from centuries ago. English  - and Irish! - soil is full of such places! From the middle ages, with warriors wearing armour, shields, axes (!!!) and swords. It all sounds more like a scene from a fantasy book. But it all happened!

BLUE HAIR
 
In between the dinner ladies
runs the blue-haired boy,
spilling beans and jelly,
and all us kids are yelling
‘Catch him! Catch Blue Hair!’
though mostly we like him,
would like to be like him
but wouldn’t dare. And look,
he’s out front again –
the forks are clattering down –
and haring past our tables,
our laughing, screaming tables,
with five teachers in pursuit
(they’ll never catch Blue Hair!).
And none of us can eat,
we’re banging with our spoons,
blowing with our breaths,
erupting in a roar
as Blue Hair dodges everyone
and bursts out the door.

I just love the lines "though mostly we like him, would like to be like him" with three meanings of the word "like" coming one after another!

СOWS ON THE BEACH
Two cows,
fed-up with grass, field, farmer,
barged through barbed wire
and found the beach.
Each mooed to each:
This is a place to be,
a stretch of sand next to the sea,
this is the place for me.
And they stayed there all day,
strayed this way, that way,
over to rocks,
past discarded socks,
ignoring the few people they met
(it wasn’t high season yet).
They dipped hooves in the sea,
got wet up to the knee,
they swallowed pebbles and sand,
found them a bit bland,
washed them down with sea-water,
decided they really ought  to
rest for an hour.
Both were sure
they’d never leave here.
Imagine, they’d lived so near
and never knew!
With a swapped moo
they sank into sleep,
woke to the yellow jeep
of the farmer
revving there
feet from the incoming sea.
This is no place for cows to be,
he shouted, and slapped them
with seaweed, all the way home.

There's an interesting place here in the 4th line from the end. It takes some effort to grasp the meaning of "feet". 

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