JAMES HARPUR
James Harpur’s forthcoming book, Angels and Harvesters, is due from Anvil Press in spring, 2012. He has published four other volumes of poetry with Anvil Press, including his latest, The Dark Age, which won the 2009 Michael Hartnett Prize. Anvil have also published Fortune’s Prisoner, his translation of the poems of Boethius. He lives near Clonakilty in West Cork.
A Churchyard Ghost in West Cork
After Horace Odes 1.28
For Rosemary Canavan and Joe Creedon
Visitor, come over here and leave
The tomb of Smith, my fellow soldier;
His ghost has long since left his bones,
Which were discreetly bedded down
Like mine in corners of this graveyard,
Our little patch of grass and stones
Among the hills we loved, and feared.
We were, you see, two Englishmen
Buried among Cotters and O’Learys,
Neighbours in death, if not in life.
We may have lived a hundred years
Apart, but war remained the same
For both of us, the ambushes,
Assassinations and reprisals;
We did our duty to the death
And were disposed of in the bog
Which closed around our contours.
That Tartarean bog! It clings
To everyone without distinction,
The murderers and the murdered
The soldier and miscarried baby –
It’s like a great enfolding memory
Spread out across this country’s soul
Preserving identities;
And it’s a purgatory too
Leeching our blood and guilt and hate
To leave a husk of innocence.
Visitor, the bog returned young Smith –
He surfaced from the oozing turf
Within six months; the air still sickly
With burials and grieving for the dead
And sharpened by the bitter-lipped lament,
By the valley of Keimaneigh
I live where the deer come at night
For their rest …
and Smith was laid
Within this ancient burial place.
And as for me, Lieutenant Guthrie,
All I recall are bullets faster
Than seconds, and the Crossley tenders
Ablaze and shouts and screams,
The pulse of running for my life,
Kneeling down among some trees,
And darkness filling up my head
The sense of flowing from my body
As it was sinking in the bog.
I stayed for half a dozen years
Before my body was exhumed
Reburied in this hallowed ground
Like Smith’s. A heaviness, unease,
Remains in me: I can’t remember
The killings, torchings carried out
And if I dragged my heels or not.
I spend my days in endless vigil
Watching the cars and tractors pass,
People scrutinizing headstones
And couples courting in the shadows.
Visitor, please, come over here –
Yes you who walk among the tombs
Towards the chapel, where you’ll see
The only ornament is ivy
And windows frame the flight of birds.
Come here and say a prayer for me
Or place a flower on my grave –
Even a dandelion or vetch –
To help me leave this world. Do this
And you will have my gratitude
And blessings; please don’t refuse,
Just think if you were in my place.
You may be young but time moves fast,
Omnis una manet nox
There’s one night waiting for us all.
I know you’re in a rush, but stay;
It won’t take long to say a prayer
Then you can go, rejoin your life.
©2012 James Harpur
Author Links
James Harpur Homepage
Harpur at Anvil Press
Extended bio and poems at Poetry International Web
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