The use of poetry

“In the 1980s and 1990s the emphasis in secondary schools was that students should be steeped in commerce, technology and computer literacy. Everything had to be ‘relevant’, whatever that means”

SECOND READING
Fr Kevin Hegarty

I like visiting literary shrines. They remind me of how God has brightened our world in poetry and prose. I am presumptuous enough to think that I now live near one. In the last two months, I have set up home in a charming house in Carne.
The significant 19th century Gaelic poet, Riocaird Bairéad, once lived in the vicinity. I am not surprised that he was inspired into verse by his exquisite surroundings, looking out on Blacksod Bay.
Recently I have re-read some of his poems. In these February days, as the gloom of winter gives way to the gaiety of spring, walking early in the morning, I believe I have sensed the resonance of his presence.
Pretentious fallacy, rationalists may say. Cop yourself on, Kevin! Don’t lose the run of yourself. However, I believe I am entitled to my dreams. Yeats once wrote:
“I have spread my dreams beneath your feet,
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”
I once taught poetry for a living. When I was a young, obedient priest – yes, I know that was a long time ago – the bishop ordered me to teach in a secondary school. I was a reluctant teacher. I hated the tyranny of preparing students for examinations.
It was a difficult time to teach the humanities. In the 1980s and 1990s the emphasis in secondary schools was that students should be steeped in commerce, technology and computer literacy. Everything had to be ‘relevant’, whatever that means. English and history, which I taught, were seen as indulgences which had little value in the market place.
Given the prevailing ‘wisdom’ in the system, it was not surprising that students questioned the value of poetry. I remember one day, when I was trying to unleash the wonder of a Shakespearean love sonnet for a class, a student put up his hand and asked ‘what use is poetry?’ I was flummoxed by the question and stuttered a glib response to the effect that poetry is useless, which is why we should try to enjoy it.
Many years later I received an affirmation of sorts for my endeavours. I often read poems, not on the curriculum, to the students. One day at a wedding a former student said to me: “Do you remember those poems you used to read to us. I could never have said it at the time but I enjoyed them. You might not believe this but I bought a book of poems by Heaney, the fellow you used to be on about, the other day.” I felt my years at the chalkface had not been in vain!
Poets are the legislators of the world of the spirit. They illuminate for us the power of love and the pain of grief. They interrogate the silences that most of us have about the great questions of life and death.
May I share with you one of my favourite poems of spring, ‘The Trees’, by Philip Larkin? It evokes the actuality of renewed hope. Though Larkin disdained formal religion, for me it is a poem of Resurrection:
“The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.

Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too.
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.

Yet still the unvesting castles thresh
In full grown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.”

Poetry has recently been in the news in Ireland, though in a rather unfortunate way. There is a controversy over ‘Fairytale of Kathmandu’, a film on the life of the Donegal poet, Cathal Ó Searcaigh. The trailers for the film have concentrated on Ó Searcaigh’s sexual experiences with young men in Nepal. I have not seen the film so I am not going to comment on it.
There have been calls to remove his fine poetry from the secondary school syllabus. I understand that these calls have been aired on the Joe Duffy show. I have a low expectation of enlightenment from that source.
I found it disturbing that the Minister for Education, Mary Hanafin, agreed with the Fine Gael spokesperson, Brian Hayes, that the appearance of the poetry on the syllabus could ‘cause difficulty’. I am not so sure what she means by that but it should never be state policy that the literary or artistic merit of an artist’s work should be judged on his or her sexuality.
I missed that dismal exchange in the Dáil because I took a short spring break last week in Scotland. I took the opportunity of visiting a literary shrine, the birthplace of Robert Burns, the iconic Scottish poet. He was born in 1759 at Galloway, near Ayr. The family circumstances were modest. Samuel Johnson, in his archly patronising English way, once said that ‘Much may be made of a Scotsman, if he be caught young’.
Robert’s father did not need Johnson to tell him that. He ensured his son received a good education. His mother had a vast repository of traditional Scottish songs. From this foundation Robert Burns, in his short life of 37 years, created the literary legacy that has made him Scotland’s national poet. Some of his works, like ‘A Red, Red Rose’, take their place in a universal literary canon. His ‘Auld Lang Syne’ is murdered every New Year’s eve in pubs and at parties across the English-speaking world.
Later in the afternoon of that day I went to a race meeting at Ayr. I know nothing about race-horses but, listening intently to the combined wisdom of my friends, I had three winners. I was not much wealthier at the end of it all but I felt enriched by my visit to where Robert Burns had first pitched his tent. On my return to Carne, I saw in a little biographical note on Riocaird Bairéad that he had been an avid reader of Burns. There was a happy serendipity about the week!