Maurice
Harmon's poetry ranges from recreations
of an idyllic pastoral world on the Ardgillan estate in north
County Dublin to memories of psychological numbing at boarding
school to scenes of intellectual and sexual challenges and
confusions at University College, Dublin. These local settings
and experiences contrast with lyrics about the mystery and
beauty of Japanese culture and the mythopoeic sequences in
A Stillness at Kiawah. One of these draws analogies between
the experience of the native American Kiowas and the Irish
experience of similar injustice and dispossession; the other
explores the cruelties and intensities of a sexual relationship
in a post-colonial world.
About
the Author
Maurice
Harmon who was educated at University College Dublin
and Harvard University has written studies of Austin Clarke
and Thomas Kinsella. His "Sean O'Faolain. A Life" appeared
in 1994 and his edition "No Author Better Served. The Correspondence
between Samuel Beckett and Alan Schneider" in 1998. For
many years he was a distinguished and influential Professor
at University College, Dublin. He has been a Visiting Professor
at Ohio State University, the University of Washington,
Marshall University, Boston College and Kobe College. He
has published two poetry chapbooks, a collection of political
poems and satires -- "The Book of Precedence" (1994) and
"A Stillness at Kiawah" (1996). His poetry has appeared
in many periodicals.
Some
Poems from The
Last Regatta
by Maurice Harmon
The
Last Regatta
Beside
the tiny pool beside the house
I sometimes pause these late November days
to watch maple leaves flaring down
to
clear water and there upheld awhile,
red incorrigible sails that seek and find
the slightest breeze for one final run.
Although
no warnings here of gale-force winds
relay the ending of their carefree days
they are sinking slowly, water-logged,
and
swirling gently, listing into silt,
minute pyres burning softly down.
It is a good way to go, trim
and
tidy as they furl stricken sheets,
tighten lines, prepare for wet dock.
They've had their seasons and their seasons’ days,
have
hoisted tapestries to catch the breeze,
have known beauty in this temperate place
where a stone lantern keeps constant watch.
They
are ending passage now in their own way,
in their own time, untouched by human hand,
unhurried, unshaken, beyond the reach of man.
Letter
to My Daughter
The
cold up north drove them back at us.
They slithered across the path beside our feet,
burst through screens, breaking and entering.
The
place so musty we slept on the gallery floor,
conscious of timber racked behind our heads,
of rustling, slitherings along the roof.
Silence
stopped me when we came back here.
Sevenday locusts no longer had hysterics,
no longer blundered from the cherry trees.
Spider
hammocks sagged like fallen floors
in disused rooms. Sated dragon flies
no longer rode with swallows or with bats.
When
you told me your friend was dead,
that was the seasons final emptying,
good days drained, cold along the boards.
The
Return
I
sit by the pond
in the spell of ripple and fly
stand
under trees
in the poignancy of leaves
lie
offshore
in the fluency of stems
feel
the stone's tremor
in the drain of waves
see
pitch and stress
in the spider's web
find
conclusions
in a grain of sand
discover
an air
coldly sufficient
reliable
as the avenue of yew
(Copyright
Maurice Harmon 2000. All Rights Reserved.)
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