By Chris Arthur (auth.)
Striking views on family members, position, and reminiscence from a different and revered voice in modern Irish writing.
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Extra info for Irish Elegies
Sample text
We have had countless transactions with them. Who knows which hand first picked the first rosebud and with what intent? Which mind first suspected their rich metaphorical cargo, who first used it to describe the rosary of prayer? What view of humanity emerges if we tug on this rose-filament rather than, say, our war-filament? If this was the nerve of human activity and interest we abstracted from our time upon this planet, how would we appear? If we could document each scent-laden intake of the breath, bearing secretly to the brain a cocktail of messages, ROSARY 43 promises, temptations; if we could trace out the birth of every cultivar, each one appreciated in the wild, each time the deep crimson blooms stood by bedsides in which love’s transactions were dreamed of, or where the throes of passion trembled the petals, sometimes occasioning them to fall like heavy, blood engorged carnal snowflakes, what kind of pictures might then come into flower?
Buddhist rosaries have 108 beads, the number of frailties the mind must overcome en route to enlightenment. Rosary beads have been made of a wide variety of substances—everything from wood and clay and date stones to precious metals and gems. There are rosaries made of coral and of horn, of cannabis seeds inlaid with silver. Is there any reason why such a ritual abacus should not be made of roses and be of garden rather than garland size? There would have been vastly more blooms in Jim’s garden than any of the usual religious totals.
Is the memory-splinter metaphor enough to account for, to justify, this revelation of Jim Rainey’s pain? Granted, I’ve used the disguise of assumed names rather than real ones, but is his suicide not better discretely covered over, quietly forgotten rather than written about? ROSARY 41 Does decency not demand that such things be considered sub rosa? We draw a veil over the faces of the dead, is what I’ve attempted here not like some distasteful act of necrophilic voyeurism? And, in any case, in terms of a writer’s range of topics, why focus on so slightly remembered a person with so sad an end, whose final act is now so resistant to understanding?