(2000–)
JAMES BERRY Englan Voice
ROY FISHER The Nation
RUTH FAINLIGHT Handbag
ANNE STEVENSON Willow Song
FLEUR ADCOCK Immigrant
BRENDAN KENNELLY Begin
MICHAEL LONGLEY River & Fountain
DEREK MAHON Dreams of a Summer Night
DOUGLAS DUNN Extra Helpings
EILÉAN NÍ CHUILLEANÁIN Swineherd
AONGHAS MACNEACAIL gaelic is alive
HUGO WILLIAMS When I Grow Up
DAVID CONSTANTINE New Year Behind the Asylum
PAUL DURCAN Tullynoe: Tête-à-Tête in the Parish Priest’s Parlour
EAVAN BOLAND The Achill Woman
KIT WRIGHT How the Wild South East was Lost
TOM LEONARD ‘Unrelated Incidents’ – No. 3
WENDY COPE Shakespeare at School
LIZ LOCHHEAD Bagpipe Muzak, Glasgow 1990
CIARAN CARSON Belfast Confetti
DENISE RILEY Poor Snow
JOHN AGARD Listen Mr Oxford Don
GILLIAN ALLNUTT Alien
MEDBH MCGUCKIAN To a Cuckoo at Coolanlough
SHEENAGH PUGH I think someone might write an elegy
PAUL MULDOON Incantata
LINTON KWESI JOHNSON Inglan is a Bitch
ROBERT MINHINNICK The Orchids at Cwm y Gaer
SEAN O’BRIEN Cousin Coat
NUALA NÍ DHOMNAILL Aubade
IAN DUHIG From the Irish
JO SHAPCOTT Phrase Book
IMTIAZ DHARKER I swear
MONIZA ALVI Presents from my Aunts in Pakistan
PAULA MEEHAN Seed
JOHN BURNSIDE The Singer
LACHLAN MACKINNON On the Roof of the World
JEAN ‘BINTA’ BREEZE The Wife of Bath Speaks in Brixton Market
SARAH MAGUIRE From Dublin to Ramallah
MAURA DOOLEY The Women of Mumbles Head
ROBERT CRAWFORD The Numties
PAUL HENRY Song of a Wire Fence
JACKIE KAY Pride
W. N. HERBERT Mappamundi
IFOR AP GLYN Elevation
GLYN MAXWELL Flood Before and After
KATHLEEN JAMIE Mr and Mrs Scotland Are Dead
LAVINIA GREENLAW Blackwater
SIMON ARMITAGE To the Women of the Merrie England Coffee Houses, Huddersfield
DON PATERSON A Private Bottling
PATIENCE AGBABI The London Eye
PAUL FARLEY from The Electric Poly-Olbion
DALJIT NAGRA Our Town with the Whole of India!
ALICE OSWALD Another Westminster Bridge
DERYN REES-JONES Liverpool Blues
COLETTE BRYCE And They Call It Lovely Derry
SEAN BORODALE 10th February: Queen
SINÉAD MORRISSEY In Belfast
RACHEL BOAST Already someone’s set their dogs among the swans
ZAFFAR KUNIAL Us
Acknowledgements
Index of Poets and Translators
Index of Titles and First Lines
About the Editors
Copyright
PREFACE
When my editor Matthew Hollis first invited me to assemble an anthology to appear during my time as Poet Laureate, I began to imagine a poetry treasure-hunt using a map and a clock to travel, and time-travel, these islands. As my ideal companion on this scavenging, I chose Gillian Clarke – the National Poet of Wales (2008–16) – who is one of the most fervent advocates of the art I know. Our journey was one of shared enthusiasms in poetry’s loved landscape, lone wanderings off the beaten track to forage, return and share, or an enthralled standing-still to listen to the diverse sounds of poets, past and present, from England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales. ‘Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises.’
We were clear that the magical properties of our map and clock were not to be used to assert or to reflect a British or Irish canon, but rather that they bestowed a freedom to tour and to celebrate the music, accents, surprises, variousness and fierce independence of poets from the earliest times to our own 21st century, from Anon to the emerging Zaffar Kunial. As on any journey, we spent time visiting great landmarks, but we also made sure to explore the hamlets, the backwaters, the local bars and the wrong side of the tracks – often the places where poets are to be found. It is not the destiny of every poet to outlast their own map and clock, but sometimes, perhaps, one of their poems might. With all our wanderings, foragings and listenings, we tried to find as many delights as we could to cram into our poetry backpacks and smuggle through Customs. Poetry should always be duty-free.
Although the earliest poems of these islands were orally composed, we chose to begin with the earliest acknowledged written poem, ‘Caedmon’s Hymn’, beautifully translated here by Paul Muldoon; and where we intuit that the clock ticks significantly forward for poetry, we indicate this by a brief section marker. There are poets who write across these markers, and our placements may reflect a context or theme as much as a rigid chronology. Some great poets from the past, even the recent past, rightly claim more time from the clock, more space from the map. In the case of living poets, we restricted ourselves to one poem from each, and have taken great pleasure in including as diverse and generous a range of voices as possible within the spirit of this journey.
We would like to thank Ty Nwydd, the Writers’ Centre of Wales, and Adam Horovitz, for hospitality, poem sourcing, and photocopying help in the initial stages of this book, and Bernard O’Donoghue for his wise and generous advice on the early texts. Our warm thanks to Stephen Raw for the textual illustrations.
CAROL ANN DUFFY
Caedmon’s Hymn
Now we must praise to the skies, the Keeper of the heavenly kingdom,
The might of the Measurer, all he has in mind,
The work of the Father of Glory, of all manner of marvel,
Our eternal Master, the main mover.
It was he who first summoned up, on our behalf,
Heaven as a roof, the holy Maker.
Then this middle-earth, the Watcher over humankind,
Our eternal Master, would later assign
The precinct of men, the Lord Almighty.
CAEDMON
translated by Paul Muldoon
Song to a Child
Dinogad’s smock is pied, pied –
Made it out of marten hide.
Whit, whit, whistle along,
Eight slaves with you sing the song.
When your dad went to hunt,
Spear on his shoulder, cudgel in hand,
He called his quick dogs, ‘Giff, you wretch,
Gaff, catch her, catch her, fetch, fetch!’
From a coracle he’d spear
Fish as a lion strikes a deer.
When your dad went to the crag
He brought down roebuck, boar and stag,
Speckled grouse from the mountain tall,
Fish from Derwent waterfall.
Whatever your dad found with his spear,
Boar or wild cat, fox or deer,
Unless it flew, would never get clear.
ANON
translated by Tony Conran
Jesus and the Sparrows
The little lad, five years of age
– Son of the living God –
Blessed twelve puddles he’d just then coaxed
From water and from mud.
Twelve statuettes he made next;
‘Sparrows shall you be named’
He whispered to those perfect shapes
That Sabbath in his game.
‘Who plays with toys this holy day?’
A Jew scowled at the scene
And marched the culprit straight to Joseph
To scold his foster-son.
‘What sort of brat have you brought up
That wastes his sacred time
Scrabbling in mud on the Sabbath Day
To make bird-dolls from slime?’
At that the lad clapped two small hands
And
with sweet piping words
Called on the dolls before their eyes
To rise as living birds.
No music ever heard was sweeter
Than the music from his mouth
When he told those birds ‘Fly to your homes
To east and west and south.’
The story spread throughout the land
And is heard down to this day
And all who hear it still can hear
The sparrows’ voices pray.
ANON
translated by Patrick Crotty
from Beowulf
These were hard times, heart-breaking
for the prince of the Shieldings; powerful counsellors,
the highest in the land, would lend advice,
plotting how best the bold defenders
might resist and beat off sudden attacks.
Sometimes at pagan shrines they vowed
offerings to idols, swore oaths
that the killer of souls might come to their aid
and save the people. That was their way,
their heathenish hope; deep in their hearts
they remembered hell. The Almighty Judge
of good deeds and bad, the Lord God,
Head of the Heavens and High King of the World,
was unknown to them. Oh, cursed is he
who in time of trouble has to thrust his soul
in the fire’s embrace, forfeiting help;
he has nowhere to turn. But blessed is he
who after death can approach the Lord
and find friendship in the Father’s embrace.
So that troubled time continued, woe
that never stopped, steady affliction
for Halfdane’s son, too hard an ordeal.
There was panic after dark, people endured
raids in the night, riven by the terror.
When he heard about Grendel, Hygelac’s thane
was on home ground, over in Geatland.
There was no one else like him alive.
In his day, he was the mightiest man on earth,
high-born and powerful. He ordered a boat
that would ply the waves. He announced his plan:
to sail the swan’s road and search out that king,
the famous prince who needed defenders.
Nobody tried to keep him from going,
no elder denied him, dear as he was to them.
Instead, they inspected omens and spurred
his ambition to go, whilst he moved about
like the leader he was, enlisting men,
the best he could find; with fourteen others
the warrior boarded the boat as captain,
a canny pilot along coast and currents.
Time went by, the boat was on water,
in close under the cliffs.
Men climbed eagerly up the gangplank,
sand churned in surf, warriors loaded
a cargo of weapons, shining war-gear
in the vessel’s hold, then heaved out,
away with a will in their wood-wreathed ship.
Over the waves, with the wind behind her
and foam at her neck, she flew like a bird
until her curved prow had covered the distance
and on the following day, at the due hour,
those seafarers sighted land,
sunlit cliffs, sheer crags
and looming headlands, the landfall they sought.
It was the end of their voyage and the Geats vaulted
over the side, out on to the sand,
and moored their ship. There was a clash of mail
and a thresh of gear. They thanked God
for that easy crossing on a calm sea.
When the watchman on the wall, the Shieldings’ lookout
whose job it was to guard the sea-cliffs,
saw shields glittering on the gangplank
and battle-equipment being unloaded
he had to find out who and what
the arrivals were. So he rode to the shore,
this horseman of Hrothgar’s, and challenged them
in formal terms, flourishing his spear:
‘What kind of men are you who arrive
rigged out for combat in coats of mail,
sailing here over the sea-lanes
in your steep-hulled boat? I have been stationed
as lookout on this coast for a long time.
My job is to watch the waves for raiders,
any danger to the Danish shore.
Never before has a force under arms
disembarked so openly – not bothering to ask
if the sentries allowed them safe passage
or the clan had consented. Nor have I seen
a mightier man-at-arms on this earth
than the one standing here: unless I am mistaken,
he is truly noble. This is no mere
hanger-on in a hero’s armour.
So now, before you fare inland
as interlopers, I have to be informed
about who you are and where you hail from.
Outsiders from across the water,
I say it again: the sooner you tell
where you come from and why, the better.’
ANON
translated by Seamus Heaney
from The Gododdin
Men went to Catraeth, keen their war-band.
Pale mead their portion, it was poison.
Three hundred under orders to fight.
And after celebration, silence.
Though they went to churches for shriving,
True is the tale, death confronted them.
*
Men went to Catraeth at dawn:
All their fears had been put to flight.
Three hundred clashed with ten thousand.
They stained their spears ruddy with blood.
He held firm, bravest in battle,
Before Mynyddawg Mwynfawr’s men.
*
Men went to Catraeth at dawn:
Their high spirits lessened their life-spans.
They drank mead, gold and sweet, ensnaring;
For a year the minstrels were merry.
Red their swords, let the blades remain
Uncleansed, white shields and four-sided spearheads,
Before Mynyddawg Mwynfawr’s men.
*
Men went to Catraeth at morn.
He made certain the shame of armies;
They made sure that a bier was needed.
The most savage blades in Christendom,
He contrived, no request for a truce,
A blood-path and death for his foeman.
When he was before Gododdin’s band
Neirthiad’s deeds showed a hero’s bold heart.
*
No cowards could bear the hall’s uproar.
Before battle a battle broke out
Like a fire that rages when kindled.
On Tuesday they donned their dark armour,
On Wednesday, bitter their meeting,
On Thursday, terms were agreed on,
On Friday, dead men without number,
On Saturday, fearless, they worked as one,
On Sunday, crimson blades were their lot,
On Monday, men were seen waist-deep in blood.
After defeat, the Gododdin say,
Before Madawg’s tent on his return
There came but one man in a hundred.
ANEIRIN
translated by Joseph P. Clancy
Bede’s Death Song
Before the journey that awaits us all,
No man becomes so wise that he does not
Need to think out, before his going hence,
What judgment will be given to his soul
After his death, of evil or of good.
BEDE
translated by Richard Hamer
Death Song for Owain ab Urien
God, consider th
e soul’s need
Of Owain son of Urien!
Rheged’s prince, secret in loam:
No shallow work, to praise him!
A strait grave, a man much praised,
His whetted spear the wings of dawn:
That lord of bright Llwyfenydd,
Where is his peer?
Reaper of enemies; strong of grip;
One kind with his fathers;
Owain, to slay Fflamddwyn,
Thought it no more than sleep.
Sleepeth the wide host of England
With light in their eyes,
And those that had not fled
Were braver than were wise.
Owain dealt them doom
As the wolves devour sheep;
That warrior, bright of harness,
Gave stallions for the bard.
Though he hoarded wealth like a miser,
For his soul’s sake he gave it.
God, consider the soul’s need
Of Owain son of Urien.
TALIESIN
translated by Tony Conran
‘Birdsong from a willow tree’
Birdsong from a willow tree.
Whet-note music, clear, airy;
Inky treble, yellow bill –
Blackbird, practising his scale.
ANON
translated by Seamus Heaney
The Battle of Brunanburh
Æthelstan, the King, ruler of earls
and ring-giver to men, and Prince Eadmund
his brother, earned this year fame everlasting
with the blades of their swords in battle
at Brunanburh; with their well-wrought weapons
both Eadweard’s sons cleaved the linden shields,
The Map and the Clock Page 2