Wednesday, April 16, 2025

Anglo-Irish John Millington Synge Channeled the Catholic Peasantry—National Poetry Month 2025

 

John Millington Synge.

John Millington Synge is best remembered as playwright,  chronicler of the peasantry of the Aran Islands and the untamed Gaeltacht of the West of Ireland, a founder of the Abbey Theater and its first important dramatist, and as a key figure in the flowering of the Irish Literary Renaissance around the turn of the 20th Century.  But as an Anglo-Irishman from a long line of dissenting Evangelical Protestants he was often at odds with his Irish Nationalist colleagues and viciously attacked by the most visible conservative Catholic leaders of the movement including Arthur Griffith and Padraic Pearse.

Synge was born the youngest of eight children to the family of a wealthy barrister and member of the landed gentry that had mostly oppressed Catholic peasants for generations on April 16, 1871 in Newtown Villas, Rathfarnham, a comfortable semi-rural suburb of Dublin.  His father died of small pox on his first birthday and he was raised by his mother in Rathgar, County Dublin.  Although often himself sickly, he had a happy, privileged childhood that included time spent at his family’s ancestral estate Glanmore Castle in County Wicklow.
The boy took an interest in both nature, especially bird watching, and music at which he excelled.  He was educated privately at schools in Dublin and Bray, and later studied piano, flute, violin, music theory, and counterpoint at the Royal Irish Academy of Music before enrolling at Dublin’s elite Trinity College from which he graduated in 1892.  While there he studied Irish—Gaelic—introducing him to a youthful, idealistic Irish Nationalist circle.
Despite his promise as a musician and additional studies in Paris and Germany, Synge was painfully shy about public performance and doubted his ability.  He decided to abandon music and pursue literary interests. 
During this same period his exposure to Charles Darwin as a member of Dublin Naturalists’ Field Club led him first to doubt the stern religion of his family and then to cast it away entirely.  “…I had relinquished the kingdom of God…[and] began to take up a real interest in the kingdom of Ireland. My politics went round ... to a temperate Nationalism,” he later wrote.

Maude Gonne.
In 1896 he joined the Irish League when it was founded by Maude Gonne who was also Anglo-Irish, a fervent nationalist, and the object of William Butler Yeat’s unrequited love.  But a year later he resigned from the League writing Gonne, “my theory of regeneration for Ireland differs from yours ... I wish to work on my own for the cause of Ireland, and I shall never be able to do so if I get mixed up with a revolutionary and semi-military movement.”  That reluctance to take a revolutionary stance would later put him at odds with other Patriots.
Like Yeats, Synge had his own unrequited love, Cherrie Matheson.  She was a member of his family’s Plymouth Brethren faith and turned his proposals down twice because of his apostasy.  Heartbroken, he fled to Europe intent on spending as little time as possible in Ireland.  Although he spent much time abroad, he ended up returning to Dublin frequently.

William Butler Yeats, Synge's friend, mentor, defender, promoter.
In 1896 he first met Yeats in Paris.  Perhaps they bonded over their mutual rejections.  At any rate, Yeats took an interest in the younger man and when he learned of Synge’s interest in Irish folklore, encouraged him to spend time in the Aran Islands where it was supposed that the true Irish culture was preserved by their wild isolation.  Yeats was ever after a mentor and often a defender of Synge when he ran afoul of certain Nationalists and Catholics.
Back in Dublin later the same year he joined Yeats, Lady Gregory, and George William Russell to form the Irish National Theatre Society, which subsequently established the Abbey Theatre, the epicenter of the Irish cultural renaissance and the place where Synge would make his greatest mark.
But in 1897 Synge suffered the first symptoms of Hodgkin’s Disease, a lymph node cancer and had an enlarged node surgically removed from his neck.  From then on his health was in slow decline.  

Synge's rented cottage on Inis Meáin, now a litterary shrine.
Synge spent most of the year in Paris and later in London, but regularly visited Dublin and beginning in 1897 spent five summers at a rustic cottage on Inis Meáin in the Aran Islands where he researched folklore, absorbed the local culture, and most importantly sort of ease dropped on the lives and conversations of the local folkstone field farmers and fishermen.
The Aran Islands, based on his journals, was completed in 1901 and published in 1907 with illustrations by Jack Butler Yeats, younger brother of William.  Although Synge had regularly published articles, including pieced based on his Island experience, his early attempts as a playwright were largely unsuccessful and his poetry mostly unpublished.  The book was his first major public success and he considered it his first important work.  But a theme that the islander’s Catholicism was a mask for underlying Gaelic paganism drew criticism.
In 1903 while living in London he completed two one-act plays based on his Aran Island stories.  Lady Gregory approved of the work, despite having rejected his first play.  The Shadow of the Glen was performed at the Molesworth Hall in Dublin October.  Riders to the Sea premiered on the same stage a few months later in 1904.  When the Abbey Theater opened in December, Riders was 1903 on the bill with Yeat’s poetic Kathleen Ni Hoolihan.

The Abbey Theater opening poster.
Despite the scathing attacks on his work by Arthur Griffin, Padraic Pearse, and others, Synge was appointed literary advisor to the Abbey and soon was on the Board of Directors with Yeats and Lady Gregory despite his differences with her over the direction of Irish theater.  He wrote:
I do not believe in the possibility of “a purely fantastic, unmodern, ideal, breezy, spring-dayish, Cuchulainoid National Theatre” ... no drama can grow out of anything other than the fundamental realities of life, which are never fantastic, are neither modern nor unmodern and, as I see them, rarely spring-dayish, or breezy or Cuchulanoid.
In the end Synge’s earthy peasants won out over Lady Gregory’s romanticism, and plays in that style became the backbone of the famous theater’s repertoire.
Synge’s first produced full length three act play, The Well of the Saints was staged at the Abbey in 1905.  This time he mined Irish folklore for a story of two blind siblings who have always been told they were beautiful who were cured of their affliction by a saint only to bitterly discover they are ugly and old.  Heartbreak and revenge ensued.  It again drew bitter criticism from Catholics. 
Synge did not even try to stage another play,  The Tinker’s Wedding  because of a scene in which a priest is tied up in a sack.  It would offend “a good many of our Dublin friends,” he told his London publisher.
The original Abbey Theater.
But if he thought he had a hostile reception before, nothing compared to the premier of the play now considered his great masterpiece, The Playboy of the Western World on January 27, 1907.  The bawdy comedy about an apparent patricide was greeted with a riot in the theater—possibly organized in advance by Arthur Griffith’s nationalists.  Every subsequent performance in the run was met with similar disturbances.  The Freeman’s Journal denounced it as “an unmitigated, protracted libel upon Irish peasant men, and worse still upon Irish girlhood.”
With his work under attack in his homeland—only one provincial staging of Riders to the Sea was subsequently produced—Synge’s health went into decline.  He died at the Elpis Nursing Home in Dublin on March 24, 1909 at age 37, and was buried in Mount Jerome Cemetery, Harold’s Cross, Dublin.
Little of Synge’s poetry was published in his life time but Poems and Translations, with a preface by Yeats, was published by the Cuala Press just days after his death.  Yeats also helped Synge’s fiancée Molly Algood, the actress who appeared on stage as Mare O’Neil for whom he wrote The Playboy of the Western World, complete his final play, Deirdre of the Sorrows.  It was staged at the Abby in 1910 starring O’Neil.  
Synge's fiancee Mare O'Neil--Molly Allgood.
Synge may be most remembered for his plays but he was a fine poet.
Prelude
Still south I went and west and south again,
Through Wicklow from the morning till the night,
And far from cities, and the sights of men,
Lived with the sunshine, and the moon's delight.

I knew the stars, the flowers, and the birds,
The grey and wintry sides of many glens,
And did but half remember human words,
In converse with the mountains, moors, and fens.
 
—John Millington Synge

On An Island

You’ve plucked a curlew, drawn a hen,
Washed the shirts of seven men,
You've stuffed my pillow, stretched my sheet,
And filled the pan to wash your feet,
You've cooped the pullets, wound the clock,
And rinsed the young men's drinking crock;
And now we’ll dance to jigs and reels,
Nailed boots chasing girl’s naked heels,
Until your father’ll start to snore,
And Jude, now you’re married, will stretch on the floor.

—John Millington Synge

In Kerry

We heard the thrushes by the shore and sea,
And saw the golden star's nativity,
Then round we went the lane by Thomas Flynn,
Across the church where bones lie out and in;
And there I asked beneath a lonely cloud
Of strange delight, with one bird singing loud,
What change you'd wrought in graveyard, rock and sea,
This new wild paradise to wake for me. . . .
Yet knew no more than knew those merry sins
Had built this stack of thigh-bones, jaws and shins.

—John Millington Synge

To the Oak of Glencree

My arms are round you, and I lean
Against you, while the lark
Sings over us, and golden lights, and green
Shadows are on your bark.

There’ll come a season when you'll stretch
Black boards to cover me;
Then in Mount Jerome I will lie, poor wretch,
With worms eternally.

—John Millington Synge

Tuesday, April 15, 2025

The Taxman Cometh—National Poetry Month 2025

Nashville, Tennessee in April 1982 photos 

                        Cars lined up at the Memphis Post Office in 1968 to get their tax returns post marked before midnight. 

In the U.S.A. April 15 is traditionally the date by which income taxes are due to be filed.  In the quaint days before most people filed electronically, it would be celebrated by TV coverage of long lines at urban Post Offices kept open late for the occasion as hordes of desperate last minute filers tried to get their returns post marked before midnight.  These days when taxes are due, I am sure there is no less desperation, but much of it is hidden in homes as procrastinators stare at screens in horror when they realize that one critical document without which the return cannot be competed is missing or internet connection mysteriously fails.
Taxes stir up strong emotionspanic, loathing, rage, and self-pity.  Strong emotions evoke poetry.  A lap around web poetry sites turns up hundreds of posted poems.  Some, of course are by famous poets and others by competent published journeymen and women.  But many are by amateurs some apparently stirred to verse for the first time.  It should probably come as no surprise that most of the latter seem to be posted by MAGA types whose hatred of taxes, government, and the bloodsucking weakling who drain fine productive citizens like themselves may be the strongest emotion they ever have.  Also not surprisingly many of these poems have all of the poetic beauty and majesty of posts by internet trolls.  You will be grateful that we are ignoring those.
As for me, I don’t mind paying my dues to civilization.  Not that I approve of every expenditure or don’t cluck and shake my head over boondoggles and sometimes jaw dropping waste.  Sure I’d like to pick and choose.  I don’t want my dollars paying for the drone that wipes out a village wedding party or lets some already fat cat get a second yacht.  But I am down with most of the rest of it and patently benefit from it.
If ever I forgot all of the good, useful, and critical things that Federal tax dollars have supported, the crazed mass layoffs and slashed funding for key agencies and service The Man Who Would be King, Elon Musk, and assorted lackeys and minions have reminded me.  And I suspect many others including Trump's former supporters. 
My pain is in the way-to-complicated process of filling out the forms and filing and the angst it caused me annually until I gave up and let H&R Block figure and file them.  They usually finish with in hours and have kept me out of jail.
Here is a sample of what I found.
My Two Cents
Generally, there are two problems
With money: 1. Getting it and 2. What
To do with it. Certainly the food bank
Needs your help. The bristled ant.
Girls’ volleyball and these days even
The water supply, even the sky.
As you may surmise by my raiment,
Drapings really, and the primitive
Medium of this message, I have little
To recommend re: 1. Whereas 2.:
Start small. Make a stack of quarters
Then knock them down like an affordable
Coup d’état. Pennies are mostly zinc
So there’s your source of zinc,
An excellent sunblock. If you crumple
A crisp, uncirculated bill then
Uncrumple it incompletely,
It’ll appear to have shrunk as vivid
Visual aid to the recession. Blame
The president. Blame Congress. Blame
Mexico. For dramatic effect
Abbie Hoffman dropped a few hundred ones
On the New York Stock Exchange floor,
The ensuing pandemonium shutting down
The world economy for a couple hours.
Vermeer-owning industrialists
Stared into the nothing-mist. Oil
Magnates and hotel highnesses stared
Into the mist. Squeak, squeak — tiny, pink
Rat-feet on the wheel. My father worked nights
Most his life then died young but we never
Lacked electricity or clothes. I hate
To suppose money makes everyone its slave
But nearly everyone I know is sleep-
Deprived and wants to send a robot-clone
Into work for them. Squeak, squeak. Often
Money, like gin, can bring out the worst
Although once, after a couple stiff ones,
My mother gave you her mother’s diamond ring.
Maybe she won’t remember a thing, we thought
But she wrote it off as a gift on her taxes.

— Dean Young
The author of Fall Higher

Difference

1
Catch us up
to where we are
today —
these pants!
this hair!
*
It’s been a good year
for unique, differentiated products.
*
I’m more interested
in quarks:
up and down,
bottom and top,
simple units
of meaning.
2
If self-love
were a mirage,
it would decorate
distance,
shimmer over
others’ eyes,
evaporate
on contact
Rae Armantrout
The author of Money Shot
This parody is by one of the bathrobe poets.  Is it Left Wing, Right Wing?  Who knows?  Tropes from both sides can be found.  Likely the writer has no clear ideology only a dollop of tax angst and a sense of playfulness.
Dr Seuss-style-Mister Obama Please Tax The Rich Man
Mister Obama please tax the rich man!
The cost’s are up.
The pay is down.
Tax.
TAX!
All over town.
There is tax on GAS!
There is tax on tan.
Mister Obama please tax the rich man.
There is tax on CARS.
There is tax on trees.
There is tax on our food.
No
More tax.
Please!
We can’t pay.
There is tax
On LAND.
ROCKS, DIRT, SAND
There is tax.
There is tax
This I know
On tobacco, too.
But tax, tax, TAX!
The rich do, do, DO!
Mister Obama
Please tax the
Rich man!
There is tax on pills.
There is tax on HEALTH.
There is tax on insurance
Just for wealth.
Just for wealth
There is tax
On telecom.
And on low tech
And CD-ROM.
Mister Obama
Change the queue.
Tax the rich man.
Just do, do, DO!
Now start this show!
Please Mister O.!
There’s even tax on electricity.
There is tax on our dog...
Ducks and hog.
There is tax on our water
And imbibements we drink.
There is tax on our underwear
...and clothes.
Middle class has floundered.
It shows!
Mister Obama!
Tax the rich man.
Mister Obama!
Please tax the
Rich man!
It’s time
For
No
More
Drama!
Tax the rich man
Please...
Mister Obama.

—Deborah  Burch
And last but not least, my favorite, an import from the U.K.Scotland to be exact—which evokes a pastoral past and foreboding.
Taxman

Seven scythes leaned at the wall.
Beard upon golden beard
The last barley load
Swayed through the yard.
The girls uncorked the ale.
Fiddle and feet moved together.
Then between stubble and heather
A horseman rode.

—George  Mackay Brown
from Fishermen with Ploughs

 

Monday, April 14, 2025

Michael McClure Was a Poet at the Birth of Beat-—National Poetry Month 2025

 

            Michael McClure reading in 1957, two years after his debut at Gallery Six in San Francisco. 

Michael McClure was there—an attendant the birth when the squalling slippery babe nearly fell to the floor before ardent arms saved it.  Which is to say that he was one of the five young, obscure poets who read in the smoky confines of San Franciscos Gallery Six on October 7, 1955. That was the famed event where Kenneth Rexroth, a Bay Area bohemian bard of an earlier generation, introduced largely unheralded young poets Allen Ginsberg, Philip Lamantia, Gary Snyder, Philip Whalen, as well as McClure.  Famously it is where Ginsberg first read Howl.  A drunk Jack Kerouac refused to read his own work but cheered the other poets on, shouting “Yeah! Go! Go!” during their performances. It was a memorable moment and was almost instantly mythologized as the “Birth of the Beat.”

McClure went on to be a continued counter-cultural presence in the Rock & Roll era hobnobbing and collaborating with the likes of Bob Dylan, the Doors, and others.

McClure with Bob Dylan and Ginsberg in the late '60s.

McClure, poet, playwright, novelist, and documentary filmmaker was born in Marysville, Kansas on October 20, 1932 and raised there and in Seattle. He was educated at the University of Wichita, the University of Arizona, and San Francisco State College—where he studied with poet Robert Duncan.

He was the author of numerous collections of poetry, including Persian Pony (2017), Mephistos and Other Poems (2016), Of Indigo and Saffron (2011), Mysteriosos and Other Poems (2010), Rebel Lions (1991), and The New Book/A Book of Torture (1961).  

                                    One of McClure's many books of verse.

“McClure’s poetry combined spontaneity, typographical experimentation, Buddhist practice, and body language in performance to merge the ecstatic and the corporeal,” according to his Poetry Foundation bio.  Publishers Weekly noted of his work, “McClure infuses ecstatic direct address and colloquial diction with an exquisite sensibility, one that reveals the world in its ordinary complex gorgeousness.”  He frequently performed his poetry with musical collaborators, including composer Terry Riley, and recorded several CDs with Doors keyboardist Ray Manzarek.

He wrote more than 20 plays and musicals, several television documentaries, and the song Mercedes Benz, which was made famous by Janis Joplin. His 1965 play The Beard, which depicted an imagined sexual encounter between Jean Harlow and Billy the Kid, gained notoriety when it was unsuccessfully brought to trial on charges of obscenity.  Kerouac based the character Pat McLear on him in his autobiographical novel Big Sur.

McClure's honors included a fellowship from the Guggenheim Foundation, a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Alfred Jarry Award, a Rockefeller grant for play writing, and an Obie Award for Best Play.

                                                    McClure was even honored on a postage stamp.

McClure taught poetry at California College of the Arts for over 40 years. He lived in Oakland with his wife, the sculptor Amy Evans McClure, before his death on May 4, 2020 at age 87.

McClure burst on the scene reading this poem at the Gallery Six event.

For the Death of 100 Whales

In April, 1954, Time magazine described seventy-nine bored American G.I.s stationed at a NATO base in Iceland murdering a pod of one hundred killer whales. In a single morning the soldiers, armed with rifles, machine guns, and boats, rounded up and then shot the whales to death.

 

Hung midsea

Like a boat mid-air

The liners boiled their pastures:

The liners of flesh,

The Arctic steamers

 

Brains the size of a teacup

Mouths the size of a door

 

The sleek wolves

Mowers and reapers of sea kine.

THE GIANT TADPOLES

(Meat their algae)

Leapt

Like sheep or children.

Shot from the sea’s bore.

 

Turned and twisted

(Goya!!)

Flung blood and sperm.

Incense.

Gnashed at their tails and brothers

Cursed Christ of mammals,

Snapped at the sun,

Ran for the Sea’s floor.

 

Goya! Goya!

 

—Michael McClure

 

McClure mature.  He would have enjoyed the rhyme. 

The Chamber, dedicated to Kerouac, was included in McClure’s Of Indigo and Saffron: New and Selected Poems published in 2011.

 

The Chamber

for Jack Kerouac

 

IN LIGHT ROOM IN DARK HELL IN UMBER IN CHROME,

     I sit feeling the swell of the cloud made about by movement

 

                 of arm leg and tongue. In reflections of gold

           light. Tints and flashes of gold and amber spearing

                     and glinting. Blur glass…blue Glass,

 

             black telephone. Matchflame of violet and flesh

                 seen in the clear bright light. It is not night

 

                and night too. In Hell, there are stars outside.

            And long sounds of cars. Brown shadows on walls

                                       in the light

                           of the room. I sit or stand

 

                 wanting the huge reality of touch and love.

            In the turned room. Remember the long-ago dream

 

   of stuffed animals (owl, fox) in a dark shop. Wanting

             only the purity of clean colors and new shapes

                                     and feelings.

                 I WOULD CRY FOR THEM USELESSLY

 

                   I have ten years left to worship my youth

                      Billy the Kid, Rimbaud, Jean Harlow

  IN DARK HELL IN LIGHT ROOM IN UMBER AND CHROME I

                                                                                            feel the swell of

smoke the drain and flow of motion of exhaustion, the long sounds of cars

                                                                                                     the brown shadows

on the wall. I sit or stand. Caught in the net of glints from corner table to

                                                                                                                       dull plane

from knob to floor, angles of flat light, daggers of beams. Staring at love’s face.

      The telephone in cataleptic light. Marchflames of blue and red seen in the

                                                                                                                            clear grain.

I see myself—ourselves—in Hell without radiance. Reflections that we are.

 

              The long cars make sounds and brown shadows over the wall.

 

                               I am real as you are real whom I speak to.

                   I raise my head, see over the edge of my nose. Look up

 

                    and see that nothing is changed. There is no flash

                            to my eyes. No change to the room.

 

    Vita Nuova—No! The dead, dead world.

                     The strain of desire is only a heroic gesture.

                       An agony to be so in pain without release

 

                             when love is a word or kiss.

 

—Michael McClure