Sharp Words

Yes, I know, I haven’t been posting much lately. Not sure why; it’s not that I’m otherwise busy, that’s for sure. I’m sure I’ll get my groove back soon. (I hope I will.)

But I finally finished this poem, mostly to my satisfaction, so it’s time to post it. First though, a bit of background.

Last November (as blogged elsewhere with more photos), I drove down to Sligo to meet Susan – ostensibly for a NaNoWriMo meeting, but we got very little writing done! Between Donegal and Sligo towns lies the village of Drumcliff, where William Butler Yeats is buried. I’d passed it before, but this time, on my drive home, I actually stopped and paid a quick pilgrimage to his grave.

The beauty and simplicity of the spot really struck me, as did the the piece of art put there to commemorate him – I can’t call it a monument, as it’s a visual representation of one of his well-known poems, He wishes for the cloths of heaven, as shown in my photo (click to enlarge).

I started thinking about this sonnet while driving home from Belfast one dark night in early January, and I actually recorded it on my MP3 player/recorder so as to not lose the words and rhymes. I had intended to post it on the 70th anniversary of Yeats’ death earlier this year (January 28th) but the demands of the poem’s structure were a bit too much, and I ended up putting it aside until this week. (Plus I had some fact-checking to do, and I was a bit lazy.)

Writing to such a tight structure, of both metre and rhyme, is definitely more of a test of my ingenuity than writing free verse is, even if I don’t then tend to exercise/indulge my liking for varied imagery. But I’m fairly pleased with the result anyway.

However, I’m stumped for a title and will happily accept all reasonable suggestions…

(Untitled Sonnet)
It’s not the first time that I’ve passed this way,
And I remember well this bend of road
As it curves through the land of his abode
Beneath Ben Bulben high above the bay.
I stop the car and walk the paths in search
Of that one grave which calls me to this place.
His words carved in the headstone’s plain grey face,
He lies within the shadow of the church.
A solemn resting place for him, it seems;
No monument among these leafless trees.
But then I spy a figure on its knees,
There laying down its cloth of words and dreams.
A metal statue and a cloth of stones,
In this quiet spot where long lie Yeats’ bones.

© 2009 C Sharp