Filíocht Nua
2022; Philosophy Documentation Center; Volume: 26; Issue: 3 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1353/nhr.2022.0033
ISSN1534-5815
Autores Tópico(s)Environmental Engineering and Cultural Studies
ResumoFilíocht Nua Katie Donovan (bio) The Seal What are you doingIn my element?The seal’s black eyeschallenge meas I flailin the tall waves,seaweed tangling my legs. Wild, whiskeredcanine of the salt,he appraises mewith a hunter’s look:he’s far too close,with a head on himlike a bucket.I scrabble and squawkkicking to cheat the tideand his looming bulk,to show my friend I’m safe:Really I am—I can do this! Just as my feetfind purchasea wave breaks:I’m thrown,tumbled, reefedas the watercurls and separates,sand whirling my ears, [End Page 68] weed muddling my hairshingle scrubbing me raw. I shove up: shaken,snot-slimed,flesh marbled cold.The seal drifts north,sinking and surfacingin comfort.I stumblein the stinging spray:clumsy interloper,refusing to buckle. Signs After twenty yearsthe amaryllis,like some geriatric triffid,is pushing out a swan-neckedneon green bud.Is it a sign? My mother is still dead.She’s the one who gave methe obstinate plant.My daughter is still sick.She’s the oneon the brink of her life—a bud in her own right,refusing to flower. I’m seekinga hopeful metaphor,but in spite of the newly galvanizedambitious amaryllis,and the sun it’s stretching for—nothing fits. [End Page 69] Home to Vote (dublin, 25 may 2018)They burst through customs,a river of Repealers,returning to swingthe referendum; whooping, twirling, laughing,just when the last bannerhas been hung,the last leaflet delivered. “We’re home now,” they say,fresh off the ferry, the plane:“Let’s do this.We’re here to win.” Fleets of cars take themto the polling stations,motoring throughFriday traffic, all the wayto Cork, Galway, Clare. They share selfies,revel in pamperingfrom delighted parents:the pubs are fulland it isn’t Christmas. Back from Vancouver,New York, Dubai,they stay up all night,and when the vote is sure,they flood the streets, they take the Castle,dancing farewellto secret crossings;to danger, to shame. [End Page 70] Portrait of the Mother as a Clay Teapot I drive at dawn to Irish Collegefor the Sunday visitmy son’s permitted. Connemara vistas fly by,but I’m primedfor the moment I spyhis much-missed face,squeeze him tight. He tells me survival herecomes from strumming guitar;banter with friends,mining humor from this ordeal. My urban, godless childcannot speak with easethis remote ancestral tongue;is irked when it’s assumedhe’ll go to Mass. After we’ve lingeredfor hours in ClifdenI leave himfor my long drive back to Dublinin the rain.Ten more days until he’s home. Later, he sends a text:at the compulsory ceilí in the stuffy hall,he committed the fateful crimeof surrendering to tears:“The most embarrassing moment of my life.” I had been thinking it was worthcramped hours at the wheel,to deliver maternal cossetting,but I’m no rescuer—just a squat,clay-footed teapotspouting steam. [End Page 71] Bailing There must have been a momentwhen Noah, six hundred years old,sensing the first drops on his head,wondered if he’d been too ambitious;thought about maybe stoppingthe whole Ark business,toyed with the easier optionof going down with the flood. I picture him, cringing,as the animals hoofup the gangplank—snorting, farting,and tossing their horns.Or, bilious and exhausted,after one hundred days of nothingbut queasy waves, and quarrelswith his stir-crazy family. Did he balk at the horizon,the empty-beaked raven,trying not to thinkof the dwindling supplies?The leak in the holdpoorly stoppered,the weaknessin his old hands,the not knowingwhen this test of faithwould be over. [End Page 72] Snowman After the blizzard,the road is cleared;bread and milkare finally delivered. The retreat of iceleaves slush;drip of meltfrom the eaves.Birds sing of...
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