This is a short list. A few things blew me away this week, and a theme emerged, unknown to me. This writing sent me back to Robert Frost, which is never a bad thing, and a poem we’ve read with in class many, many times: Out, Out-.
And they, for they were not the ones dead, turned to their affairs.
That line has provided content for many an English class, some students see it as a sign of the heartless, disconnected Frost, others see it as representative of a way of life, rural New England, where, like many an Irish farm or house, death is acknowledged and life goes on, as best as it can. I’m revealing my hand here, but I tend towards the latter. The writing below confirms for me that we all deal with life and death differently, but writing, or talking about it, surely help. Read and listen well till next week.
The Jupiter Epiphany by Michael Coady, appeared in last weekend’s Irish Times. I’ve been lucky enough to meet Michael on occasion, I taught his daughter even, he is a poet from and of Carrick-on-Suir. I’ve spent over two decades working in Carrick and Michael’s poetry sat on my shelf more many of those years. This poem, both a celebration of a life and of a description of an Irish funeral is rooted in his place, it is perfect. I read it aloud to my wife and eldest daughter when I found it, I do’t do that often.
Sinead Gleeson (who if you haven’t read, you should start with this) also made me stop in my tracks with this piece, Second Mother, on her Aunt Terry, which manages to be moving and joyous while lamenting the death of one so loved. Take a break after you read this, and let it sink in.
Two podcasts for you.
First from Radiolab, the amazing, and again heartbreaking story of Oliver, or Billy Sipple who saved Gerald Ford’s life and became a media curiosity. As a former Marine, there was interest in him, but as a gay man, a circus was created and gradually his life fell apart. A sobering view of the media and the marginalised.
Secondly from Sam Loy, an interview with his grandmother about his grandfather. Sounds simple, but, again, in the simple things lies not only truth, but heartbreak. I can’t say more, but it too is perfect.
I think the title of this Edvard Munch is a bit OTT but I still love it. I got it here.