TEACHING STONES TO SPEAK, i
They say silence is golden but
King Midas and the alchemists
eventually learned it was leaden.
Perhaps seeking the gift of
eloquence,
I climbed the grey tower to
the rampart,
bent over backwards to kiss
a stone
beneath an impossibly blue
sky,
became the curve of an
unstrung bow,
my lips brushing cold, mossy
stone,
above the rusted bars
dripping with dew
through which the dizzying
ground
and nervous grass rushed up
to meet me,
as if afraid of losing
contact with the birds
and long-lost kin from
across the sea.
Like the priest at mass as
we kissed Jesus’s feet,
the keeper wiped the stone
with a white kerchief.
Trees murmured and the
stream sang of ancestors.
They say Cormac McCarty (a
distant relation),
who had a way with words, persuaded the Queen
to keep his castle lands.
She thought his blarney an
Irish treasure.
They say the stone was
Jacob’s Dream,
or a fragment of the Lía
Fail, that screamed
when the rightful king
touched it,
or the Stone of Scone
beneath her throne.
For the chieftain’s son I
made a cape of finest silk
wrought with rainbow hues
and golden knotwork.
The bowstring, an aeolian
harp on these distant shores
west of Tír na n-Óg, the
land of youth,
where I tended his wounds on
the battlefield,
The Golden Gate cradled us,
we were rich
but barbed arrows pierced us
with sharper words.
Like the Queen, I prefer the
chatter of silvered tongues
to that of silence; ours’
grow tarnished with disuse.
But no matter how far I bend
to break this impasse
his silence speaks more than
words ever could.
different poem, same title—not sure which came first
variant
TEACHING STONES TO SPEAK, ii
—For Neil O’Neill.
Queen Medbh said to Cú Chullain:
Each one of us will die naked and alone,
on a battlefield not of our own choosing.
Seeking the end of eloquence,
I climbed the grey tower to lie on the rampart.
Canted back, I was the sinewy curve of a longbow
hemmed by iron bars dripping with dew,
my hips arched to the sky’s sublime mouth—
The dizzying ground and nervous grasses flew
up to greet me, as if afraid of losing contact with birds
and other long-lost kin from across the sea—
Trees and stream murmured to cloud ascendancy
as the world spun topsy-turvy past my crown.
Five hundred years of lips brushing stone and air!
They say the McCarthy, who had his way with words,
wooed the First Elizabeth to keep his castle lands.
She proclaimed his tongue a treasure, and wishing favor,
others made pilgrimage to kiss the stone for luck.
They say his ancestor saved a bean sídhe from drowning.
She cast a spell of the honeyed tongue upon the stone.
They say it was a fragment of the ancient Lía Fáil,
they say it was the very pillow of Jacob’s Dream,
they say it was the Stone of Destiny that roared with ecstasy
when Érin’s true kings were crowned at Hy Tara.
Some say it’s the same Stone of Scone beneath her throne,
but it fell silent, a thousand years in enemy hands.
Like an alterboy at the mass where we kissed Christ’s feet,
the footman wiped the stone as if linen could cleanse
the rock wearied by five centuries of lips’ mute testament.
For the chieftain’s son I conceived a cloak of finest silk,
a crest wrought with golden knotwork and rainbow strands:
below three stars, the severed hand of the ancestor
who won a kingdom in a race by throwing his limb to shore.
Not content with Érin, Niáll’s scion sent the Stone to Alba,
to crown a brother, but his tongue bested him: a cleft truce sworn
on Patrick’s staff: trapped in a pyre, he drowned in a vat of ale.
Destiny found us on more distant shores west of Tír Eoghain,
in Tír Tairngire, the Promised Land of Brendan the Navigator,
where the salmon of wisdom swam wild in the Golden Gate,
where I tended the Uí Niáll’s wounds on new battlefields,
where I fed this son of Ulster champion tales of Cú Chulainn,
claimed by both sides, who died chained to that dolmen,
and how it wept when Tír na n-Óg took him in.
Born with a gilded tongue, my chieftain’s son
had no need of kissing stones. He made a nest in my ear,
charmed my soul, then flew off with the wild geese—
red-handed fear reigned inside a heart of stone—
leaving a hunger of words to hatch in my mouth.
Like the alien Queen, I prefer silvered-tongued chatter
to tacit silence: our tongues grow tarnished, no matter
how far back I bend to kiss that stone, his silence
drowns more than this battlefield of words.
Ides of March - St. Patrick’s Day, 1998
this seems to be the final version
TEACHING STONES TO SPEAK, iii
—For Neil O’Neill
Queen Medbh said to Cú Chullain:
Each one of us will die naked and alone,
on a battlefield not of our own choosing.
Seeking the end of eloquence,
I climbed the grey tower to lie on the rampart.
Canted back, I was the sinewy curve of a longbow
hemmed by iron bars dripping with dew,
my hips arched to the sky’s sublime mouth—
The dizzying ground and nervous grasses flew
up to greet me, as if afraid of losing contact with birds
and other long-lost kin from across the sea—
Trees and stream murmured to cloud ascendancy
as the world spun topsy-turvy past my crown.
Five hundred years of lips brushing stone and air!
They say the McCarthy, who had his way with words,
wooed the First Elizabeth to keep his castle lands.
She proclaimed his tongue a treasure, and wishing favor,
others made pilgrimage to kiss the stone for luck.
They say his ancestor saved a bean sídhe from drowning.
She cast a spell of the honeyed tongue upon the stone.
They say it was a fragment of the ancient Lía Fáil,
they say it was the very pillow of Jacob’s Dream,
they say it was the Stone of Destiny that roared with ecstasy
when Érin’s true kings were crowned at Hy Tara.
Some say it’s the same Stone of Scone beneath her throne,
but it fell silent, a thousand years in enemy hands.
Like an alterboy at the mass where we kissed Christ’s feet,
the footman wiped the stone as if linen could cleanse
the rock wearied by five centuries of lips’ mute testament.
I climbed the grey tower to lie on the rampart.
Canted back, I was the sinewy curve of a longbow
hemmed by iron bars dripping with dew,
my hips arched to the sky’s sublime mouth—
The dizzying ground and nervous grasses flew
up to greet me, as if afraid of losing contact with birds
and other long-lost kin from across the sea—
Trees and stream murmured to cloud ascendancy
as the world spun topsy-turvy past my crown.
Five hundred years of lips brushing stone and air!
They say the McCarthy, who had his way with words,
wooed the First Elizabeth to keep his castle lands.
She proclaimed his tongue a treasure, and wishing favor,
others made pilgrimage to kiss the stone for luck.
They say his ancestor saved a bean sídhe from drowning.
She cast a spell of the honeyed tongue upon the stone.
They say it was a fragment of the ancient Lía Fáil,
they say it was the very pillow of Jacob’s Dream,
they say it was the Stone of Destiny that roared with ecstasy
when Érin’s true kings were crowned at Hy Tara.
Some say it’s the same Stone of Scone beneath her throne,
but it fell silent, a thousand years in enemy hands.
Like an alterboy at the mass where we kissed Christ’s feet,
the footman wiped the stone as if linen could cleanse
the rock wearied by five centuries of lips’ mute testament.
Ides of March - St. Patrick’s Day, 1998
