A FLOURISH FOR ARLO

A FLOURISH FOR ARLO

on the occasion of his naming, 29.5.2017

There is a piece of Gaelic wisdom which goes

Mol an óige agus tiocfaidh sí.

It translates to English as

Praise the young and they will flourish.

Dá bhrí sin, molaim Arlo agus tiochfaidh sé.

Thus, I praise Arlo and he will flourish,

Mar atá sé tagtha go dtí an lá seo

As he has flourished to this day.

Molaim Zoe agus Briain agus tiochfaidh siadsan.

I praise Zoe and Brian and they will flourish.

Agus sinne, fosta. Comhluadar Arlo.

And us, too. Arlo’s family and company.

Molaim muidne agus tiochfaidh muid. Le Arlo.

I praise us and we will flourish. With Arlo.

Speech at Theatre Conference/ Comhdháil : May/Bealtaine 2017

Comhdháil Aisling Ghéar: Bealtaine 2017

Aisling Ghéar Conference: May 2017

Claochlú agus Drámaíocht na Gaeilge /Theatre and Transformation

Maidin mhaith. Is mise Dave Duggan, drámadóir is úrscéalaí lánaimseartha as Doire, cathair atá céad ciliméadar níos faide siar ó thuaidh uainn anseo.

Good morning. I’m Dave Duggan, a dramatist and novelist from Derry, a city one hundred kilometres further north-west of us here.

Tá péire dráma scríofa agam faoi choimisiún ag Aisling Ghéar. Scríobh mé GRUAGAIRÍ, a léiríodh sa bhliain dhá mhíle is a seacht. Shaothraigh sin gradam ón Stewart Parker Trust dom. Dráma greannmhar é ina gcothaíonn daoine óga cumarsáid ghnó, grá agus gruaim.

I’ve written two plays under commission by Aisling Ghéar. I wrote GRAUGAIRÍ, which they produced in two thousand and seven. That garnered a Stewart Parker Trust award for me. It’s a comedy drama in which young people develop business, love and morose relationships.

Sa bhliain dhá mhíle is a cheathar déag, scríobh mé dráma ficsean eolaíochta, MAKARONIK, dráma ina bhfuil grá agus bagairt ag ciapadh na gcarachtar in ionad sonraí san am atá amach romhainn. Bhí a chéad oíche ag MAKARONIK anseo, in amharclann an Lyric, mar chuid de Fhéile Bhéal Féirste Ollscoil na Banríona. Rinne Aisling Ghéar jab den scoth leis na léiriúcháin sin agus thug siad ar camcuairt ar fud na tíre iad.

In two thousand and fourteen, I wrote a science fiction play, MAKARONIK, in which love and threats torment the characters in a data centre of the future. MAKARONIK had its first night on this stage, at The Lyric Theatre, as part of the Belfast Festival at Queens. Aisling Ghéar did a fine job with the productions and took them on tour across the country.

Tá áthas orm a bheith anseo agus gabhaim mo bhuíochas le Bríd Ó Gallachóir is lena comrádaithe as an chuireadh a thabhairt dom machnamh a dhéanamh ar cheisteanna suimiúla a bhíonn liom agus mé i mbun oibre go laethúil.

I’m delighted to be here and I thank Bríd Ó Gallachóir and her colleagues for the invitation to give some thought to interesting questions that are with me when I undertake my daily work.

Maidir leis na ceisteanna ar mhol Aisling Ghéar dul i ngleic leo, seo an chéad cheann.

As to the questions Aisling Ghéar recommend we engage with, here’s the first one.

1. An gníomh polaitiúil é drámaíocht phroifisiúnta na Gaeilge?

1. Is professional theatre in Irish a political act?

Is é. Cinnte. Go dearfach. Gan aon dabht. Ar an gcéad dul síos mar gur gníomh polaitiúil é tabhairt faoi dhrámaíocht de chineál ar bith, i dteanga ar bith, fiú saothar iomlán 'trádálach' mar a fheictear ar stáitsí éagsúla an West End i Londain, abair.

It is. Yes. Definitely. Without a doubt. In the first instance, because making any form of theatre is itself a political act, in any language, even work that is wholly commercial, as is seen on various stages in the West End in London, for example.

Mar a dúirt George Bernard Shaw tráth: Sé an dráma an ealaíon is poiblí dá bhfuil againn.

As George Bernard Shaw once said: Theatre is our most public art.

Dá bhrí sin, cinnte gur gníomh polaitiúil é drámaíocht phroifisúnta Ghaeilge a chur ar an stáitse agus ní amháin mar go bhfuil an teanga í fhéin conspóideach, dar le roinnt daoine ar fud na tíre, chan amháin anseo, sa tuaisceart.

Thus putting professional Irish theatre on the stage is a political act and not only because the language is controversial, according to some people across the country, not only here, in the north.

Aon uair a deireann ealaíontóirí go bhfuil siad chun scéal a chur os comhair an phobail, ar stáitse agus i bhfoirm amharclainne, tá siad ag baint usáide as traidisiún ársa atá forleathan sa domhan, i bhfoirmeacha eagsúla.

Any time artists decide to put a story before a public, on stage and in a theatrical manner, they are drawing on an ancient tradition that is widespread in the world, in a variety of forms.

Seans gurb é an cine daonna a mhair sna pluaiseanna a thosaigh an drámaíocht, mar a thuigeann muidne é. Samhlaigh anois: An seilg thart. An béile ite. An tine lasta. Achan duine, idir óg is aosta, compordach agus sásta sa phluais. Ansin, cuireann duine ceist ar an té a mharaigh an fia atá ite acu. Insítear an scéal. Seans nach é an sealgaire a insíonn an scéal. Duine eile. Bean b’fhéidir, a bhfuil buanna ar leith aici. Is breá leis na héisteoirí an teanga, an cur síos agus an fhoirm. Codlaíonn na héisteoirí níos fearr, béile breá ina mboilg agus íomhánna ón scéal mar bhrionglóid ina suan.

It was possibly the humans that lived in the caves that started theatre, as we understand it. Imagine now: the hunt completed. The meal eaten. The fire alight. Everybody, young and old, comfortable and satisfied in the cave. Then, someone questions the person who killed the deer they’ve all eaten. The story is told. It’s possibly not the hunter who tells the story. Another person. Perhaps a woman, with particular gifts. The listeners enjoy the language, the descriptions and the form. The listeners sleep better, a fine meal in their bellies and images from the story as dreams in their slumbers.

Sa gheimhreadh, tagann géarchéim agus níl an seilg comh saibhir is a bhí sé. Anois an scéal ag an bhean, is cuimhne é. Éisteann an dream sa phluais. Seasann fear amháin agus déanann sé aithris ar an scéal le haicsean agus geáitsaíocht agus cora. Anois tá scéal na seilge i bhfoirm dráma. Splancann an tine agus feictear scáthanna an fhir ar na ballaí. Tá scannán againn.

A crisis comes in the winter and the hunt is not so fruitful. Now the story is a memory. The crowd listens in the cave. A man stands and he mimes the telling with action, gestures and turns. Now the story of the hunt is a play. Sparks fly up from the fire and shadows of the man are on the walls. We have a film.

Sin an traidisiún ina bhfuil muidne ag saothrú. Gníomh ar bith ina bhfuil pobal agus maireachtáil i gceist is gníomh polaitiúil é. Agus maidir leis an Ghaeilge, cinnte tá pobal agus maireachtáil i gceist.

That’s the tradition in which we are working. Any act in which people and survival are in question is a political act. And, in regard to Irish, people and survival are certainly in question.

Ceist a dó, mar sin.

Question two, then.

2. An bhfuil drámaíocht i dteanga ar bith ábalta dul i bhfeidhm ar phobal?

2. Is theatre in any language capable of influencing people?

Tá an ábaltacht sin ag drámaíocht, ach caithfidh muid bheith réadúil faoi.

Theatre has that capacity, but we have to be realistic about it.

Tosaím le huimhreacha. Samhlaigh seo: dráma de mo chuidse, The Shopper and the Boy, míle naoi chéad nócha seacht. Samhlaigh arís: mise agus beirt aisteoir in halla ar imeall Ros Liath, ar bhruach abhainn na Finne, chóir a bheith ar an teorainn idir Tuaisceart Éireann agus Poblacht na hÉireann. Ochtar san halla.

Bhí teannas ar leith sa sráidbhaile an tseachtain sin, maidir le morshiúl a bhí le teacht, ag deireadh shéasúr na mórshiúlta. Arbh fhiú dúinn dul ar aghaidh le dráma ina bhfuil an mórshiúl céanna mar théama ann?

I begin with numbers. Imagine this: a play of mine, The Shopper and The Boy, nineteen hundred and ninety seven. Imagine again: me and two actors in a hall on the edge of Roslea, beside the river Finn, practically on the border between Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland. There are eight people in the hall. There was a special tension in the village that week, because of a march that was to come, at the end of a season of marching. Was it worthwhile to proceed with the play, which had the same marches as a theme?

An beart a rinneamar ná dul ar aghaidh, i ndiaidh an cheist a phlé leis na daoine a thug an cuireadh dúinn bheith ann. Bhí na haisteoirí toilteanach dul ar aghaidh. Daoine proifisiúnta, díograiseacha is ea iad. An teannas a bhí sa sráidbhaile, bhí sé linne san halla. Bhí an teannas os comhair an lucht féachana, idir na carachtair ar an stáitse agus idir na carachtair agus an sochaí ina raibh siad tumtha.

We decided to proceed, after discussing the question with the people who invited us to be there. The actors were willing to proceed. They are peerless professionals. The same tension that was in the village was with us in the hall. That tension was presented to the audience, between the characters on stage and between the characters and the society in which they were immersed.

Ag an deireadh, bhí sé soiléir go ndeachaigh an dráma i bhfeidhm ar an lucht féachana, leis na léirmheasanna a thug siad dom. Bhí spás faighte acu le hábhar conspóideach a mheabhrú. Chuala siad teanga úr, teanga fhileata agus dhrámatúil, neamh-réadúil, le hathbhreathnú a dhéanamh ar argóint domhan. Bhí próisis phríobháideacha agus phoiblí ar siúl i measc phobal an tsráidbhaile agus, anois, bhí taithí chomhchoitianta acu. Sea, grúpa beag de mhuintir na háite, ach daoine gafa go smior sna fadhbanna ab ea iad.

It was clear, at the end, that the play had affected the audience, given the reviews they gave me. They had enjoyed a space to consider controversial matters. They heard new language, language that was poetic, dramatic and non-realistic, in order to re-assess a deep argument. A shared experience was added to public and private processes that were underway among the people in the village. Yes, a small group of the local people, but people deeply engaged with the matter.

Ceist maidir le huimhreacha. Ochtar? Arbh fhiú é?

A question about numbers. Eight? Was it worth it?

Ag cloí le huimhreacha. An dráma raidió is déanaí liomsa, bhí sé sa bhliain dhá mhíle is a trí déag, ar BBC Raidio a Ceathair. Bhí cúpla réalt i measc na foirne – Amanda Burton agus Bronagh Gallagher. Dúirt an léiritheor liom gur éist cúig mhilliún duine leis. Sin uimhir. An ndeachaigh an dráma i bhfeidhm orthu? Cén dóigh?

Sticking with numbers. My most recent radio drama, in two thousand and thirteen, was on BBC Radio 4. There were a couple of stars in the cast – Amanda Burton and Bronagh Gallagher. The producer told me that five million people heard it. That’s a number. Did it influence them? How?

Rith smaoineamh liom, maidir leis na samplaí sin agus an taithí atá agam le scannáin agus teilifís, sa saothar s’agamsa: ní aon iontas dom go bhfuil drámadóirí ag díriú fuinnimh ar an raidió agus an scáileán seachas an stáitse. Ach caithfimid bheith cúramach maidir le tionchar.

A thought struck me, given those examples and my experience with film and television, that’s it’s no surprise dramatists are putting energy into radio and screen instead of the stage. But we have to be careful with regard to effect.

Tá ceist a trí i bhfoirm ráitis.

Question three is in the form of a statement.

3. Is tríd insint ár scéalta a chuireann muid cruth ar an stair idirphearsanta agus phoiblí. Tá cumhacht ag an phróiseas seo chun ceiliúradh, chun comóradh agus chun cóiriúchán a dhéanamh.

3. It is by telling our stories that we put shape on inter-personal and public history. There is power in this process for celebration, commemoration and for the making of arrangements.

An focal is útamálaí domsa sa ráiteas sin, ná ‘ár’. Tá ‘insint’ intuigthe go leor. ‘Scéalta’ fiú, cé gur coincheap domhan é, tá sé soléir a dhóthain. Ach an focal ‘ár’; osclaíonn sé conspóid láithreach. Cé hiad an ‘ár’ seo? Cé hiad ‘muidne’ agus cé hiad ‘sibhse’? Nó ‘siadsan’?

The word that is most disturbing to me in that statement is ‘our’. ‘Telling’ is understandable enough. ‘Stories, even though it is a deep concept, is reasonably clear. But the word ‘our’ opens controversy immediately. Who is this ‘our’? Who are ‘we’ and who are ‘you’? Or ‘them’?

Leis na ceisteanna sin romham mar ealaíontóir, seachnaím an ‘ár’ sin. Deirim liom féin gur baol dom an iliomad ‘ár’, nuair atá mé ag scríobh. Níl ann ach mise. Níl ionam ach glór aonarach, uaigneach. Cibé macallaí a aithním ó na haillte ár-sa tharam, is macallaí iad agus gan a thuilleadh tionchar acu orm ach mar a bheadh ag puth gaoithe ar eilifint.

As an artist, with those questions before me, I avoid that ‘our’. I say to myself that too much ‘our’ is a danger to me, when I’m writing. There is only me. I’m but a lone, lonely voice. What ever echoes I recognise from the cliffs of ‘our’ around me, they are but echoes and without as much effect on me as a puff of wind would have on an elephant.

Murach sin agus uilig, tá achan rud i gcoimhlint sa sochaí seo. Cá bhfuil mé, mar dhrámadóir? Cén intinn a ghlacaim? Lárnach? Imeallach? An féidir an dá intinn a bheith agam? I lár an aonaigh agus ar an chlaí, mar go bhfuil mé mí-shocair leis an focal sin ‘ár’?

However, everything is contested in this society. Where am I, as a dramatist? What position do I take? At the centre? On the edge? Can I have the two positions? In the heart of it and on the sidelines, because I am uncomfortable with the word ‘our’?

Ní minic a aontaím leis an drámadóir poncánach David Mamet, ach téann an méid atá scríofa aige ina leabhar Three Uses of the Knife i bhfeidhm orm, go háirithe nuair a deireann sé

I don’t often agree with the American dramatist David Mamet, but his writing in the book Three Uses of the Knife has influenced me, in particular when he says

What you and I want from art is peace.

Agus

And

Artists don’t set out to bring anything to audiences or to anyone else. They set out to cure a raging imbalance.

Ach cén mhíchothromaíocht atá i gceist domsa, nuair a thugaim faoin ghníomh polaitiúil sin, dráma a scríobh? Táim ag iarraidh an mheá a threisiú i dtreo na cóire agus na cirte, ach ag an am chéanna chan i dtreo statach.

But what imbalance is in question for me, when I undertake that political act, the writing of a play? I’m trying to strengthen the balance in the direction of justice and right, but at the same time not in the direction of stasis.

Táim ag lorg meá bhogach, luascach. Bíodh cothromíocht solúbtha ann, mar athraíonn achan rud i gcónaí. Cothromaíocht mhísheasmhach, ag bogadh go nádurtha gan srian. 

Agus i gcónaí i dtreo na cirte. Sea, cothromaíocht cheistiúil, ina bhfuil cumhacht agus suímh ina bhfuil cumhacht lonnaithe faoi chaibidil agus faoi cheist go riachtanach.

I’m seeking a swaying, moving balance. Let there be a flexible balance, because every thing changes all the time. An unstable balance, always moving, without cease. And always in the direction of rightness. Yes, a questioning balance, in which power and the locations where power is situated are, of necessity, under discussion and in question.

Sé an t-easaontú an uirlis is úsáidí i mbosca uirlisí an scríbhneora atá tiomanta leis an dearcadh sin.

Dissent is the most useful tool in the kit of the writer who is determined to hold that view.

Mar a dúirt Susan Sontag

As Susan Sontag said

I too have an horizon of hope.

Is i dtreo léaslíne an dóchais sin atá mé a dhíriú.

I am heading in the direction of that horizon of hope.

Aontaím leis an úrscealaí Nadine Gordimer nuair a dúirt sí

I agree with the novelist Nadine Gordimer when she said

I can’t see why contemporary writers can’t write about power.

Agus mar fhreagra ar an téama ‘cóiriúchán’ atá romhainn, lig dom ‘iniúcadh’ a chur leis. Mar gur drámadóir is úrscéalaí mé, beidh aird ag an iniúcadh sin ar thaithí an phearsa. Anois, nuair atá mé ag amharc siar ar mo shaothar proifisiúnta, feicim gurb í nó é an duine aonarach i ngrúpaí beaga mar chlann, nó suíomh oibre nó squad mileata, sáite i gcomhthéacs stairiúil, poiblí, a mheallann mé. Níl mo ghlór comh haonarach, uaigneach sin, dáiríre.

And in response to the word ‘arrangement’ before us, allow me to add ‘investigation’ to it. Being a dramatist and novelist, the attention of that investigation will be on the experience of the person. Now, when I look back on my professional work, I see that it is he or he, the individual person in the midst of small groups such as a family, a work-place or a military squad, itself deep in a public, historical context, that draws me. My voice is not so lone and lonely.

Is dóiche gurb é an bogadh sa mheá sin atá do mo spreagadh nuair a deirim go bhfuil radharc todhchaíoch agam ag tabhairt faoi mo dhrámaí. Tá mé ag iniúcadh na míshocrachta atá ionaim agus sa phobal. Sin a chuireann ag scríobh mé, go háirithe leis an saothar stáitse is déanaí uaim, DENIZEN. Ghlac mé glór líofa, fileata chugam chun scéal na míleatach poblachtánacha sin a rá go poiblí i ndráma atá scríofa i bhfoirm véarsaíochta, le bealaí politiúla gan foréigean a iniúcadh.

I think it’s perhaps the movement in that balance that impels me when I say I have a future orientated view when I set to write a play. I am investigating that discomfort in me and in people. That’s what sets me writing, in particular in my most recent stage-work, DENIZEN. I used a fluent, poetic voice to tell the story of that republican militant publicly, in a play written in verse, that investigates political routes away from violence.

Léiríodh i hallaí na cúirte sa tSráth Bán agus i nDoire é, sa bhliain dhá mhíle is a cúig déag.

Feictear DENIZEN é fhéin, os comhair na cúirte, foilseáin óna shaol aige, á dtaispeáint dúinn. Tá dearcadh todhchaíocht aige, ní aon ionadh é.

It was produced in court houses in Strabane and Derry, in two thousand and fifteen. We see DENIZEN himself before the court, showing us exhibits from his life. He has a future-facing view, it is no surprise.

Exhibit Q. A future metaphor?

I am the Hare, speedy as the Leopard,

Brave as the Lion, guileful as the Wolf,

Some day sure to be as old as the man.

Exhibit Q. A future metaphor?

I am the Hare, speedy as the Leopard,

Brave as the Lion, guileful as the Wolf,

Some day sure to be as old as the man.

Lig dom filleadh ar an ‘ár’ sin arís, le machnamh a dhíriú ar shiamsa sa dhrámaíocht.

Allow me to return to that ‘our’ again, to direct some thoughts on ‘entertainment’ in theatre.

Ach bímis amhrasach. Éist leis an rabhadh a thugann David Mamet dúinn, arís óna leabhar Three Use of the Knife

But let’s be careful. Listen to the warning David Mamet gives us, in his book, Three Uses of the Knife

In entertainment, we, as a culture, change from communicants to consumers.

Arís, ‘ár’ eile.

Once more. Another ‘our’.

An féidir linn an caidreamh idir an drámaíocht agus an lucht féachana a choinneáil ar leibheál an rannpháirteachais seachas an caitheamh? Sin dúshlán agus deis iontach dúinn mar dhrámadóirí. Cad é a chiallaíonn siamsa nuair a bhíonn ceisteanna polaitiúla, cumhacht, scéalaíocht agus claochlú romhainn?

Can we maintain the relationship between theatre and the audience at the level of participation instead of consumption? That’s a challenge and an opportunity for us as dramatists. What does ‘entertainment’ mean when questions of politics, power, story-making and transformation are before us?

Ag saoineamh ar mo shaothar fhéin, ritheann sé liom go bhfuil ‘siamsa’ bunúsach san obair mar go dtugann sé uchtach do dhaoine.

Uchtach agus faoiseamh, sa doigh is go bhfuil muid in ann an claochlú a chonaic muid ar an ardán a thabhairt linn isteach inár gcroíthe agus inár saolta fhéin. Siamsa san teanga; sa scéal a úsáideann an scríbhneoir; siamsa i scileanna na n-aisteoirí, na dteicneorí is an stiúrthóra. Is íocshláinte í an drámaíocht. Sin an bealach a théann sí i bhfeidhm ar dhaoine. Mar shiamsa, ach go háirid.

In regard to my own work, it strikes me that ‘entertainment’ is fundamental to the work when it gives encouragement to people. Encouragement and relief, so that we can we can take the transformation we witnessed on the stage into our hearts and our own lives. Entertainment in the language: in the story used by the writer; entertainment in the skills of the actors, the technicians and the director. Theatre is a balm. That’s a way it influences people. As entertainment, in particular.

Éist anseo le Phelim, ó mo dhráma GRUAGAIRÍ. Is iománaí é agus déanann sé féinchraoladh ar a ghaiscí imeartha.

Have a listen here to Phelim, from my play GRUAGARAÍ. He’s a hurler and he self-broadcasts on his playing prowess.

Anois, seo Phelim ar an chliathán, an sliotar greamaithe go dlúth ar a chamán. Tá sé dochreidthe an cúrsa a d’aimsigh sé fríd na cait fhiána sin. Ach is cuma le Phelim, tugann sé aghaidh díreach ar an chúl agus sluaite de na stríoca dubha is ómra ag titim uaidh. Cad é a thriailfidh an fear lár páirce anois? Iarracht thar an trasnán? Pas isteach go dtí na lántosaithe? Ó, ní hea, ní hea. Urchar millteannach do-stopaithe díreach isteach in eangach Chill Chainnigh agus cúl eile faighte ag Phelim, síol Chú Chulainn féin. Phelim. laoch na himeartha sa chluiche ceannais seo, gan dabht.

(A speech by Phelim, a character in Dave Duggan’s play GRUAGARAÍ, in which Phelim riffs on his own hurling prowess.)

Teanga, scéal, an duine aonarach i ngrúpa beag, iniúcadh ar intinn fireann. Le greann.

Language, story, the lone person in a small group, an investigation into the male mind. With humour.

Nó seo iad Diarmuid agus Gráinne, oifigigh ardleibhéil na hImpireachta, ag foghlaim Ghaeilge go deifreach. Gráinne ar dtús agus ag an deireadh, i gcomhrá le Diarmuid, ó mo dhráma MAKARONIK.

Or here we have Diarmuid and Gráinne, high level officials of The Empire of the future, hurriedly learning Irish. Gráinne first and at the end, with Diarmuid.

Ja Ja. Sin é. Cad é mat atá fú?

Go maw. Dusa?

Sillysilly. Iontich. Thar flarr. Ríméadach. Go maw, go raibh matt agat. Better much. Ar muin na puice. Togha, a stócaigh. Lúchárach. Spleodrais.

Ceart go leor. Tá Gaeilge agat, a Ghráinne.

Tá tú mo mhagadh anois.

Níl. Tá mé …

Tá tú comh teann le bindeal linbh.

Níl mé teann. Tá mé …

Tá tú amhrasach. Cad chuige?

(A dialogue between Diarmuid and Gráinne, two characters from Dave Duggan’s play MAKARONIK, who are hurriedly learning Irish.)

Arís, teanga, scéal, cumhacht á iniúcadh. Agus spleodar.

Once more, language, story, power under investigation. And exuberance.

Mar achoimre ar mo fhreagraí ar na ceisteanna a chur Aisling Ghéar romhainn, bíodh áilleacht seachas gránnacht againn, ord seachas éagruth. Bíodh claochlú agus easaontú, cóir agus ceart san obair.

As review of my responses to the questions posed by Aisling Ghéar, let us have beauty rather than ugliness, order rather than chaos. Let transformation and dissent, justice and right be in the work.

Lig dom treoir amháin a thabhairt chuig mo shaothar fhéin arís, treoir a bhíonn mar mholadh domsa lá i ndiaidh lae, i mo shuí ag mo dheasc, ag glacadh peann nó méarchlár chugam. Bíodh mo shamhlaíocht aibí agus ar bís ionam, go dtabharfaidh mé faoin chumadóireacht le borradh na raithní a chur in achan bhriathar agus dóchas an earraigh in achan mhaidin oibre.

Go raibh maith agaibh.

Let me take one direction into my own work, a direction that is with me every day, sitting at my desk, taking a pen or a keyboard to me. Let my imagination be ripe and impatient, that I might undertake composition, with the speed of the growth of the fern in every word, and the hope of Spring in every morning’s work.

Thank you.                                                     © Dave Duggan 2017

Field Work in Heaneyland, March 2017

Field Work in Heaneyland, March 2017

A travel-blog, with Seamus Heaney's collection Field Work as a guide to his home place.

We came from the north-west, via Eglinton, Greysteel and Ballykelly. We roundabouted Limavady, then turned south-east, through Ringsend and on to Garvagh, where we traversed the great main street, southwards then, in the hired car, expertly steered by The Driver, not long retired from her day job. We drove parallel to the north-south line of the river Bann, the spine of our three day jaunt, The Poet’s Field Work, our Baedeker. A scenic diversion then. After we crossed the bridge at Swatragh, we turned westwards, toward the hills at the Glenshane end of the Sperrins, the sky mountains. Then, south once more, yet again parallel to the great river and we entered Heaneyland, via Slaughtneil.

Did we come to the wilderness for this?

In the midst of scrub-land and hard-earned fields, with hill, moss and bog all around, dainty bungalows and sturdy farm-houses flew the maroon and white chequered and halved banners of local GAA pride. We found the fenced-in green sward, lined chalk-white, bookended by uprights parallel as telegraph poles, where the access was brown and pock-marked by football studs – circles, chevrons, triangles – made at the coming and going of hurlers, camógs and footballers. We stood, The Driver and This Writer, beside the pitch named for Robert Emmet, who, in 1803, brazened the death-confirming judge with 'Be yet patient! I have but a few more words to say. I am going to go to my cold and silent grave. My lamp of life is nearly extinguished. My race is run. The grave opens to receive me and I sink into its bosom'. A woman took our photograph, we, unlikely tourists, from the nearby city, keenly celebrating this totem of community living and sporting achievement, while enquiring about prospects for games to come and relishing the achievements of games played.

Visitations are taken for signs.

We shopped at the post and tourist office at Carn, where public signs gave information as easily in Irish as they did in English. A soft, foam hurlóg for the wee man in London. Stamps and Saint Patrick's Day cards, as Ghaeilge, for the emigrant children. Then we southered on to Maghera, turned east, then, at the town's centre, to cross flat land, alternating pasture and bog, and undulated through Gulladuff, where the road slipped from B to C, though always viable, until we approached the heart of Heaneyland. Like cardiac surgeons coming in from the back, we entered the town of Bellaghy, patient on its Bann river plain. We saw utility and out-buildings, a store and sheds, the steely spire of a boiler-house chimney, the likes of which a small poultry-processing plant might have. We reached our destination, the centre built to honour The Poet. We arrived at the Seamus Heaney Homeplace in Bellaghy.

Vowels ploughed into other: opened ground,

Each verse returning like the plough turned round.

The scones were ace. The staff, including a dryad, was welcoming and knowledgeable. The Poet's duffle-coat, fawn as lough sedge, hung his simulacrum in a glass case. His beaming, big-man's head welcomed us. His small-boy's face grinned 'hello' as we paid our way to enter the vivacious monochrome portals of The Seamus Heaney Homeplace. But, first, the scones, delicate griddle-fare, melting and soaking the butter pads. The coffees were barista-ed perfectly, layer atop layer swimming in tall glasses, far from anything with which The Driver, This Writer or The Poet were reared. Frank Wilson's 'Do I love you?', number 1 in the Northern Soul Top 500, burbled from the sound system above our heads. We almost danced round our chairs. I looked at The Driver, her pen poised over the crossword. 'An ecstatic dancer with Dionysus', six letters, beginning with 'm'. We were deep in Heaneyland then, the Greek province, where the Maenad had danced us, in a hired Supermini Corsa. I answered Frank Wilson's question without hesitation. “Indeed I do.” The Poet and the work he made were well homaged by the people he lived among. The Seamus Heaney Homeplace is a boon and a bliss.

Our first night years ago in that hotel

When you came with your deliberate kiss.

Onward then, until we pulled in at the entrance to a bungalow. An old milk churn in the garden advertised Airbnb. We dismounted and crossed to the low, green bank above the wildfowl reserve. The sun remained kind. The wind dulled its morning edge. There were high clouds, lacy and cottony as angel wings. In the near distance: the island and the spire; the river and small lake, tungsten in the mid-day haze.

The lowland clays and waters of Lough Beg,

Church Island's spire, its soft treeline of yew.

Two lycra-clad walkers briskly directed us onward. We kept the river on our right, until we reached the Bulrush Horticulture Limited junction. We saw the industrial plant where top-layers sliced from the bog were sifted and sacked for sale in garden centres, so that the geology of Heaneyland was scattered far and wide as horticultural substrate, a re-constituted mossbawn, globalised and monetised far beyond the home place. We turned right and dead-ended at the northern tip of Lough Beg, with its neat car-park and welcoming signs, offering the river to canoeists and to us.

A silence of water

lipping the brink

The sun charmed. There were birds calling in the trees, the sound of Spring arising from a cold spell. There was access to the water, via a slipway and a modern pontoon, rendered slip-proof by wire mesh, dense as blood vessels, pinned to the rubber-matted surface. Magherafelt District Council workers picked with pointed beaks and filled their delicate bags with the fag ends and paper leavings of a quiet weekend.

And that moment when the bird sings very close

To the music of what happens.

Skimming and veering

breast to breast with himself

in the clouds in the river

Hooper swans decorated the fields beside the quiet road. We kept the Bann river on our right. Always evident, even when not seen, evident in the big sky arcing above it, the Spring-disguised blue of cuckoo eggs, for the year was still young and the day would turn to twilight as soon as it could. But not yet.

It was all crepuscular and iambic

We drove to a grand arcade, not yet Brexitted, parking the hired car in a sparred Euro-space. We bought lunch – salads, rough bread, chicken pieces, smooth orange juice, tabasco, potato crisps – amidst accents burred and rural as Galloway. We crossed the countyline at Portglenone, beside its marina of pleasure boats and cruisers. We turned south once more, past the monastery and made for the woods, where old oaks and new plantings rolled down to the river bank once more. The log we picnicked at was ash, smooth and skin-grey. The Bann river ran tea-brown to the sea, small wavelets scudding over each other in the contrary wind. The sun blessed us all, though we were chilly; the picnickers, the dog walkers, the shy, young couples. We ate and addressed our Field Work.

Slubbed with eddies

the laden silent river

ran mud and olive into summer

There, on the opposite bank, more people walked, living the day and relishing the tree-lined river, first seen as a trickle from the round back of Slieve Muck, counties away, beside the Irish Sea. The watershed turned it inland and northwards to create lakes en route to the broad Atlantic. The long, hardy route.

A woman walking two huge Bernese Hounds, far from their Alpine home, white-chested, gloss-black backed, with sepia fringes, majestic and vulnerable, out of place yet thoroughly present, was unsure of the way. We offered our best advice. 'Follow the red dots'. Later, we followed our own advice, turned our backs on the river of the goddess Bann and made our way to a pond, where yellow reeds stood sentinel in the quiet water and the green glow. We selfied the memory and laughed.

Where sally tree went pale in every breeze,

Where the perfect eye of the nesting bird watched

bamboo rods stuck leniently out,

nodding and waiting, feelers into quiet

The lyrics of Jimmy Kennedy, under their colourful technicolour sheet music covers, decorated the walls of the Michael Longley room in Laurel Villa, our guest-house in Magherafelt, where the sanctuary that is the home of Geraldine and Eugene Kielt welcomed us. The three church spires of the town were visible from our window, giving a multidimensional, multi-denominational perspective of faith and a-spir-ation, tending heavenwards. The town itself was a throw of spokes from a diamond hub. The guest house was a treasure trove of The Poet's lore, where the knowledgeable and welcoming hosts provided breakfasts of such quality that each plate was an elegance and a treat. We made small talk that was weighty and wondrous, filling and dainty as the fresh scones. How did she get so much flavour into them? We took directions, gathered information and looked forward to our second day as we curled up in the canopy bed, murmuring Jimmy Kennedy song titles – Old Faithful, South of the Border, The Isle of Capri and Red Sails in the Sunset, so beloved of This Writer's mother, herself a singer, forceful, yet gentle, always in tune and as delicately air-filled as a child's blown bubble.

'Give us the raw bar!'

'Sing it by brute force

If you forget the air.'

Raise it again, man.

We still believe what we hear.

We drove to the woods at Drumnaph, where a helpful sign showed us the route, in English and in Irish, the two languages echoing comfortably together in an official matter. We trusted to the woodland path before us, then tramped across the wooden walkway over the bog, before entering an ancient oakland that calmed us both. Sunshine then, finding cleavages and crevasses and clefts in the dense foliage and timber around us, right down to our feet, as we picked our way across the welcoming roots and moss. No forked steps then.

How perilous it is to chose

not to love the life we're shown?

Surprised to come on open ground once more, showing new plantings, we followed the route markers to land in the middle of a pre-historic site, an ancient stone circle. The ring was still there, an echo and a shade of the original, but clearly evident in a landscape that is forever changing as time, weather and animals move across it. It stood as a portal to worlds beyond the current Anthropocene and became a way for us to plumb roots linking us to the ground, so that we, human animals, might not make such fools of ourselves and of our children's children as would destroy this nest we inhabit, spinning and orbiting around our star, one among millions and our only home-place. The Driver and This Writer then found a new-sculpted stone circle, erected by local people and we were gladdened, though it was gently kitsch. There was a pond and then a river, a tumult of water, tumbling and rolling its way to the Grillagh Road, where our car awaited us. We arrived there in an enlivening breeze and with such an earful of birdsong that we departed cheerful and refreshed.

And that moment when the bird sings very close

To the music of what happens.

A singer on the radio feigned Nashville angst as we sat to late morning coffee and scones in the café at the old linen mill in Upperlands. The site of the end of the 19^th century labours of the workers hired by Wallace Clarke was transformed into an industrial heritage site, a museum in a huge warehouse and a cul-de-sac of small enterprise units, ubiquitously modern. The old linen mill buildings loomed above. Yet another small river churned under a bridge, delighting us. There was a surfeit of water: small rivers and ponds, scutching dams and bleaching greens. There were workers' house in neat rows, each one fronted with a long garden, from which to garner food and leisure, vital sustenances for mill workers pledged to scutch and mill and bleach recalcitrant vegetation to make the linen for shirts and underwear for the quality. The Driver and This Writer admired the grand photograph of the mill workers of all grades, a tiered multitude of them and their families, then wondered at the labour and the legacy of human endeavour.

What do we say anymore

to conjure the salt of our earth?

We drove to the great market town of Kilrea, home of famous soccer managers, Martin O’Neill and Kenny Shiels, where The Driver found ample parking for the Supermini Corsa, in spaces designated for the tractors, lorries, wagons and SUVs that attend the cattle and sheep mart. A wonder: the dryad from the Seamus Heaney Homeplace, vivacious as ever, met us by chance and offered us further kindness, wisdom and directions to a picnic spot by the river. Once more we shopped for lunch: local wholemeal bread, salad greens, tomatoes, thinly sliced ham, fruit and sticky buns. We left Kilrea by an angle of ninety degrees turn and southered once more at the War Memorial, keeping the river to our left, still on the Derry side. We failed to find the exit given by the dryad's directions, but informed by her grace, we came across Hutchinson Quay, where sunlight dappled the water, shimmering at us in welcome.

And the trees opened into a shady

Unexpected clearing where we sat down.

A Canadian canoe arrived, strapped to the top of a low car. A man got out, donned a Stetson, then stretched his arms into the bright air. As he began to unhook the canoe, slowly and steadily, we returned to our picnic. Tabasco sauce fired the sliced ham. Tomatoes layered sunsets on cheddar, roughly cut. Orange juice, vivid as rapeseed flowers glowing in the sun, quenched our thirsts. Brown bread, chunky enough to sustain farm labourers, was a bounty for easy-going picnickers, who’s only Field Work was The Poet’s great book.

The canoe passed us, the man in the Stetson half-visible underneath. We lost sight of it as the man descended the pontoon, readying to enter the water, which sparkled even more joyously in greeting now. We tidied the remnants of our food, stashed them in the boot of the car and made for the riverside path, heading south, straight as a die beside and against the current of the Bann. Flat ground, dry earth with good trees arcing above, well-leafed already, mixed new plantings with old alder, ash, yew, elm and oak. Scrub too, dense as hessian, between us and the river, until a fortuitous break revealed the canoeist in his Stetson, rowing purposefully against the flow, serene and capable, his back straight as a good pine, his hands deft and secure, his oar-strokes clipped and definite.

His fisherman’s quick eye

And turned observant back

We returned to Kilrea and crossed its many arched-bridge into Antrim, before once more turning south, the river on our right hand now, to seek the culinary delights of India in Heaneyland. That evening, we feasted on pakoras, bhajis, curries, nans, rice and raita at the Taj Restaurant in Magherafelt. We ate with a friend and talked about families, hiking, mutual friends, mountains and hills at home and abroad, leisure, work and the pleasures of living in Heaneyland.

Where the sally tree went pale in every breeze,

where the perfect eye of the nesting blackbird watched,

where one fern was always green

Joan Cavender, an old friend now dead, gave us Field Work by Seamus Heaney in 1979, the year of its publication, when we, all three, worked together in The Gambia. Heaneyland is far from those Sahel shores, yet the heat of west Africa rises from the pages, almost sepia now, while the ebony-inked words still beam solid from the paper.

We returned to our north-west city. We returned the hired car. We returned to our lives of work and leisure. We returned our Field Work to the shelf, where it sits amongst others of The Poet’s works, the milk and honey of Heaneyland.

We were refreshed and enlivened, replete with memories of places, people and words.

And of time well spent together.

The way we are living,

timorous or bold,

will have been our life.

©Dave Duggan 2017

Field Work: Seamus Heaney; Faber and Faber, London, 1979

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A SHROPSHIRE LAD, 1972 : after A.E. Housman

Written, in the style of A Shropshire Lad by A.E. Housman, 1896, following a visit to Clun, Shropshire, England and seeing the name Hull on the war memorial in the church. The playwright, John Osborne, is buried in the graveyard.

A SHROPSHIRE LAD, 1972

after A.E. Housman

The hawthorn sprinkles up and down

The hedgerows, waving row by row,

In garlands rich about the town,

To fete the land with blossom snow.

Look left, look right, the hills are bright

Around the church that recalls Hull.

The cherry blossoms Easter light

Candles a corner never dull.

For Hull, the Shropshire lad, now lost,

Named on a wall of brutal dead,

Did serve his Queen and paid a cost

That bought for him a cold, clay bed.

Being himself a sterling lad

Took suit and shilling of the Queen,

Since she, the loyal long has had

For targets shot by foes unseen.

When first he left his Shropshire dale,

The Queen's short shilling soon to earn,

No promise made could then prevail

In battle harsh, where death did burn.

That time he won his town the race

Is many years ago and some.

The glow has left his beaming face,

His vigour long has dust become.

The blue hills now shine rapeseed gold

In sunbursts splashed across the dale.

Hull, the lad, will never grow old

His cheeks, once rose, wax deathly pale.

'Tis sure no pleasure to see shot

This lad the hills of Shropshire bred.

He loved the days his world begot.

What future now for him shot dead?

So Hull now roams the lost blue hills,

In a quieter place than Clun.

No more he suffers woes or ills

His living joys all doomsday done.

Where Osborne, playwright, takes his rest,

All anger long since quelled,

Daffodils gayly nod the quest

To lands where early death is knelled.

The Queen Hull served lives well indeed,

In castles vast and demesnes grand.

While worms on Hull’s flesh ever feed

And fertilise his much loved land.

Still grim thunder from Westminster

Sets the young on the path to war.

MPs shout war cries sinister

In a call to kill folk close and far.

Let Shropshire lads now stay in Clun

And work the hills as best they know.

Let MPs, silent, leave them alone

As lads lift arms but for to sow.