On a Grave at Grindelwald
Here let us leave him; for his shroud the snow,
for funeral-lamps he has the planets seven,
for a great sign the icy stair shall go
between the heights to heaven.
One moment stood he as the angels stand,
high in the stainless eminence of air;
the next, he was not, to his fatherland
translated unaware.
--Frederick William Henry Myers (1843-1901)
Rain on Rahoon falls softly, softly falling,
where my dark lover lies.
Sad is his voice that calls me, sadly calling,
at grey moonrise.
Love, hear thou
how soft, how sad his voice is ever calling,
ever unanswered, and the dark rain falling,
then as now.
Dark to our hearts. O love, shall lie and cold
as his sad heart has lain
under the moongrey nettles, the black mould.
and muttering rain.
--James Joyce (1882-1941). This poem was inspired by the true story of a young man, Michael Bodkin, who courted Joyce's future wife, Nora, before they met. Michael had tuberculosis but "left his house on the rainy night before Nora left Galway to sing beneath her window a song of sorrow and farewell. He died from exposure a short time later and was buried in Rahoon cemetery." [From For the Love of Ireland, ed. Susan Cahill]
In the middle of the room, in its white coffin, lay the dead child, the nephew of the poet. Near it, in a great chair, sat Walt Whitman, surrounded by little ones, and holding a beautiful little girl on his lap. She looked wonderingly at the spectacle of death, and then inquiringly into the old man's face. 'You don't know what it is, do you, my dear?' said he, and added, 'We don't, either.'
--Mary Mapes Dodge (1831-1905), a friend of poet Walt Whitman's, in the preface to a poem.
I am far frae my hame, an’ I’m weary aftenwhiles,
For the langed for hame bringin’, an’ my Father’s welcome smiles;
An’ I’ll ne’er be fu’ content, until mine een do see
The gowden gates o’ Heav’n an’ my ain countrie.
The earth is fleck’d wi’ flowers, mony tinted, fresh an’ gay
The birdies warble blithely, for my Faither made them sae:
But these sights an’ these soun’s will as naething be to me,
When I hear the angels singin’ in my ain countrie.
I’ve His gude word o’ promise that some gladsome day, the King
To His ain royal palace his banished hame will bring;
Wi’een an’ wi’ hert rinnin’ owre, we shall see
The King in His beauty, in oor ain countrie.
Sae little noo I ken, o’ yon blessèd, bonnie place
I only ken it’s Hame, whaur we shall see His face,
It wad surely be eneuch for ever mair to be
In the glory o’ His presence, in oor ain countrie.
He is faithfu’ that hath promised, an He’ll surely come again,
He’ll keep His tryst wi’ me, at what oor I dinna ken;
But He bids me still to wait, an’ ready aye to be,
To gang at ony moment to my ain countrie.
--Mary Demarest wrote this poem in 1861 when she was 23, after hearing the story of John MacDuff and his wife. The music was written by Ione Hanna.
Thanks to Cyberhymnal.
I lost my child today
People came to weep and cry
as I just sat and stared, dry eyed
They struggled to find words to say
to try and make the pain go away
I walked the floor in disbelief
I lost my child today.
I lost my child last month
Most of the people went away
Some still call and some still stay
I wait to wake up from this dream
This can't be real, I want to scream
Yet everything is locked inside
God, help me, I want to die
I lost my child last month.
I lost my child last year
Now people who had came, have gone
I sit and struggle all day long
to bear the pain so deep inside
And now my friends just question Why?
Why does this mother not move on?
Just sits and sings the same old song
Good heavens, it has been so long
I lost my child last year.
Time has not moved on for me
The numbness it has disappeared
My eyes have now cried many tears
I see the look upon your face
"She must move on and leave this place"
Yet I am trapped right here in time
The song’s the same, as is the rhyme
I lost my child.........today
--Netta Wilson, written in memory of her daughter Caprice Cara Wilson, who was killed in an auto accident (December 2, 1968 - November 20, 1994). Printed in the newsletter of The Compassionate Friends, Atlanta, May-June 2001
If you know how to reach Netta Wilson, please let me know.
Time passes, winter and spring fade;
cold and heat suddenly flow and change.
My bride has returned to the sad underworld,
a heavy place, forever shut off by gloom.
Private wishes-- who can follow them?
Staying on here-- how can that help me?
I should respect the court orders,
turn my heart back to my early service.
When I look at our cottage, I think of her in it.
The women's rooms are empty of her.
Pen and ink still hold her traces.
The floating fragrance is not yet gone,
her portrait still hangs on the screen
almost as if she is still there.
I come back uneasy, startled, sad.
It's like birds in the northern forest,
settled as a pair, one early left alone.
It's like flatfish roaming the river,
one eye gone on the way.
The spring wind comes bringing a fissure of fate
At dawn the water drips off the eaves
In my bedroom-- how can I forget those times?
My drowning grief overflows my days.
How much time will there be like this?
I could bang on a pot, like Zhuangzi.
--Chinese poet Pan Yue 潘岳 (247-300) was unusual for his time in writing publicly about his wife's death. This is my translation. You can read Kenneth Rexroth's translation of the same poem here.
悼亡诗三首
荏苒冬春谢。寒暑忽流易。
之子归穷泉。重壤永幽隔。
私怀谁克从。淹留亦何益。
僶俛恭朝命。回心反初役。
望庐思其人。入室想所历。
帏屏无髣髴。翰墨有余迹。
流芳未及歇。遗挂犹在壁。
怅怳如或存。回遑忡惊惕。
如彼翰林鸟。双栖一朝只。
如彼游川鱼。比目中路析。
春风缘隟来。晨溜承檐滴。
寝息何时忘。沉忧日盈积。
庶几有时衰。庄缶犹可击。
The Lake
Constantly pushed toward new coasts like this,
swept away into eternal night, with no return,
on the ocean of the ages-- can we never
throw down an anchor for a single day ?
O lake! the year is scarcely over,
and near the beloved waters she should have seen again,
look! I've come alone to sit on this stone
where you saw her sitting!
You groaned like this under these deep rocks;
you broke on their torn flanks;
the wind threw the foam from your waves like this
onto her adored feet.
One evening, do you remember? We were floating in silence;
on the waves, under the sky, there was nothing to hear far off
but the sound of oarsmen beating in rhythm
against your harmonious waves.
Suddenly in unearthly accents
echos fell from the enchanted shore:
the water listened, and the voice that I love
let these words fall:
"O time, suspend your flight! and you, happy hours,
suspend your race:
let us savor the fleet delights
of our fairest days!
"There are enough unhappy people down here who implore you--
rush, rush for them;
take with their days the cares that devour them--
forget the happy people.
"But I ask in vain for a few more moments,
time escapes me and flees;
I say to this night: Be slower; and dawn
comes to melt the night.
"Let us love then, let us love! let us revel in
the flying hour-- hurry!
Man has no harbor, Time has no shores;
it flows, and we pass!"
Envious Time, can it be that these euphoric moments,
when love pours happiness on us in long surges,
fly away from us at the same speed
as the unhappy days?
What! Can't we at least hold on to the traces?
What! gone forever? What! completely lost?
The same Time that gave them, the same Time that erased them,
will never give them back to us?
Eternity, nothingness, past, dark pits,
what do you do with the days that you engulf?
Speak: will you give us back those uttermost ecstasies
that you snatch from us?
O lake! silent rocks! caves! dark forest!
you whom Time spares or can make young again,
beautiful Nature, keep, keep from that night
at least the memory!
May it be in your rest, may it be in your storms,
beautiful lake, and in the look of your smiling shoreline,
and in these black pines, and in these wild rocks
leaning over your waters.
May it be in the soft wind that shivers and passes,
in the sounds of your banks repeated by your banks,
in the star with a silver forehead that whitens your surface
with its soft clearness.
May the wind that groans, the reed that sighs,
may the soft scent of your fragrant air,
may everything that can be heard, seen or breathed
all say: they loved!
--Alphonse de Lamartine (1790-1869) fell in love with Julie Charles, a married woman, after rescuing her from drowning in the Lake of Bourget, in the foothills of the Alps. He fell in love with her, but she died soon afterwards. Returning to the lake in 1817, he wrote this poem, his most famous.
Le Lac
Ainsi, toujours poussés vers de nouveaux rivages,
dans la nuit éternelle emportés sans retour,
ne pourrons-nous jamais sur l’océan des âges
jeter l’ancre un seul jour?
Ô lac! l’année à peine a fini sa carrière,
et près des flots chéris qu’elle devait revoir,
regarde! je viens seul m’asseoir sur cette pierre
où tu la vis s’asseoir!
Tu mugissais ainsi sous ces roches profondes;
ainsi tu te brisais sur leurs flancs déchirés;
ainsi le vent jetait l’écume de tes ondes
sur ses pieds adorés.
Un soir, t’en souvient-il? nous voguions en silence;
on n’entendait au loin, sur l’onde et sous les cieux,
que le bruit des rameurs qui frappaient en cadence
tes flots harmonieux.
Tout à coup des accents inconnus à la terre
du rivage charmé frappèrent les échos:
le flot fut attentif, et la voix qui m’est chère
laissa tomber ces mots:
« Ô temps, suspends ton vol! et vous, heures propices
suspendez votre cours:
laissez-nous savourer les rapides délices
des plus beaux de nos jours!
« Assez de malheureux ici-bas vous implorent,
coulez, coulez pour eux;
prenez avec leurs jours les soins qui les dévorent,
oubliez les heureux.
« Mais je demande en vain quelques moments encore,
le temps m’échappe et fuit;
je dis à cette nuit: Sois plus lente ; et l’aurore
va dissiper la nuit.
"Aimons donc, aimons donc ! de l’heure fugitive,
hâtons-nous, jouissons!
L’homme n’a point de port, le temps n’a point de rive ;
il coule, et nous passons!"
Temps jaloux, se peut-il que ces moments d’ivresse,
où l’amour à longs flots nous verse le bonheur,
s’envolent loin de nous de la même vitesse
que les jours de malheur?
Eh quoi! n’en pourrons-nous fixer au moins la trace?
Quoi! passés pour jamais? quoi ! tout entiers perdus?
Ce temps qui les donna, ce temps qui les efface,
ne nous les rendra plus?
Éternité, néant, passé, sombres abîmes,
que faites-vous des jours que vous engloutissez?
Parlez : nous rendrez-vous ces extases sublimes
que vous nous ravissez?
Ô lac! rochers muets! grottes! forêt obscure!
Vous, que le temps épargne ou qu’il peut rajeunir,
gardez de cette nuit, gardez, belle nature,
au moins le souvenir!
Qu’il soit dans ton repos, qu’il soit dans tes orages,
beau lac, et dans l’aspect de tes riants coteaux,
et dans ces noirs sapins, et dans ces rocs sauvages
qui pendent sur tes eaux.
Qu’il soit dans le zéphyr qui frémit et qui passe,
dans les bruits de tes bords par tes bords répétés,
dans l’astre au front d’argent qui blanchit ta surface
de ses molles clartés.
Que le vent qui gémit, le roseau qui soupire
que les parfums légers de ton air embaumé,
que tout ce qu’on entend, l’on voit ou l’on respire,
tout dise: Ils ont aimé!
Continue reading "Lamartine: Man has no harbor, Time has no shore" »
[A wealthy family is having a garden party. Laura, one of the daughters, is enjoying the excitement of supervising the men who are putting up the marquee. Suddenly, she learns that a young workman who lives in the poor cottages just below her big house has just been killed in a freak accident. Her brother Laurie is the only one who understands how she feels.]
"Jose!" she said, horrified, "however are we going to stop everything?"
"Stop everything, Laura!" cried Jose in astonishment. "What do you mean?"
"Stop the garden-party, of course." Why did Jose pretend?
But Jose was still more amazed. "Stop the garden-party? My dear Laura, don't be so absurd. Of course we can't do anything of the kind. Nobody expects us to. Don't be so extravagant."
"But we can't possibly have a garden-party with a man dead just outside the front gate."
That really was extravagant, for the little cottages were in a lane to themselves at the very bottom of a steep rise that led up to the house. A broad road ran between. True, they were far too near. They were the greatest possible eyesore, and they had no right to be in that neighbourhood at all. They were little mean dwellings painted a chocolate brown. In the garden patches there was nothing but cabbage stalks, sick hens and tomato cans. The very smoke coming out of their chimneys was poverty-stricken. Little rags and shreds of smoke, so unlike the great silvery plumes that uncurled from the Sheridans' chimneys. Washerwomen lived in the lane and sweeps and a cobbler, and a man whose house-front was studded all over with minute bird-cages. Children swarmed. When the Sheridans were little they were forbidden to set foot there because of the revolting language and of what they might catch. But since they were grown up, Laura and Laurie on their prowls sometimes walked through. It was disgusting and sordid. They came out with a shudder. But still one must go everywhere; one must see everything. So through they went.
"And just think of what the band would sound like to that poor woman," said Laura.
"Oh, Laura!" Jose began to be seriously annoyed. "If you're going to stop a band playing every time someone has an accident, you'll lead a very strenuous life. I'm every bit as sorry about it as you. I feel just as sympathetic." Her eyes hardened. She looked at her sister just as she used to when they were little and fighting together. "You won't bring a drunken workman back to life by being sentimental," she said softly.
"Drunk! Who said he was drunk?" Laura turned furiously on Jose. She said just as they had used to say on those occasions, "I'm going straight up to tell mother."
"Do, dear," cooed Jose.
"Mother, can I come into your room?" Laura turned the big glass door-knob.
"Of course, child. Why, what's the matter? What's given you such a colour?" And Mrs. Sheridan turned round from her dressing-table. She was trying on a new hat.
"Mother, a man's been killed," began Laura.
"Not in the garden?" interrupted her mother.
"No, no!"
"Oh, what a fright you gave me!" Mrs. Sheridan sighed with relief, and took off the big hat and held it on her knees.
"But listen, mother," said Laura. Breathless, half-choking, she told the dreadful story. "Of course, we can't have our party, can we?" she pleaded. "The band and everybody arriving. They'd hear us, mother; they're nearly neighbours!"
To Laura's astonishment her mother behaved just like Jose; it was harder to bear because she seemed amused. She refused to take Laura seriously.
"But, dear child, use your common sense. It's only by accident we've heard of it. If someone had died there normally–and I can't understand how they keep alive in those poky little holes-we should still be having our party, shouldn't we?"
Laura had to say "yes" to that, but she felt it was all wrong. She sat down on her mother's sofa and pinched the cushion frill.
"Mother, isn't it terribly heartless of us?" she asked.
"Darling!" Mrs. Sheridan got up and came over to her, carrying the hat. Before Laura could stop her she had popped it on. "My child!" said her mother, "the hat is yours. It's made for you. It's much too young for me. I have never seen you look such a picture. Look at yourself!" And she held up her hand-mirror.
"But, mother," Laura began again. She couldn't look at herself; she turned aside.
This time Mrs. Sheridan lost patience just as Jose had done.
"You are being very absurd, Laura," she said coldly. "People like that don't expect sacrifices from us. And it's not very sympathetic to spoil everybody's enjoyment as you're doing now."
"I don't understand," said Laura, and she walked quickly out of the room into her own bedroom. There, quite by chance, the first thing she saw was this charming girl in the mirror, in her black hat trimmed with gold daisies, and a long black velvet ribbon. Never had she imagined she could look like that. Is mother right? she thought. And now she hoped her mother was right. Am I being extravagant? Perhaps it was extravagant. Just for a moment she had another glimpse of that poor woman and those little children, and the body being carried into the house. But it all seemed blurred, unreal, like a picture in the newspaper. I'll remember it again after the party's over, she decided. And somehow that seemed quite the best plan. . . .
Laurie arrived and hailed them on his way to dress. At the sight of him Laura remembered the accident again. She wanted to tell him. If Laurie agreed with the others, then it was bound to be all right. And she followed him into the hall.
"Laurie!"
"Hallo!" he was half-way upstairs, but when he turned round and saw Laura he suddenly puffed out his cheeks and goggled his eyes at her. "My word, Laura! You do look stunning," said Laurie. "What an absolutely topping hat!"
Laura said faintly "Is it?" and smiled up at Laurie, and didn't tell him after all.
[The party is a great success.]
"All over, all over, thank heaven," said Mrs. Sheridan. "Round up the others, Laura. Let's go and have some fresh coffee. I'm exhausted. Yes, it's been very successful. But oh, these parties, these parties! Why will you children insist on giving parties!" And they all of them sat down in the deserted marquee.
"Have a sandwich, daddy dear. I wrote the flag."
"Thanks." Mr. Sheridan took a bite and the sandwich was gone. He took another. "I suppose you didn't hear of a beastly accident that happened today?" he said.
"My dear," said Mrs. Sheridan, holding up her hand, "we did. It nearly ruined the party. Laura insisted we should put it off."
"Oh, mother!" Laura didn't want to be teased about it.
"It was a horrible affair all the same," said Mr. Sheridan. "The chap was married too. Lived just below in the lane, and leaves a wife and half a dozen kiddies, so they say."
An awkward little silence fell. Mrs. Sheridan fidgeted with her cup. Really, it was very tactless of father. . . .
Suddenly she looked up. There on the table were all those sandwiches, cakes, puffs, all un-eaten, all going to be wasted. She had one of her brilliant ideas.
"I know," she said. "Let's make up a basket. Let's send that poor creature some of this perfectly good food. At any rate, it will be the greatest treat for the children. Don't you agree? And she's sure to have neighbours calling in and so on. What a point to have it all ready prepared. Laura!" She jumped up. "Get me the big basket out of the stairs cupboard."
"But, mother, do you really think it's a good idea?" said Laura.
Again, how curious, she seemed to be different from them all. To take scraps from their party. Would the poor woman really like that?
"Of course! What's the matter with you to-day? An hour or two ago you were insisting on us being sympathetic, and now–"
Oh well! Laura ran for the basket. It was filled, it was heaped by her mother.
"Take it yourself, darling," said she. "Run down just as you are. No, wait, take the arum lilies too. People of that class are so impressed by arum lilies."
"The stems will ruin her lace frock," said practical Jose.
So they would. Just in time. "Only the basket, then. And, Laura!"–her mother followed her out of the marquee–"don't on any account–"
"What mother?"
No, better not put such ideas into the child's head! "Nothing! Run along."
It was just growing dusky as Laura shut their garden gates. A big dog ran by like a shadow. The road gleamed white, and down below in the hollow the little cottages were in deep shade. How quiet it seemed after the afternoon. Here she was going down the hill to somewhere where a man lay dead, and she couldn't realize it. Why couldn't she? She stopped a minute. And it seemed to her that kisses, voices, tinkling spoons, laughter, the smell of crushed grass were somehow inside her. She had no room for anything else. How strange! She looked up at the pale sky, and all she thought was, "Yes, it was the most successful party."
Now the broad road was crossed. The lane began, smoky and dark. Women in shawls and men's tweed caps hurried by. Men hung over the palings; the children played in the doorways. A low hum came from the mean little cottages. In some of them there was a flicker of light, and a shadow, crab-like, moved across the window. Laura bent her head and hurried on. She wished now she had put on a coat. How her frock shone! And the big hat with the velvet streamer–if only it was another hat! Were the people looking at her? They must be. It was a mistake to have come; she knew all along it was a mistake. Should she go back even now?
No, too late. This was the house. It must be. A dark knot of people stood outside. Beside the gate an old, old woman with a crutch sat in a chair, watching. She had her feet on a newspaper. The voices stopped as Laura drew near. The group parted. It was as though she was expected, as though they had known she was coming here.
Laura was terribly nervous. Tossing the velvet ribbon over her shoulder, she said to a woman standing by, "Is this Mrs. Scott's house?" and the woman, smiling queerly, said, "It is, my lass."
Oh, to be away from this! She actually said, "Help me, God," as she walked up the tiny path and knocked. To be away from those staring eyes, or be covered up in anything, one of those women's shawls even. I'll just leave the basket and go, she decided. I shan't even wait for it to be emptied.
Then the door opened. A little woman in black showed in the gloom.
Laura said, "Are you Mrs. Scott?" But to her horror the woman answered, "Walk in, please, miss," and she was shut in the passage.
"No," said Laura, "I don't want to come in. I only want to leave this basket. Mother sent–"
The little woman in the gloomy passage seemed not to have heard her. "Step this way, please, miss," she said in an oily voice, and Laura followed her.
She found herself in a wretched little low kitchen, lighted by a smoky lamp. There was a woman sitting before the fire.
"Em," said the little creature who had let her in. "Em! It's a young lady." She turned to Laura. She said meaningly, "I'm 'er sister, miss. You'll excuse 'er, won't you?"
"Oh, but of course!" said Laura. "Please, please don't disturb her. I–I only want to leave–"
But at that moment the woman at the fire turned round. Her face, puffed up, red, with swollen eyes and swollen lips, looked terrible. She seemed as though she couldn't understand why Laura was there. What did it mean? Why was this stranger standing in the kitchen with a basket? What was it all about? And the poor face puckered up again.
"All right, my dear," said the other. "I'll thenk the young lady."
And again she began, "You'll excuse her, miss, I'm sure," and her face, swollen too, tried an oily smile.
Laura only wanted to get out, to get away. She was back in the passage. The door opened. She walked straight through into the bedroom where the dead man was lying.
"You'd like a look at 'im, wouldn't you?" said Em's sister, and she brushed past Laura over to the bed. "Don't be afraid, my lass,"–and now her voice sounded fond and sly, and fondly she drew down the sheet–" 'e looks a picture. There's nothing to show. Come along, my dear."
Laura came.
There lay a young man, fast asleep–sleeping so soundly, so deeply, that he was far, far away from them both. Oh, so remote, so peaceful. He was dreaming. Never wake him up again. His head was sunk in the pillow, his eyes were closed; they were blind under the closed eyelids. He was given up to his dream. What did garden-parties and baskets and lace frocks matter to him? He was far from all those things. He was wonderful, beautiful. While they were laughing and while the band was playing, this marvel had come to the lane. Happy . . . happy . . . All is well, said that sleeping face. This is just as it should be. I am content.
But all the same you had to cry, and she couldn't go out of the room without saying something to him. Laura gave a loud childish sob.
"Forgive my hat," she said.
And this time she didn't wait for Em's sister. She found her way out of the door, down the path, past all those dark people. At the corner of the lane she met Laurie.
He stepped out of the shadow. "Is that you, Laura?"
"Yes."
"Mother was getting anxious. Was it all right?"
"Yes, quite. Oh, Laurie!" She took his arm, she pressed up against him.
"I say, you're not crying, are you?" asked her brother.
Laura shook her head. She was.
Laurie put his arm round her shoulder. "Don't cry," he said in his warm, loving voice. "Was it awful?"
"No," sobbed Laura. "It was simply marvellous. But Laurie–" She stopped, she looked at her brother. "Isn't life," she stammered, "isn't life–" But what life was she couldn't explain. No matter. He quite understood.
"Isn't it, darling?" said Laurie.
--Katherine Mansfield (1888-1923), The Garden-Party
On the 8th of November 1987, twenty years ago today, a crowd gathered in Enniskillen, Northern Ireland at a monument for the war dead, for a memorial service on Remembrance Day. A bomb planted by the Provisional IRA, meant to kill soldiers and policemen at the service, went off ten minutes early. Eleven people, all but one civilians, died in the explosion and under the rubble, and one man left in a coma died 13 years later without recovering consciousness. Sixty-three people were injured. The Provisional IRA was forced by its own horrified supporters to apologize, and the incident has come to be seen as a turning point in the Troubles. The IRA lost support around the world because of video footage of the bombing and its aftermath. This led indirectly to more tranquility in the region, which is relatively peaceful today.
The most famous story to emerge from the massacre was that of Marie Wilson, a twenty-year-old girl who had been standing near the monument with her father, Gordon Wilson. They were buried under bricks.
We were both thrown forward, rubble and stones and whatever in and around and over us and under us. I was aware of a pain in my right shoulder. I shouted to Marie was she all right and she said yes, she found my hand and said, "Is that your hand, dad?" Now remember we were under six foot of rubble. I said "Are you all right?" and she said yes, but she was shouting in between. Three of four times I asked her, and she always said yes, she was all right. When I asked her the fifth time, "Are you all right, Marie?" she said, "Daddy, I love you very much." Those were the last words she spoke to me. She still held my hand quite firmly and I kept shouting at her, "Marie, are you all right?" but there wasn't a reply. We were there about five minutes. Someone came and pulled me out. I said, "I'm all right but for God's sake my daughter is lying right beside me and I don't think she is too well." She's dead. She didn't die there. She died later. The hospital was magnificent, truly impressive, and our friends have been great, but I miss my daughter, and we shall miss her but I bear no ill will, I bear no grudge. She was a great wee lassie, she loved her profession. She was a pet and she's dead. She's in heaven, and we'll meet again.
Don't ask me please for a purpose. I don't have a purpose. I don't have an answer, but I know there has to be a plan. If I didn't think that, I would commit suicide. It's part of a greater plan, and God is good. And we shall meet again.
I have lost my daughter, and we shall miss her. But I bear no ill will. I bear no grudge. Dirty sort of talk is not going to bring her back to life.*
Marie's father told the BBC that he forgave her killers and added: "I shall pray for those people tonight and every night."
"Gordon Wilson's quiet dignity had a profound effect on many people in Northern Ireland. He was later involved with initiatives to improve community relations in Enniskillen and eventually was appointed to the Senate in the Republic of Ireland. Gordon Wilson died on 27 June 1995 aged 68." --From the website of CAIN [Conflict Archive on the INternet], Conflict and Politics in Northern Ireland (1968 to the present)
Conor Carson, a schoolboy at the time, wrote the poem below to commemorate Marie. The red-paper poppy, an uncontroversial sign of respect for war dead in Britain (and Canada, Australia and New Zealand), is seen by some Catholic nationalists in Northern Ireland as a symbol of British identity. Marie and the other victims at Enniskillen were Protestant.
* You can hear Gordon Wilson's 1987 BBC interview here.
Marie Wilson
Enniskillen, 8 November 1987
Under the statue
of the Unknown Soldier
a man prepares
a bomb. He is
an unknown soldier.
The patron saint of warriors
is Michael.
Between the unknown soldiers
is a wall.
It is the gable
of St Michael's Hall.
This was Remembrance Sunday.
Poppy Day.
They came to hear
the bugles in the square.
They did not count
the unknown soldiers there.
Today there were no sermons.
Unknown soldiers
said later it had not
gone off as planned.
Under the bricks
she held her father's hand.
Today there was no Last Post.
Her last words
were "Daddy, I love you."
He said he would trust
God. But her poppy
lay in the dust.
The protector of unknown soldiers
is Michael.
The father is at the grave.
A bell peals.
The name Michael
means "God heals."
--From the anthology A Rage for Order: Poetry of the Northern Ireland Troubles, ed. Frank Ormsby (1947- ) (pub. 1992)
Falls Funeral
Unmarked faces
fierce with grief
a line of children
led by a small coffin
the young
mourning the young
a sight beyond tears
beyond pious belief
David's brethren
in the Land of Goliath
--John Montague (1929- ), in Contemporary Irish Poetry (1988). This poem refers to the Troubles, and Falls Road in West Belfast.
