1942-2018
Recently, I was very saddened to hear of the passing earlier this year of Irish poet Macdara Woods. I first met Macdara a half century ago at a literary party in Dublin. I remember it partly because, in the midst of the varying degrees of notables, I encountered the rather startling spectacle of a somewhat shaggy, barefoot young man, trying to explain, without much success, what had happened to his shoes and socks. But, once passed this conundrum, what really impressed itself upon my memory was his firm insistence and pride in explaining that, in recently filling out his Irish passport, he had inscribed “POET” on the line for “Occupation.” And, although he had not published very much at that point, it turned out to be a most accurate and fitting description. However you might define the word, Macdara Woods was, and remained for the rest of his life, a poet.
I was reminded by this each time I read his “Curriculum Vita Coming Up to Twenty-Seven.” In each verse he listed the jobs he had held—a pipefitter’s mate in a London Bonny Club, a postman in Coventry, a tree planter in the West of Ireland, to name just a few—and each verse ends with the triumphant statement: “& I wrote a poem.” The piece ends:
I admit I was lazy in Marrakesh
I didn’t work, no, I just wrote poems
But now I’m nearing twenty-seven
I think I’d like a small back payment;
Please send me something on account.
Of course, Macdara knew that things didn’t work that way, especially in Dublin, where, true to his occupation, he was very much involved in the city’s poetry scene. He was part of a group of poets who, in the 1960s, congregated around Patrick Kavanagh and McDade’s Pub. Along with his wife, Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin, as well as Leland Bardwell and Pearse Hutchinson, Macdara was a cofounder and editor of Cyphers, Ireland’s international poetry magazine. Over the years his dedication to poetry took him beyond Ireland and throughout Europe. Yet, in spite of everything, he was never quite given his due. (This is an Irish story, remember.) Was he too prolific? Was he too much a man of the world—London, Paris, Marrakesh, Umbria, Moscow? Or, although born in Dublin, was he, in his heart of hearts, too much a Meath man? Or was it because he insistently sought the stream of poetry flowing beyond the rarefied walls of academia?
Macdara was, in a very particular way, a “people’s poet,” and I don’t intend that in a simplistic or patronizing way. He never wrote down to anyone. But he didn’t write to exclude anyone, either. Many of his poems are challenging, and all of them will reward only serious and dedicated readers. Yet, I don’t think he ever thought that such readers were limited to only a certain milieu or group. For his part, he seemed ready to accept poetry wherever he encountered it. I remember when he visited me some years ago in Cincinnati. I had tried to arrange a few readings. But as a historian with few ties to English departments, my success was limited. I found one venue in a downtown coffee shop, which, on the night we turned up, seemed to specialize in redneck misogynistic rants. I was embarrassed, but Macdara took it all in stride. Poetry was struggling to be born and that demanded his attention and respect. After he gave his reading (“Now that was real poetry,” the grateful compare said), Macdara had a quiet chat with one of the ranters—one poet to another.
Macdara was always interested in joining his poetry to other art forms, such as photography and especially music, whether it was avant-garde (see Pesaro ai miei piedi) or pop. One of his greatest successes came when Irish song writer Brendán Grahem set parts of Macdara’s poem “Winter, Fire and Carnevale” to music. During his appearances in Cincinnati, Macdara would read the poem, after which I would sing the song. At the time, although there were various recordings available, they were all rendered by treble voices. Macdara said that when I sang the song, “Winter, Fire and Snow,” it was the first time he had heard the sung by a male voice. And that was important to him, since the piece is about a father’s wishes for the safe return of his small son on his first venture outside of the home. Thus, the key line in which both poet and composer hit serendipity: “And you little son, come safely home/riding the tail of the wind.”
In 2016 Macdara published what may be his final book of poetry, Music from the Big Tent. Although he was clearly struggling with a number of health problems, this collection issues a resounding “Yes” to whatever challenges life and death may have to offer. The sick, aging but feisty poet refuses to lie down and quietly wait for the end.
So I’ll wander the roads
For as long as I can
Remaining a hopeful
And upstanding man
To find out the ultimate
Terminal plan
Of the butterfly and the
Red rosebush. (“Strozza Capponi at Seventy-Three”).
Reading with the right lilt, you will discover the rhythm of the old Irish air, “The Limerick Rake” bubbling beneath the surface.