I heard the phrase ‘slouching toward Bethlehem’ in my head yesterday (St. Patrick’s Day!) and pulled a copy of “The Second Coming” off the shelf (a volume titled, “Major British Authors”, of all things — Yeats was Anglo-Irish, but still). I read the poem aloud while pacing a loop, surprised by its relevance (it was written in 1921) and impressed by the language’s potency. You can read it below.
But since we just celebrated St. Patrick’s Day, a detour into the Irish love of language is in order. If you don’t think it’s a thing, I challenge you to walk into any sweet shop in Dublin and exchange a few words with the clerk. It’s not just the ‘gift of the gab’ or poetry, of course, but language in all its forms: lyricism, satire, gallows humor and puns, drama, scatological jokes and wicked curses, elegy, eulogy, rants, and prose. This is in my blood.
As for that blood, two generations on? Well, I’ve kissed the Blarney Stone, for what that’s worth. Certainly, my family’s got the art of imprecation covered — all of us curse like sailors. My mother once famously growled, “I wish you kids would stop that god-damned gutter talk!” I might have been eight.
When my children were still quite young (though probably older than eight), I gave them my ‘F word’ speech. We were in the car, of course, all facing forward, strapped in, and aware that whatever it was I had to say, it’d be over in seven minutes.
In the course of my exegesis, I used the word ‘fuck’ at least 15 times, to say, among other things, ‘See boys? You’re not gonna fucking shock ME with the word!’ This tells me that the car ride occurred at a time when I was still limiting my cursing around them.
‘Fuck is a useful word,’ I said like a vocabulary instructor, ‘it has no corollary, really.’ [see what I did there, inserting the word ‘corollary’ ?] ‘Look at how its sound corresponds to its meaning– fuck, fuck, fuck! — how great is that?’ This went on for blocks.
And then, lest you think me derelict, I delivered two cautions, one arising from my love of language, the other from life as a suburbanite. ‘Here’s the thing, boys. If you use the word ‘fuck’ too much, you diminish its power. Don’t do that. You want ‘fuck’ to really mean ‘fuck’ when you say it.’ Did I glance up in the rear view mirror at that moment or save the look for the second warning? ‘Here’s the other thing, and this is important — some people are terribly, terribly offended by the word, I’m not even sure why, really, so watch out. You don’t want people judging you for saying the word ‘fuck’. For now, puh-leeze don’t use it around grown-ups.’
[Now, C uses the word ‘fuck’ almost randomly, nearly as a place holder — so much for preserving its potency].
My father was a clever and witty man who adored word play. He routinely launched riffs of puns that went on and on, and then on some more. We learned to play along, desperately striving to one day outdo him. Rarely happened. Fortunately, any and all attempts were appreciated, no matter how lame (and let’s face it, most puns ARE lame). Since not all of my father’s puns were delivered with corny fanfare, sometimes it was enough just to catch them. Here, I refer to those puns casually stated with a playful stealth. Picture this: family dinner, a sneaky pun inserted into conversation, a pregnant but brief pause, then one or two teenagers rolling eyes and groaning to patriarch’s visible satisfaction.
My father’s weekly efforts with the NY Times crossword puzzle were another source of teenage admiration. How did he do it? Every now and then, I’d snuggle in and try to make a contribution and fail. Just fail. He chewed his cheek and worked methodically — acrosses first, then the downs, scribing his answers with an engineer’s pencil. In some seasons, a football game was on.
My sister and I carry on the puzzle mania. I get the Sunday Times delivered solely for this reason (should be admitted sheepishly, but hey). The first thing I do is make a copy for her and then plop down with pen and coffee and get to work (yes, I do it in pen). Some part of me must still be 15, because even though I now know that half the trick is to simply have lived long enough, it amazes me how frequently I finish (or nearly finish). Unlike my father (after all, I’m no engineer), I work the acrosses and downs simultaneously. But since I’m not crazy, I do go sequentially. For some reason, I don’t consider answers supplied by my husband cheating (he helps with chemistry, sports, and military history) (maybe I’m not that amazing?) For desperate weeks, there’s Rex Parker’s blog — out and out cheating, of course.
As for the Irish love of scatological humor, let’s just say the Mallons had a reputation. Much to our childhood friends’ astonishment, belches and farts were delivered with glee and drama in our house. We ranked belches for volume and texture. Farts came with odor cautions and sometimes a physical gesture, like a lifted leg. I continue to be so foolishly entertained by farts that I’ve made my husband swear he won’t mention it in my eulogy.”She never met a fart she didn’t think was hilarious!”
In the ninth century Irish epic, “The Tain”, by the way, you’d be amazed at the amount of farting going on. And while not exactly on point, there’s also the scene where a vast army is stopped in its tracks by a bunch of women exposing their breasts.
Lastly on this topic of the Irish love of language (is that the topic?): rants. Ranting is a special talent of mine, one I’m kinda known for in my writing circle. While I’m not necessarily proud of this, there can be some art involved. Ranting universally features complaint and wrathful condemnation, but if crafted specifically and originally enough, the words can be elevated into something entertaining or even educational.
The poem by William Butler Yeats follows. It makes obscure references to his work, “A Vision,” but it’s not necessary to know them to feel the piece’s potency.
The Second Coming
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?
Have a nice weekend, all! Maybe give yourself a day without news? Or at least, a day where you wait til after lunch? My next few posts will be short, I promise!
PS It was politics, not St. Patrick’s Day, that drew Yeats’ poem to mind. But how nice to talk around that utterly unbelievable joke with enormous powers of destruction and not say his name.
(The SoulCollage card is part of a recently surfaced batch made a couple of years ago. It’s one of many addressing blood. There’s your Irish mother and child, there’s the ‘family tree’, there are the pea plants used by Mendel to study heredity, and there, running up the lower center, is an abstract coil representing the twisting shape of genes.)
Language, how we love it, subconsciously imitate it and sometimes, speak it without knowing the meaning of the words spoken….Two stories, one of Ireland, one of my Mother:
In 2006, we traveled to Ireland, the landscape of my heart for although I am of Spanish blood, first generation, Ireland has always exerted a strong, special pull on my soul. Our first night in Dublin, walking the streets, we wandered into a little pub because I head music. The barkeep met me and said, “Well me darling, what can I get your fine self on this fine night?” I didn’t miss a beat and replied in my imitation of his wonderful lilting voice,, “Nothing me love but continue speaking would you please?” Then I must have turned beet red because he burst out laughing along with several gathered nearby. See the thing is I couldn’t seem to help myself whenever we visited pubs, shops, B&B;’s,my language changed, it’s as if I became another woman entirely. I even had a name for myself, Assumpta from one of my favorite Irish shows, Ballykissangel!
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When my mother came to America, she didn’t speak a word of English. She ended up in a small town in California because her sister and brother in law lived there. As she struggled to learn English, she was met with some good instruction as well as some ” less than perfect” language help! She loved to sew and was particularly taken with this fabric known as seersucker. When my mother was going shopping for cloth to make a summer dress, she was having a hard time remembering the word for the cloth that she liked, seersucker, so my Uncle, who was a devilish sort of man and a joker to boot told her that it was simple, just ask for “cocksucker!”. Poor Mama, she did just that and at first the saleswoman was shocked and asked her where she heard that word. Mama explained that her brother in law taught it to her in relation to the cloth…well, the saleswoman laughed and laughed and then gently explained what my mother had said…my mother was mortified but it has become a beloved story in our family.
Thanks for your stories, Marti. Do you have any rational reason that u know of for your attraction to Ireland? These things are often not rational and perhaps even karmic but I’m wondering. When I was in Dublin (1977) I found I didn’t want to speak at all — my American speech was so flat and bland by comparison.
The cocksucker story is hilarious. I don’t know if you know but Meryl Streep in Sophie’s Choice makes the same mistake.
As to why Ireland, cannot give a tangible reason, only as you suggest, perhaps a karmic one for Ireland has been a part of me as long as I can remember. I’ve always wanted to visit Ireland more than any other part of the world and a lot of that certainly has to do with the music. I grew up with lots of music in my home. In particular, we would attend Basque festivals where the primary dance of the Basque and Spain is the Jota and while the dance moments are not all that similar to an Irish jig, the instruments used resemble the jig. Spanish gypsies traveled to the British isles, etc. and brought their music which melded with the music of that land. The Jota is primarily found in Aragon, where my parents are from but also in Galicia, Spain, often called the Celtic part of Spain.
Or simply, in a past llife, I lived in a thatched cottage in Ireland. All I know for a fact is that when I stepped onto Irish land, I was home and especially, in County Wicklow.
Interesting. The people referred to as “the black Irish” have mysterious origins. Are they descended from Romanian gypsies? The mountain people of Basque? Moroccans? Music is a binding thing tho isn’t it?
ROTFL! tears rolling down my cheeks! If it weren’t for the Mallon’s, my dear Dee, I believe I would not have ANY sense of humor. Though my mom most certainly had Irish blood. She and her sister would get each other cackling and carrying on, but I never understood what made them laugh. I do understand farts being funny but only because of you and your sibs. “SBD” is a poetic term I use to this day. I am so glad I got to Ireland a couple of times and dearly hope to go back again and again. It is seriously magically spiritual. Love the Yeats poem, thank you. Its the first time I’ve read it!
Hey Maggie. Well let me just say, your mom gave me lettuce and tomatoes sandwiches, laundry drying on a line, and a window into a nurses no- nonsense and efficient approach to things. I’d love to go back to Ireland too. It’s been 40 years. I turned 20 in Dublin.
You are kind! I loved my mom, but your mom was accomplished in ways that fed my creative mind… and clearly you carry what she gave you forward. “what your mama gave you”, and more 🙂 and hey, and it’s high time to plan the next Ireland trip!
Can u see us? Riding bikes out on the Dingle peninsula?
YeeeesssssSS!
thanks for this bit o’ the craic !
for a lot of years I thought Joni Mitchell had written Slouching Towards Bethlehem on her Night Ride Home album 1991
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f1j0j4r_gnw
and then discovered Yeats
Didion borrowed it too. Joni Mitchell was one of my out and out heroes back in the day. Bonnie Raitt, too.
had to Google Didion, have never read any of her books, was intrigued by the title “My Year of Magical Thinking” when it came out a few years ago, flicked through it in the library but didn’t borrow it.
oh Ireland, beautiful isle; I have been there several times, the first time I was in my twenties, I joined an Art school friend who had an Irish lover; it took us three days to get from Dublin to the west coast as there were so many stops along the way, it seemed to me there was a friend of R’s in every pub we stopped to have a drink! I remember we danced on Yeats’ grave; I was such a romantic back then and was swept away by Irish fairies and leprechauns……I returned a couple of years later with my husband, to visit my Art School friend who had by then moved in with her lover and also to visit our painter friend R. who moved back to England a couple of years later; I have been there twice on my own for a long weekend to get away from life-with-small-children, spent a Sunny Summer’s holiday with the entire family and a Surprisingly Hot May holiday break with the 2 boys, they swam in the sea off the weat coast! so six times in total
I would like to return, have yet to decide when…..maybe 2017 will see me there?
You have such an enviable history with the Emerald Isle. I’ve only been the once, but saw a LOT of Southern Ireland between a ten day history trip with my student group followed by weeks of camping at term’s end.
Well yes, of course the NYT xword in pen … is there any other way?
Ha! You too, huh?