John Montague dies…

At the sad news of the death of Brooklyn born Tyrone raised poet John Montague, one of his most famous poems: The Rough Field I saw the pope breaking stones on Friday A blind parson sewing a patchwork quilt, Two bishops cutting rushes with their croziers, Roaring Meg firing rosary beads for cannonballs, Corks in boats afloat on the summit of the Sperrins, A severed head speaking with a grafted tongue, A snail paring Royal Avenue with a hatchet, British …

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“There were, he said, no aborigines in Ireland…”

In the Irish Times, Paul Murray provides a good starting point for 2013 It would be easier for all of us if, in John Montague’s words, “old moulds are broken”; and if, like John Hewitt, we scrutinised the myths of our tribe. We would inhabit a happier island if we imbibed some of Hewitt’s gritty integrity that sought to comprehend the other tribe so that the “goat and ox may graze in the same field/and each gain something from proximity”. …

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