#pádraig ó tuama

[luthienne]

Pádraig Ó Tuama, on Rita Dove's poem "Eurydice, Turning" as featured in On Being: Poetry Unbound

[withnailrules]

“In Irish when you talk about emotion, you don’t say, ‘I am sad’. You’d say, ‘sadness is on me’ ‘tá bron orm’.

And I love that because there’s an implication of not identifying yourself with the emotion fully. I am not sad, it’s just that sadness is on me for a while.

Something else will be on me another time, and that’s a good thing to recognise.”

—Pádraig Ó Tuama

[kitchen-light]

[Paul] Celan, whose parents were murdered at a camp in the Transnistria Governorate, translated Shakespeare while interned in a ghetto. For him, language was a project to be wrestled with. He believed it was possible for language to make something happen; and even if it didn’t make something happen, then at least it was worthwhile trying. He held people to account for loose language (his short correspondence with Heidegger, that phenomenologist, are extraordinary in their critique), and demanded that attention be paid to the impact that words can have in public.

Pádraig Ó Tuama, from his essay “The possibilities of language”, published at the Poetry Unbound substack, March 26, 2023

[dk-thrive]

So much lurking in the silence of a poem and so much present in the text of it.

Desire, I think, is a portal where we look at the thing we want, but we also look at the other things that are gathered around that. And I don’t think I know of any better vehicle for holding all that together than poetry. In the lines of poetry, there’s so much said and so much implied, so much lurking in the silence of a poem and so much present in the text of it.

— Pádraig Ó Tuama, from the Poetry Unbound Podcast, “Yu Xiuhua | Crossing Half of China to Sleep with You” (via Poetry of Witness and Provocation)

[lunchboxpoems]

THE LIFELINE

Here is what I know: when 

that bell tolls again, I 

need to go and make something,

anything: a poem, a pie, a terrible

scarf with my terrible knitting, I 

need to write a letter, remind myself

of any little lifeline around me.

When death sounds, I forget most

of what I learnt before. I go below. 

I compare my echoes with other people’s 

happiness. I carve that hole in my own 

chest again, pull out all my organs once

again, wonder if they’ll ever work again

stuff them back again. Begin. Again.

PÁDRAIG Ó TUAMA

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Someone for everyone in Brooklyn’s holy shop.

[Pádraig Ó Tuama]

* * * *

“Because here's something else that's weird but true: in the day-to day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And the compelling reason for maybe choosing some sort of god or spiritual-type thing to worship—be it JC or Allah, be it YHWH or the Wiccan Mother Goddess, or the Four Noble Truths, or some inviolable set of ethical principles—is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive. If you worship money and things, if they are where you tap real meaning in life, then you will never have enough, never feel you have enough. It's the truth. Worship your body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly. And when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally grieve you. On one level, we all know this stuff already. It's been codified as myths, proverbs, clichés, epigrams, parables; the skeleton of every great story. The whole trick is keeping the truth up front in daily consciousness.” ― David Foster Wallace , This Is Water: Some Thoughts, Delivered on a Significant Occasion, about Living a Compassionate Life

+

“Never touch your idols: the gilding will stick to your fingers."

(Il ne faut pas toucher aux idoles: la dorure en reste aux mains.)” ― Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary

[rustbeltjessie]

Pádraig Ó Tuama, from Poetry Unbound: 50 Poems to Open Your World (W.W. Norton & Company, 2023)

If I’m ever editing a poem - of mine, or someone else’s - I start by stripping out words. All the adjectives go, and the adverbs. Then any section where the poem’s telling me what to feel...they go too. I want to see the structure of the poem, to know what its intelligence is, to know its hunger. Only then, seeing its bones, can I know what needs to go back in. Sometimes it’s nothing: a poem can tell you many things by showing you only a few.

[gender0bender]

The poem “Jesus Desiring” by Pádraig Ó Tuama over pictures of Russian Orthodox worship.

Image descriptions:

A black and white halftone of a photograph of a Russian Orthodox nun lighting a candle in front of a large ikona of the crucifixion. There is white text on the image reading “It’s the desexing that bothers me- as if I never had a boner or some lust.”

A black and white halftone of a photograph of a woman wearing a platochik kissing a crucifix held up by a priest. There is white text on the image reading “as if I had so much of God’s business to consider that I never wanted kisses“

A black and white halftone of a photograph of a Russian Orthodox priest stroking a wooden icon depicting Mary holding Jesus, with white on it reading “ or a nail run down my back.”

A black and white halftone of a photograph of a Russian Orthodox priest entering the sanctuary at the back of a church, with an ikona of Christ on the right side. There is white text over the image reading “I woke every morning the way men wake every morning.”

A black and white halftone of a photograph of a woman kissing the base of a crucifix, with white text on the image reading “I sought some comfort in some touch and thought that much could be achieved if people made more love more often.“

A black and white halftone of a photograph of a woman leaning her forehead against an ikona in a church, there is white text on the image reading “I think I’d have made a pretty average father, by which I meanokay,”

A black and white halftone of a photograph of a woman wearing a platochik standing in front of the ikon covered wall seperating the sanctuary from the rest of the church. There is white text above her that reads “by which I mean I wish.”

A black and white halftone of a photograph of a man holding up an icon in a jewelled case. There is white text above him that reads “I would like to age and watch my children grow.”

A black and white halftone of a photograph of an ikona of the crucifixion with white text on it reading “I would like to hold on to my body.” End description.

[therumpus]

Sketch Book Reviews: Poetry Unbound by Pádraig Ó Tuama

Written and illustrated by Kateri Kramer

"This book is so ridiculously good and is perfect for National Poetry Month! Poetry Unbound: 50 Poems to Open Your World is a collection of poems by 50 different writers and accompanying interpretation. It covers a wide range of topics, forms, and writing styles making it a fantastic read for poetry-lovers and reluctant poetry-readers alike."

[ukdamo]

[ t h e ] n o r t h [ e r n ] [ o f ] i r e l a n d

Padraig Ó Tuama

It is both a dignity and

a difficulty

to live between these

names,

perceiving politics

in the syntax of

the state.

And at the end of the day,

the reality is

that whether we

change

or whether we stay

the same

these questions will

remain.

Who are we

to be

with one

another?

and

How are we

to be

with one

another?

and

What to do

with all those memories

of all those funerals?

and

What about those present

whose past was blasted

far beyond their

future?

I wake.

You wake.

She wakes.

He wakes.

They wake.

We Wake

and take

this troubled beauty forward.

[revmeg]

My exorciser's eyes were nothing like the sun, they had no fire... ...I have heard the furious from the pulpit. This man's work as quiet as abuse. I loved the promises he made, they wound around my heart with knots of wonder.... ....Some terrorise. He Christianised. I swear to you his heaven rhymed with hell. I know he'll claw his way to glory. Me as well.

from “(v) Volta” in “Seven Deadly Sonnets” in Feed the Beast by Pádraig Ó Tuama, p. 15

[7r0773r]

Sorry for Your Troubles by Pádraig Ó Tuama

T h e F a c t s o f L i f e

That you were born and you will die.

That you will sometimes love enough and sometimes not.

That you will lie if only to yourself.

That you will get tired.

That you will learn most from the situations you did not choose.

That there will be some things that move you more than you can say.

That you will live that you must be loved.

That you will avoid questions most urgently in need of your attention.

That you began as the fusion of a sperm and an egg of two people who once were strangers and may well still be.

That life isn't fair. That life is sometimes good and sometimes even better than good.

That life is often not so good.

That life is real and if you can survive it, well, survive it well with love and art and meaning given where meaning's scarce.

That you will learn to live with regret. That you will learn to live with respect.

That the structures that constrict you may not be permanently constricting.

That you will probably be okay.

That you must accept change before you die but you will die anyway.

So you might as well live and you might as well love. You might as well love. You might as well love.

***

B u r y t h e H a t c h e t (excerpt)

The Irish word for forgiveness is maithiúnas. It comes from the word maith, meaning good. The word is the same, or similar, in Cymraeg, Gaelg and Gàidhlig — other languages spoken across the islands of Britain and Ireland. To forgive someone is 'to good' them. To forgive someone is to treat them with the goodness with which they did not treat you. Curiously, this syntax arranges power as the possession of the troubled one. It is they who can good, and if the one whose hands caused the trouble asks for forgiveness, they say 'maith dom', 'good me'. Forgiveness is not a person, place or thing. Forgiveness, like priesthood, if it is to be anything, must be a verb.

***

Shaking Hands

27ú lá Meitheamh, 2012

Because what's the alternative? Because of courage. Because of loved ones lost. Because no more. Because it's a small thing; shaking hands; it happens every day. Because I heard of one man whose hands haven't stopped shaking since a market day in Omagh. Because it takes a second to say hate, but it takes longer, much longer, to be a great leader. Much, much longer.

Because shared space without human touching doesn't amount to much. Because it's easier to speak to your own than to hold the hand of someone whose side has been previously described, proscribed, denied. Because it is tough. Because it is tough. Because it is meant to be tough, and this is the stuff of memory, the stuff of hope, the stuff of gesture, and meaning and leading. Because it has taken so, so long. Because it has taken land and money and languages and barrels and barrels of blood and grieving. Because lives have been lost. Because lives have been taken.

Because to be bereaved is to be troubled by grief. Because more than two troubled peoples live here. Because I know a woman whose hand hasn't been shaken since she was a man. Because shaking a hand is only a part of the start. Because I know a woman whose touch calmed a man whose heart was breaking. Because privilege is not to be taken lightly.

Because this just might be good. Because who said that this would be easy? Because some people love what you stand for, and for some, if you can, they can. Because solidarity means a common hand. Because a hand is only a hand; so hang onto it.

So join your much discussed hands. We need this; for one small second. So touch. So lead.

[kitchen-light]

Years ago, I had a colleague, Karen, and sometimes you’d say, “Well, how are you today, Karen?” And she’d say, “Oh, I’ve a bit of the Weltschmerz on me.” She was a great one for many languages. And I’d love the way that she’d do that. And I think there’s something about having a word for it, “Weltschmerz,” that allows you to realize that not all sadness comes from you, but sometimes you are just wearing the world’s sadness for a while and trying to figure out what to do with that.

Pádraig Ó Tuama, from the Poetry Unbound Podcast, ‘Carolina Ebeid | Reading Celan in a Subway Station’, published October 17, 2022

[noleavestoblow]

When death sounds, I forget most of what I learnt before. I go below. I compare my echoes with other people’s happiness. I carve that hole in my own chest again, pull out all my organs once again, wonder if they’ll ever work again stuff them back again. Begin. Again.

-Pádraig Ó Tuama

[judgingbooksbycovers]

​Poetry Unbound: 50 Poems to Open Your World

By Pádraig Ó Tuama.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Capilla de Santa Rita at dawn, Chimayó, NM. Photo: Gene Peach (2021)

[h/t Scott Horton]

* * * *

May we find our foundation in the work of Love; demanding, tiring, true and human and holy.

- Pádraig Ó Tuama