Embedded Files
from DANTE'S PURGATORIO
Canto XVI
The darkness of Hell, or a night voided
Of all its stars, under a barren sky,
A sky overshadowed utterly by cloud,
Never drew such an impenetrable curtain
Across my sight, as that thick smoke which now
Enveloped us. Add to that the burning sensation
In my eyes in my throat and in my lungs,
An irritation so fierce and sudden that I could
Hardly breathe, and you will understand my panic
As we stepped into the smoke cloud, which was no
Ordinary cloud, I soon realised, but a cloud
Of tear gas, like the British Army used in the Troubles.
Berrigan rummaged in his backpack and handed
Me some ski goggles to protect my eyes,
And I used my sleeve to shield my mouth.
Holding tight to Berrigan’s shoulder, as a
Blind man goes behind his guide, lest he lose his
Way or stumble into some obstacle in his path,
So I went through the acrid, poisonous air,
Listening to my master, who was warning me:
“Watch out! And cling on tight to me here.
Some of these dudes are dangerous men.”
I could hear voices, some raised, which were all
Heatedly discussing the Peace Process,
And all the sticking points in the Good Friday Agreement,
The same phrases, again and again, emerging
From the darkness, like a furious babble.
“Berrigan, these voices – are they shades I hear?”
I asked. And he replied: “Yes, you’ve got it man,
They are the voices of former paramilitaries,
Catholics and Protestants alike, and men
From the SAS and the RUC, and they
Are untying the twisted knots of their anger.”
“Who the Hell are you, wee man, whose body cuts through
This tear gas? You speak of us as if you still belonged
To those who measure time by the ticking of a clock.”
Through burning ears I heard a voice somewhere
That uttered these words. Berrigan said: “Give him
A straight answer, then ask how we get out of here.”
And so I spoke: “Spirit, undoing the knot of
Anger, to secure the Peace Process, come
Closer, and I will tell you who I am.”
“I’ll come with yeese as far as I’m allowed,” he said,
“They still keep a tight rein on the spirits locked here,
And if we cannot look on each other’s faces,
We can at least hear each other’s words.”
Then I went on: “You guess right, friend, I’m from
The still-living world, still wrapped in the tissues I was
Born into in Belfast, though here I have lost all sense
Of time. I have travelled through the pains of the Infernal
Campus to arrive here, and now climb this mount.
But tell me who you were before you died,
And tell me too, if you can, is this the way to reach
The passage up? Your words shall be our guide.”
“I was an Ulsterman, McGuinness was my name,
I knew the worst of that country’s doings, but turned to
The good for which men too seldom put down their guns,”
He said. Then, after a pause, he added: “The path you’re
On will take you to the stairs, and when you reach the top,
Be sure to put in a good word for me there.”
“You have my word on that,” I said, “but there’s
A question bugging me that I can no longer keep
To myself. Why is Ireland so fucked up?
You talk about putting down your guns, but why
Are there always some who turn to violence?
I’m thinking mostly of Ireland, but today it’s something
We see across the globe, in Syria, in Ukraine
In Iraq and Afghanistan. Wherever you look.
What’s the cause of this? Tell me, so that I can
Take your answer back home with me. Some say
That history is to blame, that tribal loyalties
Fuck us up from birth, or that some selfish gene
Pits us constantly against our neighbour.
Others say this is no excuse at all, and that
We should take responsibility ourselves.”
He gave a deep sigh, then coughed, uttering
“Jesus Christ!” Then he went on: “The world is full of
Eejits, and I can see you have spent some time there,
But listen. I’m not the person to ask about
Genetics or biological determinism, but these things,
Together with the environment in which we are brought up,
While they have some effect on us, to be sure,
Can’t be used as an excuse for what we do.
We all have the power to learn from our mistakes.
History isn’t destiny. As Joyce said,
It’s the nightmare from which we’re trying to awake.
History, biology, tribal allegiance,
Environment, all these things affect our tendencies,
But they don’t define us – and even if they did
That doesn’t stop us telling right from wrong.
Whatever anyone says to the contrary
We still have free will, which, though it may be
Difficult to exercise at times, can still
Overcome apparently insurmountable
Obstacles – take Northern Ireland, the Peace Process
Has its critics, I know that as well as anybody,
But it still got bitter enemies talking,
And it has led to power sharing, which was
Unthinkable a decade ago. So,
If the world today looks fucked up to you,
The cause lies in yourselves and there only!
I know this for a fact, I’ve learned it the hard way.
I remember a friend of mine who used to be
In the IRA telling me about the time
He first saw the British Army in Belfast.
He witnessed the soldiers sealing off William Street,
And he was fascinated by all these men
With their helmets and rifles and backpacks.
He was excited by what he saw, and said to
Himself: ‘I am going to be a soldier someday.’
And that’s how he ended up in the IRA.
This was a personal decision, to be sure, but he could
Make it because the fools running the show thought
That armed struggle could lead to a united Ireland.
The leaders of the IRA had every reason
To grumble, but they lacked any historical
Perspective. What I’m saying is that the
Present state of the world is caused predominantly
By one thing and one thing alone: bad leadership.
And in the 70s there were bad leaders all round.
It’s always been a bad idea to mix
Religion and politics, and it’s a mistake
That Ireland has made time and again.
To give just one example, it was religion,
Not politics, which spelled the end for Parnell.
Mix the two, and society just breaks down along
Sectarian lines, as Belfast knows to its cost.
Under O’Neill’s leadership there was still cause for hope,
He was committed to reform across communities,
But when things turned against him everything
Collapsed: the thugs and the paramilitaries
Roamed the streets unchecked, bringing terror
And torture and rough justice wherever they went.
There were a few good men who, if we’d only
Listened to them, could have put things on a different path.
I’ve mentioned O’Neill, he’s one of them, but I’m
Thinking too of James Craig, and Basil Brooke,
Who once met Sean Lemass to discuss unification.”
“I’ve heard of O’Neill,” I said, “but who are Craig and
Brooke?” “You’re having me on,” he said, “you say you’re a
Belfast man and you haven’t heard of Jimmy Craig and
Basil Brooke? Craig was Ulster’s first Prime Minister,
Later he was known as Lord Craigavon, I can’t
Remember if Brooke went under another name –
He was his successor – God be with you! And now
I must turn back – I see a bright light penetrating
The smoke, this is as far as I can go.” And he turned,
Not giving me a chance to ask him more.
Philip Terry was born in Belfast, and is a poet and translator. The Penguin Book of Oulipo, which he edited, was published in Penguin Modern Classics in 2020, and Carcanet published his edition of Jean-Luc Champerret’s The Lascaux Notebooks, the first ever anthology of Ice Age poetry, in 2022. His version of Dante’s Purgatorio, relocated to Mersea Island in Essex, is forthcoming from Carcanet in October 2024.
Copyright © 2024 by Philip Terry, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of Copyright law. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author
Report abuse