Unfinished Sequence

by Seán Lucy

This is Sean Lucy's first collection since the publication of a selection of his work in Five Irish Poets (1970). The poems in this volume show a continuing progress in the attempt to find a poetic voice which will be direct, passionate and rhythmical without oversimplifying or sentimentalizing the primary experiences to which it responds. 'After Modernism', says the author, 'poetry is again in search of a really human voice and vision. Some of these poems are a last stripping down of my own isolation and aestheticism, others attempt a fuller, freer, warmer voice.' The O Riada Sequence is a lament but also a celebration.' The O Riada work to which he refers gives its title, 'Unfinished Sequence' to this collection. A tribute to his friend, the great composer and musician 'who had touched, even changed the consciousness of a whole nation', the eight poems that make up 'Unfinished Sequence' are the work of a poet in full voice, at once lyrical, meditative, passionate and controlled. Sean Lucy, Professor of Modern English at University College Cork. He has written 'T.S. Eliot and the Idea of Tradition', (London 1960, Cohen and West; New York 1961, Barnes and Noble; reprinted 1971), and edited and contributed to 'Love Poems of the Irish', (Mercier Press Cork 1967, reprinted 1973); 'Five Irish Poets, ' (Mercier Press, Cork 1970); 'Irish Poets in English', (Mercier Press, Cork 1973); ' the Gentle Master' (Wolfhound Press). He has had poems, stories, and critical articles published in Ireland, England, France, Denmark, the United States of America and Canada.

64 pages, Paperback

Published January 1, 1979

Reviews

[Jeff · Rating 4 out of 5]

I met Sean Lucy in the summer of 1990. He taught the poetry writing seminar at the Newberry Library as part of the Taste of Chicago Writers' Conference. I remember his accent. I remember his sincere encouragements. I remember his constructive criticisms. And i've carried a comment with me ever since that has always felt like a compliment.

I remember Mr Lucy as the person who made me aware of Seamus Heaney because in the same breath (i think) he lamented being only the second most famous living Irish poet. I hadn't read anything by either of them until now (finally). Sadly Mr Lucy's books are hard to find even with the Internet (abebooks to the rescue) and his reception on Goodreads is virtually nil. This "review" certainly won't make a difference. So i hope he wrote for self-satisfaction rather than for accolades.

The first several poems didn't match my expectations at all. I feared i would regret answering the question i've had all these years: Would i value poems written by the self-professed vice poet laureate of Ireland? Beginning with "Incident on a Rail-Journey", especially the following quatrain, i happily say, "Yes":

'Content,' he thought, 'it is as still as love.
Pain is a pilgrim.	Silence a waiting friend.
Content.	Even my pity must be quiet.
I will be quiet now in this until the end.'

I really hope the following was written for his child/ren:

LULLABY FOR A TALKER

Lie down Charlie
As the night comes down.
			Lie down,

Do not presume
To make a mock of all that serious dark
Piled up for the miles above your brittle head.

Silence that spurious chat,
			the wind is talking.
Not even you can match that whisperer,
Whose endless repetition is not, thank God, concerned
With anything they call communication.

Shut up now, Charlie,
			give the night a chance:
All across Asia he has come to meet
A rising wind coming the other way
Over the damp curve of the far Atlantic.

Go to bed now,
		Leave the window open,
Lie down in darkness,
Listen to the wind.

I hope he wrote this for himself:

FALLING ASLEEP

Now when the welcome bed grows warm
The drift begins:
The inner calm
Moves into distances of no dimension.

Hardhead is friendly to soft far-off pillow,
While in the place the will was grappled
The sinewy knot of living loosens,
Lies now in folds
Upon the floor of dreams.

And now the better dark is coming,
Silence consumes the memory's mutter.
Beyond the flat topped hill
The moon is making move.

Darkening and deepening
Of the secret heart,
The mystery of stillness, the inaudible
Pulse of the self within
The wall of sleeping flesh
The dozing cage of bone.

The last word gone.

There's much more to like. If only another Goodreadster found a copy.

But let's talk more about me. Several students were selected by lottery to read at a public gathering at the end of the writers conference. The Newberry's large (to me) reading room hosted more than a hundred(?!) people but, other than a few family members (my mother included), everyone came to hear the headliner, Stanley Elkin, read from his work-in-progress (presumably The MacGuffin).

Ah, but first they had to hear earnest students, all but one of whom were mature enough to avoid anything like the following.

Frequently, Medusa visits me, but she ties her hair back in a taut
bun. Nowadays she looks like a nun. She lives in centers
for the daily homeless, the dispossessed
children scared to talk to mommy who drops them all off in a
room for a certain agèd child. They can't play with the younger
or older. Only those of the same rough age can abuse them
and be abused. Only that group can be tormented by the screaming
sexuality of one woman scores older and scores better on
verbal, math and science.
Trampled into a place of anonymity and animosity, of iniquity and
animal atrocity to animal ferocity, children are mass hysterized
into quiet lemmings losing their fur in fights with confusioned
lovers years later.
I will kill this woman in my time. I will not have children. I will see
what her tight skinned face has to say to that.



Game of Shit

Forced by family to catch his shit,
catch it as quickly as he slings it,
the way a shortstop fields hot ones,
snaps his hands into stinging place
to stop those balls or lose his grown ones.

Issuing his calls from below his belt,
he makes those receivers jangle;
and with his words entangles emotions,
necessitates notions of flight; flee!
They're not free; they cost, too:
his shouts—his costlies—like his shits.

No cups, no jocks, no support, no cover,
trapped in a game that he knows
only shows him that you,
his hereditary lover,
are waried scarily of him.

Fear death and sorrow because
tomorrow or today he could charge for breath
and probably will, too, just to show you
that he bought his; why shouldn't you?
If not, his world ends—ends without meaning.

History consoles, "Love him, pay him—
or he'll tax your head for goldsies needed,"
because he hates us all but needs us too.
He hates you more, maybe only because
you are to him—but never were—his baby.

Made it this far? Why not persevere a little more? The repoem below is crafted entirely of words and phrases that were repeated within Sean Lucy's book.

Be calm
	my heart-disturbed mouth
Easy hope
	mourn for yourself

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
if you'd like to make your own...
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
disturbed
my heart 
easy
mouth
mourn for yourself
be calm
hope