Hewitt004The Mortal PlaceJohn Hewitt Estate1986Linen Hall LibraryWednesday, March 16, 2016TIFFHewitt004ManuscriptCatholic, Estate, ShotEnglishhttps://www.niliteraryarchive.com/content/hewitt004Linen Hall LibraryLinen Hall LibraryAttribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike CC BY-NC-SAhttps://www.niliteraryarchive.com/sites/default/files/Hewitt004_0.jpgLHL ArchiveJohn Hewitt
The Mortal Place
Now it has come to this, the little glen
within the tree-groined slope of the quarried hill
where we lit our twig-fires some Saturdays
on flat ground near the stream we paddled in,
a few months since was nest of a hid body,
a Catholic shot by gunmen never named.
The gate which leads to that glen steps off the road
that is a highway now with frequent cars,
but once a country lane. Here then it was
my mother pushed my pram, when once I spoke
my first recorded words observing the lough,
Ship. Boat. Water – saluting its distant port
below us south in the sunny valley.
A new estate swarms up its rising ground;
there in the house, in the bed a young woman was shot,
her only crime to marry outside her faith.
From nearer home peal out familiar names
of streets beside our terrace, chiming names,
a litany of Dargle, Annalee,
Avonbeg and Roe.
The two last resonant in anxious bulletins
TextJohn HewittTuesday, July 26, 2016 - 10:291048Hewitt005The Mortal PlaceJohn Hewitt Estate1986Linen Hall LibraryWednesday, March 16, 2016TIFFHewitt005ManuscriptChildhood, Dargle Street, Annalee StreetEnglishhttps://www.niliteraryarchive.com/content/hewitt005Linen Hall LibraryLinen Hall LibraryAttribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike CC BY-NC-SAhttps://www.niliteraryarchive.com/sites/default/files/Hewitt005_0.jpgLHL ArchiveI knew them for the world
I spent my childhood in;
each street distinct in name and character;
Roe Street was mostly warders, pensioners;
a quiet street, we tied strings to their knockers,
on dark November evenings rapped secure,
but Dangle Street was rougher. You stepped with care
In Annalee Street a pale baked lived
who went to work each evening, his sons my friends
a Russian family, Jews, on the other side,
the small father, bearded. They paid boys
to light their fires on Saturday, their Sabbath.
But Avonbeg Street housed my two best friends,
John Ives, his father coachman to Miss Bruce
legginged he went through the door in the wall
of Thorndale there across our avenue;
and Walter Murphy, a grim widow's son,
who took his snapped forearm with quiet courage.
Here we played mostly at the gable end
on striking, running, vaulting games which chalked
the passing seasons, known by own local names
such as 'piggy' for 'tipcat' in the English book,
for them recruited by our coded call.
The streets sloped upward from our avenue
to meet its parallel in Manor Street
equipped with shops you'd need at any time
TextJohn HewittTuesday, July 26, 2016 - 10:291049Hewitt006The Mortal PlaceJohn Hewitt Estate1986Linen Hall LibraryWednesday, March 16, 2016TIFFHewitt006ManuscriptRoe Street, Coppers, Manor StreetEnglishhttps://www.niliteraryarchive.com/content/hewitt006Linen Hall LibraryLinen Hall LibraryAttribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike CC BY-NC-SAhttps://www.niliteraryarchive.com/sites/default/files/Hewitt006_0.jpgLHL Archivewhose names I still remember, druggist, grocer,
confectioner, baker, draper, by their wares.
From Dangle Street to Roe Street windows blazed
with sight's delight, with treasures pence could buy
when you had coppers, or on bidden errand,
each character with individual focus
dwindling at each end with strangers' houses
Now just last week a taximan who lived
in Manor Street was gunned remorselessly,
and in between the streets,
Roe Street and Avonbeg, a wall's being raised
to hold the tribes apart. For in recent years
there's been a drift of folk from distant places
for kinships, friendships, comfort, security;
to paraphrase those words of Baudelaire
a town's more mortal than a people's fears.
TextJohn HewittTuesday, July 26, 2016 - 10:291050