Thursday 18 January 2018

Solar Bones by Mike McCormack


Well now, here’s the thing, my edition of Solar Bones by Mike McCormack has a serious spoiler on the back blurb of the Tramp published book. Like the tag line of Psycho 2 Norm’s back and guess what so’s his Mom. That’s fun. The curious thing however is that McCormack sanctioned the revelation feeling that, he says or is purported to say, that events may come on too sudden casting a backwards bewilderment on the book. I am, as you know a careful and immersive reader, so I was worried that I had missed a plot point. That would be easy to do given the rushing stream of consciousness babbling on. I don’t mind that, I was reared on it. Alienation from within the novel is bad enough, Trollope stop addressing me please, tell your story. From outside alienation in a pointless blurb is an artistic error which may have had a production reason for it. It’s a good book though. I will relate.

Stately plump Marcus Conway is rattling around in his empty house, his family being out. He recalls the events of the last few years as a husband, father and engineer and latterly nurse during his wife’s ‘crypto’ bout. Brown trout in the water, boil it hard and the thing we never thought would happen in Ireland buying water in flagons and tankers with water dispensing it. The voice of Marcus has a greater range than you might expect from standard issue civil engineer because he spent two years studying for the priesthood in Maynooth. There’s philosophy mixed in with stories of dealing with bosthoon politicians that vary from the smooth spin speak to shouting down the phone about construction that was faulty had to be certified because my re-election would be in trouble. Very true, photo ops with large scissors count and make a memory that nudges your numbers.

This is Marcus Conway’s song about Ireland in the 21st.Century. Excellent.Because I read it ‘in a printed book’ (Synge) I cannot give you an excerpt and in any case the typography would likely be altered. Beautifully produced book by Tramp press.

To alter a line of James Clarence Mangan’s A Vision of Connaught in the Thirteenth Century:

‘It was the time,
It was the clime,
Of John Francis Moylette of the Crubeen Cawm’
(crooked trotter i.e. bribe)

Mangan’s A Vision

I walked entranced
Through a land of Morn;
The sun, with wondrous excess of light,
Shone down and glanced
Over seas of corn
And lustrous gardens a-left and right
Even in the clime
Of resplendent Spain,
Beams no such sun upon such a land;
But it was the time,
’Twas in the reign,
Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.

Anon stood nigh
By my side a man
Of princely aspect and port sublime.
Him queried I -
‘O, my Lord and Khan,
What clime is this, and what golden time?’
When he - ‘The clime
Is a clime to praise,
The clime is Erin’s, the green and bland;
And it is the time,
These be the days,
Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand!’

Then saw I thrones,
And circling fires,
And a Dome rose near me, as by a spell,
Whence flowed the tones
Of silver lyres,
And many voices in wreathed swell; 
And their thrilling chime
Fell on mine ears
As the heavenly hymn of an angel-band -
‘It is now the time,
These be the years,
Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand!’

I sought the hall,
And, behold! - a change
From light to darkness, from joy to woe!
King, nobles, all,
Looked aghast and strange;
The minstrel-group sate in dumbest show!
Had some great crime
Wrought this dread amaze,
This terror? None seemed to understand
’Twas then the time
We were in the days,
Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.

I again walked forth,
But lo! the sky
Showed fleckt with blood, and an alien sun
Glared from the north,
And there stood on high,
Amid his shorn beams, a skeleton!
It was by the stream
Of the castled Maine,
One Autumn eve, in the Teuton’s land,
That I dreamed this dream
Of the time and reign
Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand!






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