Poetry: A high-wire achievement that brings no cure, just peace
Women are the presiding spirits of Tom French’s new collection, which brings old stories vividly back to life
Poet Tom French: Like other librarian poets, his work can pluck images from the archive, bringing old stories to life, if only for a moment
In 2002, Tom French’s debut collection, Touching the Bones, was the first Irish winner of a Forward Prize. Its central long poem, Pity the Bastards, sounded like Patrick Kavanagh and Allen Ginsberg, but its tenderness and well-made stanzas gave voice to the lives of farm labourers and hired men in a way that had hardly been seen in Irish writing. It seems to emerge from the turn-of-the-century desire to recover the State’s other histories: its grief, which is not assuaged even as its causes are marked and recorded, also informs the powerful poems about his father and the elegies for his brother in that book and in its follow-up, The Fire Step (2009).
French’s new book, Midnightstown (Gallery, €11.95 pb; €18.50 hb), sustains and advances on the achievement of those two. The title comes from an old name for Ministown, in Co Meath, where he now lives and works as a librarian. Like other librarian poets Philip Larkin and Thomas McCarthy, French’s work can pluck images from the archive, bringing old stories to life, if only for a moment. Tans, in its entirety, reads:
Not one who was there forgets, nor speaks thereafter
of the four who entered, crossed the flags for water
and left without a word, or the mugs they drank from
borne outside and beaten with a hammer into powder.
The level stanzas, steady rhythms, repetitions and formal diction come into their own as French’s poems go to unsayable places. Nowhere is this clearer than in the poem titled Autumn, 1977, which begins, “I am a vault. / Not a word said here / goes outside these four walls.” Later, it continues:
In full uniform, he has taken it
into his head to take, in the sixth
month of her pregnancy, the sweeping
brush to her.
At a time when stories still emerge so slowly, when the “uniform” still offers cover, this poem tells us why this might be so.
The only one the boy who sees
can tell, as he stands with his back
to the wall with no door in it,
is him or her, and he
is miles away by now, riding
shotgun in a squad car, taking
names, checking bona fides,
keeping an eye on late houses,
houses of ill repute where callers
come and go at all hours, as she,
needing a doctor or a priest,
is getting to her feet.
Three stanzas later, the poem ends:
I will not breathe
a word to a soul.
I will keep mum.
I will be the death of him.