Scuais by Michael Davitt. Clo IarChonnachta. 65pp. £5. An Fear Marbh by Colm Breathnach. Clo Iar-Chonnachta. 47pp. £4.
Is it the language itself, the very act of writing in a lesser-used speech, a medium fractured and punctured by the 20th century, that makes poets in Irish so conscious of their own frail humanity? Both Michael Davitt's latest collection Scuais and Colm Breathnach's An Fear Marbh are possessed of a darkness and an interrogation of mortality which haunts the imagination.
Scuais is pervaded with a brooding melancholy which threatens to smother. Reading poems such as Dochloiteacht, Baisteach, Cith and Eaglais Naomh Padraig 1961 is somewhat akin to being out late on an unfamiliar road as dusk falls rapidly. There is a sense of knowing that you are on firm poetic ground but the disappearing light induces concern.
Light has long been part and parcel of Christian thought. The Bible says that "he who walks with me, walks in the light". And there is an overwhelming sensation that Davitt is seeking his own light and with it redemption. Yet, there is a sense too that he is damned. Throughout the collection, death and memories of the dead occur with sombre regularity in An File ag foghlaim an Bhais, Realpholaitiocht, 3AG and Dha Shochraid, with its simple evocation of friends passed away.
And passed away to where, to whom? God is questioned in Dia Ghoma. His responsibility for what he has created and allowed to be destroyed: "Ab e mo ghnosa, a Dhia, fiafrai i bhfeirg/Conas a ligfea do scrios mar seo tarluint?" A question of profound doubt and angst that at least admits God's presence. Elsewhere, Davitt asks if God is there at all.
Domesticity offers no escape. Stocktin is a diary of a collapsing world. The domestic rituals which underpin so much of married and family life are like cords tightening around an unwilling body. The very Irish the poet speaks has become a laughing stock: "cuir chugam an tUtterly/Butterly./c e duirt?/me fhein?"
There are poems of love too. Glaoch and, most notably, Pairc Herbert where the physical presence of a loved one banishes, for once completely, all forebodings: "samhraionn tu an doineann/asam idir do chiocha/is barraiocha do mhear".
It is a rare moment of light in this pained dusk.
Colm Breathnach's An Fear Marbh is a meditation on the loss of his father. It is familiar ground for many poets and it is to Breathnach's eternal credit that his act of remembrance never becomes maudlin.
The collection (finely illustrated by Tomas O Ciobhain) is an extended prayer - at times confessional, at times remorseful, at times joyous. The act of recalling his father and their past together is one which does not always ease Breathnach's loneliness. Far from it.
In Buille Fill, the poet's act of petty revenge on his father weighs heavily on his conscience: "Mhaithfinn duit anois an buille sin, da bhfeadfainn,/ach an maithfea domhsa an mile buille fill/a chuireas abhaile ort lem shuile claona."
There are times though when the depth of loss cannot be articulated. Language, Breathnach's profession (he is a translator), remains mute in the face of personal emptiness: " `Ma thann tu chomh cliste sin," a duirt mo chroi liom,/ba cheart go mbeadh focal agat ar an mothu seo."
It is testament to Breathnach's creative impulse that that word "heart" actually achieves the impact it should have. It is a word which has been debased by use. Here, however, we understand it to have all the force and dignity it should carry.
While Breathnach mourns, he does not grieve. His father's life was fruitful in many ways and his love of music in Seasuir, Piano and An Stiurthoir Ceoil - "D'ardais do lamh is chan an saol go leir duit" - are poignant reminders that echo in Breathnach's mind.
Perhaps he can console himself that his father's music lives on in his own poetry. Pen rather than piano but still melodious.
Pol O Muiri is an Irish Times staff journalist