Hello and welcome to words that burn, the podcast taking a closer look at poetry. This week’s poem is Sceimhle by Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill.
This poem sees a surreal, folkloric landscape run amok and is typical of the poetry of Irish Language poet Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill. Her work often invokes a more ancient Ireland, not only in terms of imagery and vision but sheer merit of the language she uses. Ní Dhomanaill writes exclusively as Gaeilge or in Irish. As such her work is perhaps some of the more lesser known poems of the Irish Canon. Thankfully, through translations, like this one, by the late Irish Poet Derek Mahon, audiences are granted a glimpse inside the work of one of Ireland’s greatest living poets.
Ní Dhomhnaill is a stout advocate for the Irish Language which might seem a little strange given her early days arriving in Ireland from England. Born to Irish parents in Lancashire England, she moved to Kerry at the age of 5,1 becoming immediately immersed in the Gaeltacht culture of the area, that is to say a community which speaks solely in Irish, this must have been a truly formative culture shock for her as a child.
NI Dhomhnaill has been quite open about how she felt an outsider due to her time in England, coupled with her years attending a strict catholic boarding school it is no wonder she sought any kind of refuge, luckily she found one in the Irish Language. When asked about the solace her native language brought her she wrote:
Already by twelve I was a loner, well on my way to becoming a full-fledged recluse, and the forced proximity of a hundred other girls, not to mention forty nuns, was more than my nerves could stand […] Deep down in me, though, there was a pool of pure vitriol, a seething anger that nothing could touch. I tried to dispel it by keeping a diary, but given the total lack of privacy in this place, this was a chancy business. Girls had been expelled in dire ignominy for less. Sometimes just for things they wrote in letters. I countered by keeping a diary in code, and in Irish.2
It is not surprising that, given the respite it granted early on, the Irish language became an all consuming passion for the poet. Her thoughts make it clear that early on the Irish language became synonymous with secrecy and the hidden. From there it was a hop, skip and jump to the obscure and boundless world of Irish folklore.
The purest forms , or should I say least altered forms, of these old Irish tales are often only accessible to those who speak Gaelic, as centuries of Christianisation, anglicization and misreport have rendered them shadows of their former selves.3 The resulting reformed texts have often been found to be lacking the bite they had once, so to speak.
This is never the case in Nuala NI Dhomhnaill’s vivid and delirious reimagining and retellings. Her work has constantly explored modern issues plaguing Irish society and indeed those on a global scale as well. All of this done through the lens of folklore. When asked to elaborate on why Folklore has been so key to her work, she simply explained:
‘’I always have to draw some kind of veil between me and the reader.
Sometimes folklore achieves that for me, or mythology, there are many
ways of doing it.’’4
The veil she draws here is quite a severe one. The alien, and hostile landscape of Irish folklore immediately puts the reader on edge. You might ask why I keep mentioning that this is a folkloric landscape and the answer is that it’s littered with symbolism and points the poem in that direction. The first stanza is laced with ill omens and portents of death the most prominent being the Banshee, there are numerous others as well:
The old woman at the mill
Scrubs bloody clothes in the river,
Glancing in my direction
A little too often
A dog barks and barks
At the end of the house;
The church bells are muffled
A hooded crow flies in my face
It’s high time I got out of here
Tá cailleach an mhuilinn
Ag ní éadaí fulteacha san abhainn.
Tá sí ag féachaint anall orm
Rómhinic
Tá gadhar ag amhastrach
Ag bun na binne;
Buaileann clog an teampaill go bodhar
Eitlíonn crothóg liath i mo chionne.
Tá sé i bhfad thar am
Agam bogadh
That line scrubs bloody clothes in the river leaves us in little doubt as to the supernatural nature of the woman in question. The washing of murderous garments is a traditional symbol of the Bean Sidhe.5 Though curiously there seems to be a conflation of the Irish Bean Sidhe and the Scottish Bean Nighe here, as only the Scottish version washes the bloody garments of those lost in battle. Perhaps it is simply a broader Gaelic spirit being invoked by Nì Dhomhnaill. The speaker of the poem seems to feel an instant sense of dread, one which we in turn become infected by. There is a real sense of paranoia, hence the title of this poem, in the wording of glancing in my direction/ a little too often. The speaker then goes on to paint an even more ominous scene for us. The menace of a dog that barks and barks is foreshadowing that will become important by the third stanza. Once again the mention of the dog has hints of folklore hanging about it. The world is filled with tales of Black Dogs, malicious hounds that rove the British Isles. Sometimes foretelling death and other times causing it.6 Once again, this myth is not common to Ireland but more so to the North of England. Given Ní Dhomhnaill’s early years there, it’s clear she is borrowing from her own experiences and cultural experiences as opposed to any kind of firm Irish one. Nonetheless a second omen of death has been established within the stanza. And they just keep coming.
The muffled church bells serve as a dual symbol here, one as a faint reminder of the catholic church, something that Ní Dhomhnaill, as the earlier excerpt attests, has no great gra for. Once again, a more ancient British custom is invoked by the muffling of them. The action of doing so was called The Soul Bell, or more commonly today; The Death Knell.7 Yet again it signifies impending death, or an actual death depending on the amount of rings. Either way it is right at home in this litany of omens.
Finally there is the hooded crow. The hooded crow in Irish Mythology is heavily associated with the Goddess Badb, who specifically took that form. She is one aspect of the three that make up The Morrigan, the Irish goddess of death.8 Her presence here is fitting for raising the tension as she was famed for sowing confusion amongst the ranks of those who stood against her chosen army.9
It is no wonder then that our speaker realises It’s high time I got out of here. It’s worth noting that most of the folkloric traditions and omens mentioned above were usually present for the death of someone of note and importance. We can assume then that the speaker of this poem is exactly that. This is a common trick of Ní Dhomhanaill who famously creates personas in her work to explore, most commonly, the oppression of women and the silencing of them in society.
As academic Cary A. Shay puts it:
‘’Ní Dhomhnaill’s use of what she has called the invented character – most often traditional figures from Irish folklore such as the bean an leasa and an mhurúch – is a dissociative act that expresses the terror, dislocation and fragmentation resulting from linguistic alienation, psychological trauma, and exile from the symbolic order. ‘’ [Shay, 2014]
And so this speaker comes to embody something far more significant than just a vehicle through which to speak. That becomes even clearer in the second stanza:
Down in the village
The people eye me furtively:
They lower their heads
And avoid me like the plague
A whirlwind raises the hair
On the necks of the hills;
Rain thuds the earth
And a snow-storm begins
I slam the door of my house
On the lot of them.
Thíos ins an mbaile
Tá daoise ag féachaint fiarsceabhach,
Tá siad ag cromadh a gceann
Is ní labhrann siad liom a thuilleadh
Éiríonn camfheothan gaoithe de dhroim na mbeann,
Leanann turlabhait báistí é
Is cloichshneachta trom.
Dúnaim doras mo thí go teann
Ina gcoinne.
That mounting tension from the first stanza continues to build. This time, as opposed to omens, pathetic fallacy assists in the task. The weather has always been used as a tool to reflect emotional states to an audience, with its early roots being in folklore.10
That paranoia of being watched returns, compounded now, with a single old woman replaced by a whole village. There are beautiful moments of Hiberno- English in Derek Mahon’s translation, with vernacular phrases like avoid me like the plague and slamming the door on the lot of them peppered throughout. These small turns of phrase are quintessentially Irish, and whilst not originating from the island can be heard day to day.11 These uses of common Irish English, help to ground the poem in Irish culture and create a fantastic link between the English translation and Gaeilge. The Irish language has always been more informal with regards to strict linguistic rules and rigid forms. It prefers to take what can only be described as a more philosophical approach to life.12 This echoes Ní Dhomhnaill’s own comments on what makes Irish such an enjoyable language. She once stated:
‘’There's a major register problem translating from Irish to English. ‘'Galleon' is pristine in Irish, but old hat in English, and what is pristine in English may sound all wrong in Irish. ... [Irish] just isn't prudish. The language is very open and non-judgmental about the body and its orifices. ... Nor has Irish a prejudice against the otherworld. ... When I knock on my aunt's door she'll say 'An de bheoaibh no de mhairbh thu' ('Are you of the living or of the dead?'), and it's partly a joke, but it puts you thinking at the same time."13
Thankfully through a delicate and respectful translation that lack of prejudice against the other world isn’t lost.
The weather is typically Irish in its misery and seems intent on crushing our speaker, this combined with the oppressive displeasure of the village, seems all too much for our speaker who retreats to the supposed safety of her home and turns her back on all of it.
There are many ways to interpret the myriad furtive stares that the speaker lists. Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill has often spoken about how alien her first days in West Kerry truly were. Going so far as to state:
What we can establish is that NI Dhomhnaill was an outsider early on and if the societal structure of Ireland in the 50’s held true for her, she was suddenly dropped in a very catholic, and heavily scrutinised society. The Catholic Churches hold was unshakeable at the time and most the sense of being watched and observed, for the purposes of ‘’decency’’, would have been omnipresent.14
We are left, at the end of stanza two , with the sense that our speaker has avoided the gaze of those who do not mean here well. Only to have that illusion shattered abruptly in the third stanza:
… and start awake in the night
In the sulphurous light
While the ceiling glows slowly bright
In the dripping dawn.
The bedroom door swings open of its own accord
And a hound bounds into the room at me
This very minute
His two eyes the size of plates-
No, bigger, of cartwheels
No, bigger of whirling windmills
Dúisím go hobann níos déanaí san oíche,
Timpeall a do ar maidin,
Nuair atá amhascarnach an lae
Ag sileadh tharam.
Osclaíonn doras an tseomra leapan uaidh féin
Is tá gadhar ag teacht isteach an seomra chugham
An niúinint seo,
Is tá dhá shúil air atá chomh mór
…le plátaí
…ní hea, ach le rothar cairte,
…ní hea, ach le sciatháin mhuilinn ghaoithe.
There is something Edgar Allen Poe-esque in the quality of this final stanza that Ni Dhomhnaill ends on. There is a horror to the slow, maddening waiting as the sun comes up . Those who are unfortunately familiar with insomnia will recognise the quiet dread of watching the light of dawn creep into a room. Although, the use of the word sulphurous here paints it as something altogether more hellish. Dripping dawn accents this sense of the macabre by evoking blood and the tension that has been building since stanza one creeps on.
Only to be shattered by the sudden appearance of the hound that was hinted at from the beginning.
Any kind of logic that might have existed in the poem has now collapsed and we are left feeling that it must surely be a dream the speaker is experiencing. Dreams have always played a central role in Ni Dhomhnaill’s work,15 indeed in Irish storytelling in general. Indeed there is a whole folkloric genre of old Irish poetry known as Aisling which usually takes place entirely in dream.16 Here it seems like a dream of anxiety and dread. The Hound has come back to devour our speaker and is now upon her.
It is important to note that there is no distinction made that this is a dream. It is really happening to the speaker within the concept of the poem. The speaker has no control, with even the door swinging open of its own accord.
They are completely at the mercy of the seemingly ravenous dog they have come across. Those final three lines invoke the imagery of little red riding hood, at least to me:
His two eyes the size of plates-No, bigger, of cartwheelsNo, bigger of whirling windmills
They are similar in tone to the famous refrain from little red riding hood, my what big eyes you have.17 The tale itself is now synonymous with hunger and insatiable appetite, which the hound the very embodiment of. The focus on his eyes here, once again invoking the feeling of being watched or perceived constantly. Initially, by the bean sidhe, it seemed a look of judgment, then from the people, it was a look of fear or shame. Now it is transformed into something altogether more predatory. The constant reassessment of their size by the speaker seems to show their realisation at the depth of the dogs hunger. The closer it gets, the more they perceive its desire. There is a wonderful quality of the beast inching closer in the constant reestablishing of the size of its eyes. It is a truly harrowing image to end on as we get the sense that our speaker is doomed, which always seemed the case even from the start. There is no real resolution or refuge for them then.
So what has our speaker done to deserve such a fate? The simple answer is; nothing.
It would be a fair assumption to guess that our speaker is female, based on Ní Dhomhnaill’s penchant for creating her personae as such.18 Another thing that you may have noticed while reading or listening to the poem is that our speaker never has an external reaction to these horrible events. There are no words of protestation or screams of terror, her fear is always internal and usually in the form of thought and completely mute.
The mute woman is a frequent symbol in Ní Dhomhnaill’s work, it has come to embody many things including: The loss of the Irish language, the suppression of female agency, the powerlessness felt by women in male driven societies.19.
To quote Cary A. Shay again, her work often suggests: the difficulty for young women of moving into adulthood when they are threatened by the gaze from outside themselves, when they are not heard except through their silence, when they are consigned to being passive objects,
We can see that in Sceimhle each of these themes is firmly present. The gaze in this poem is a constant threat and if we were to apply symbolism to the different types of gaze in each of the three stanzas they might look something like this. In the first stanza, the gaze of the Bean Sidhe is the judgment of older women as younger women attempt to change and form their own identity. In the second stanza, the gaze of the village, is the restrictive patriarchal system that seeks to keep women in certain roles. Finally in that last stanza, the gaze of the hound is one of sexual desire, acting as a stand in for the unwelcome male attention that women often have little choice but to endure. The hunger and threat it represents in the real world, is portrayed perfectly by the poetic encounter. Indeed the poem in general seems a lament for the plight of any woman attempting to find their way in the world. Much like the speaker of the poem it can often feel as though they are doomed from the start.
So why this poem? No one evokes an otherworld quite like Nuala Ní Dhomhanaill. The settings of her poems are filled with allegory and peril, all of which she weaves together with a vibrancy and life we rarely expect from the Irish language but one that is always there. Her work with the language and stoic commitment to writing solely in Irish has bolstered the language and rich culture that springs from it. Marking it out as something that has a place in modernity. As if to reinforce that the themes she chooses to write on are razor sharp modern and as pressing now as they were 600 years ago. Perhaps that is why the mythic quality of her work has always struck me and lingered long after I finished reading. Her work seems almost a duty at times. In the poet's own words: Ireland: 'Lots of women's poetry has so much to reclaim; there's so much psychic land, a whole continent, a whole Atlantis under the water to reclaim'. 20There is a gravity in those words and perhaps why myth is the best vehicle for Ní Dhomhnaill’s own works of reclamation.
What did you think of the poem? I’d love to hear your opinion or any recommendations you might have for future episodes. You can get in touch with me in a few ways; Send me an email and wordsthatburnpodcast@gmail.com, find me on instagram @wordsthatburnpodcast.
Would you like to hear more Irish Language poetry on this podcast? If you didn’t have enough in this episode, check out my take on conriocht by Ailbhe Ní Ghearbhuigh. It’s linked in the description.
If you have the time and feel like doing me a massive favour you could send this episode to someone you think might enjoy it or leave this podcast a review wherever you listen. Each and every one helps. Thank you so much for listening and giving me your time and you’ll hear from me again soon.
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Shay, Cary A. “Chapter 4: Of Mermaids and Others: Death, Silence and the Unspeakable in Ní Dhomhnaill’s Folklore Poems.” Essay. In Of Mermaids and Others: An Introduction. to the Poetry of Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill, 187–241. Oxford: Lang, 2014.
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Magan, Machán. Thirty-Two Words for Field: Lost Words of the Irish Landscape. Dublin, Ireland: Gil & Macmillan LTD, 2020.
Potts, Donna L. “‘When Ireland Was Still under a Spell’: The Poetry of Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill.” New Hibernia Review / Iris Éireannach Nua 7, no. 3 (2003): 52–70. http://www.jstor.org/stable/20646421.
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Anderson, Graham (2000). Fairytale in the Ancient World. Routledge. pp. 94–95. ISBN 978-0-415-23702-4. Retrieved 9 July 2017
Shay, Cary A. “Chapter 4: Of Mermaids and Others: Death, Silence and the Unspeakable in Ní Dhomhnaill’s Folklore Poems.” Essay. In Of Mermaids and Others: An Introduction to the Poetry of Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill, 187–241. Oxford: Lang, 2014.
Shay, Cary A. “Chapter 4: Of Mermaids and Others: Death, Silence and the Unspeakable in Ní Dhomhnaill’s Folklore Poems.” Essay. In Of Mermaids and Others: An Introduction to the Poetry of Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill, 187–241. Oxford: Lang, 2014.
Ni Dhomhnaill, Nuala 'The Hidden Ireland: Women's Inheritance' in Theo Dorgan (ed.), Irish Poetry Since Kavanagh (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 1996), p. 115.