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Three poems by Paul Muldoon
Friend of Seamus Heaney spent a decade as poetry editor of The New Yorker
Holy Thursday
They’re kindly here, to let us linger so late,
Long after the shutters are up.
A waiter glides from the kitchen with a plate
Of stew, or some thick soup,
And settles himself at the next table but one.
We know, you and I, that it’s over,
That something or other has come between
Us, whatever we are, or were.
The waiter swabs his plate with bread
And drains what’s left of his wine,
Then rearranges, one by one,
The knife, the fork, the spoon, the napkin,
The table itself, the chair he’s simply borrowed,
And smiles, and bows to his own absence.
Hedgehog
The snail moves like a
Hovercraft, held up by a
Rubber cushion of itself,
Sharing its secret
With the hedgehog. The hedgehog
Shares its secret with no one.
We say, Hedgehog, come out
Of yourself and we will love you.
We mean no harm. We want
Only to listen to what
You have to say. We want
Your answers to our questions.
The hedgehog gives nothing
Away, keeping itself to itself.
We wonder what a hedgehog
Has to hide, why it so distrusts.
We forget the god
under this crown of thorns.
We forget that never again
will a god trust in the world.
The Frog
Comes to mind as another small
upheaval
amongst the rubble.
His eye matches exactly the bubble
in my spirit-level.
I set aside hammer and chisel
and take him on the trowel.
The entire population of Ireland
springs from a pair left to stand
overnight in a pond
in the gardens of Trinity College,
two bottles of wine left there to chill
after the Act of Union.
There is, surely, in this story
a moral. A moral for our times.
What if I put him to my head
and squeezed it out of him,
like the juice of freshly squeezed limes,
or a lemon sorbet?
Paul Muldoon
Paul Muldoon (b. June 20, 1951) is an Irish poet who has published more than 30 books of poetry. He held the position of Oxford Professor of Poetry from 1999 to 2004 and served as poetry editor at The New Yorker from 2007 to 2017. Muldoon’s poetry is characterized by a sly, often difficult allusive style. He regularly makes use of obscure or archaic words, and exhibits an expert handling of meter and rhyme. His work is often compared to fellow-Northern Irish poet, the late Seamus Heaney (1939-2013), who was both a friend and mentor.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Three poems by Paul Muldoon
Friend of Seamus Heaney spent a decade as poetry editor of The New Yorker
Three poems by Paul Muldoon
Friend of Seamus Heaney spent a decade as poetry editor of The New Yorker
Holy Thursday
They’re kindly here, to let us linger so late,
Long after the shutters are up.
A waiter glides from the kitchen with a plate
Of stew, or some thick soup,
And settles himself at the next table but one.
We know, you and I, that it’s over,
That something or other has come between
Us, whatever we are, or were.
The waiter swabs his plate with bread
And drains what’s left of his wine,
Then rearranges, one by one,
The knife, the fork, the spoon, the napkin,
The table itself, the chair he’s simply borrowed,
And smiles, and bows to his own absence.
Hedgehog
The snail moves like a
Hovercraft, held up by a
Rubber cushion of itself,
Sharing its secret
With the hedgehog. The hedgehog
Shares its secret with no one.
We say, Hedgehog, come out
Of yourself and we will love you.
We mean no harm. We want
Only to listen to what
You have to say. We want
Your answers to our questions.
The hedgehog gives nothing
Away, keeping itself to itself.
We wonder what a hedgehog
Has to hide, why it so distrusts.
We forget the god
under this crown of thorns.
We forget that never again
will a god trust in the world.
The Frog
Comes to mind as another small
upheaval
amongst the rubble.
His eye matches exactly the bubble
in my spirit-level.
I set aside hammer and chisel
and take him on the trowel.
The entire population of Ireland
springs from a pair left to stand
overnight in a pond
in the gardens of Trinity College,
two bottles of wine left there to chill
after the Act of Union.
There is, surely, in this story
a moral. A moral for our times.
What if I put him to my head
and squeezed it out of him,
like the juice of freshly squeezed limes,
or a lemon sorbet?
Paul Muldoon
Paul Muldoon (b. June 20, 1951) is an Irish poet who has published more than 30 books of poetry. He held the position of Oxford Professor of Poetry from 1999 to 2004 and served as poetry editor at The New Yorker from 2007 to 2017. Muldoon’s poetry is characterized by a sly, often difficult allusive style. He regularly makes use of obscure or archaic words, and exhibits an expert handling of meter and rhyme. His work is often compared to fellow-Northern Irish poet, the late Seamus Heaney (1939-2013), who was both a friend and mentor.
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