At home in Ireland, there's a habit of avoidance, an ironical attitude towards the authority figure.
I've always associated the moment of writing with a moment of lift, of joy, of unexpected reward.
I suppose you could say my father's world was Thomas Hardy and my mother's D.H. Lawrence.
A public expectation, it has to be said, not of poetry as such but of political positions variously approvable by mutually disapproving groups.
I have begun to think of life as a series of ripples widening out from an original center.
As writers and readers, as sinners and citizens, our realism and our aesthetic sense make us wary of crediting the positive note.
I credit poetry for making this space-walk possible.
Even if the last move did not succeed, the inner command says move again.
But that citizen's perception was also at one with the truth in recognizing that the very brutality of the means by which the IRA were pursuing change was destructive of the trust upon which new possibilities would have to be based.
In fact, in lyric poetry, truthfulness becomes recognizable as a ring of truth within the medium itself.
The Ireland I now inhabit is one that these Irish contemporaries have helped to imagine.
Even if the hopes you started out with are dashed, hope has to be maintained.
Without needing to be theoretically instructed, consciousness quickly realizes that it is the site of variously contending discourses.
Manifesting that order of poetry where we can at last grow up to that which we stored up as we grew.
Whether it be a matter of personal relations within a marriage or political initiatives within a peace process, there is no sure-fire do-it-yourself kit.