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Casualty by Seamus Heaney

He would drink by himself

 

CASUALTY

by Seamus Heaney

 

I  

He would drink by himself  

And raise a weathered thumb  

Towards the high shelf,  

Calling another rum  

And blackcurrant, without  

Having to raise his voice,  

Or order a quick stout  

By a lifting of the eyes  

And a discreet dumb-show  

Of pulling off the top;  

At closing time would go  

In waders and peaked cap  

Into the showery dark,  

A dole-kept breadwinner  

But a natural for work.  

I loved his whole manner,  

Sure-footed but too sly,  

His deadpan sidling tact,  

His fisherman’s quick eye  

And turned observant back.  

 

Incomprehensible  

To him, my other life.  

Sometimes, on the high stool,  

Too busy with his knife  

At a tobacco plug  

And not meeting my eye,  

In the pause after a slug  

He mentioned poetry.  

We would be on our own  

And, always politic  

And shy of condescension,  

I would manage by some trick  

To switch the talk to eels  

Or lore of the horse and cart  

Or the Provisionals.  

 

But my tentative art  

His turned back watches too:  

He was blown to bits  

Out drinking in a curfew  

Others obeyed, three nights  

After they shot dead  

The thirteen men in Derry.  

PARAS THIRTEEN, the walls said,  

BOGSIDE NIL. That Wednesday  

Everyone held  

His breath and trembled.  

 

 

                   II  

It was a day of cold  

Raw silence, wind-blown  

surplice and soutane:  

Rained-on, flower-laden  

Coffin after coffin  

Seemed to float from the door  

Of the packed cathedral  

Like blossoms on slow water.  

The common funeral  

Unrolled its swaddling band,  

Lapping, tightening  

Till we were braced and bound  

Like brothers in a ring.  

 

But he would not be held  

At home by his own crowd  

Whatever threats were phoned,  

Whatever black flags waved.  

I see him as he turned  

In that bombed offending place,  

Remorse fused with terror  

In his still knowable face,  

His cornered outfaced stare  

Blinding in the flash.  

 

He had gone miles away  

For he drank like a fish  

Nightly, naturally  

Swimming towards the lure  

Of warm lit-up places,  

The blurred mesh and murmur  

Drifting among glasses  

In the gregarious smoke.  

How culpable was he  

That last night when he broke  

Our tribe’s complicity?  

‘Now, you’re supposed to be  

An educated man,’  

I hear him say. ‘Puzzle me  

The right answer to that one.’

 

 

                   III  

I missed his funeral,  

Those quiet walkers  

And sideways talkers  

Shoaling out of his lane  

To the respectable  

Purring of the hearse…  

They move in equal pace  

With the habitual  

Slow consolation  

Of a dawdling engine,  

The line lifted, hand  

Over fist, cold sunshine  

On the water, the land  

Banked under fog: that morning  

I was taken in his boat,  

The Screw purling, turning  

Indolent fathoms white,  

I tasted freedom with him.  

To get out early, haul  

Steadily off the bottom,  

Dispraise the catch, and smile  

As you find a rhythm  

Working you, slow mile by mile,  

Into your proper haunt  

Somewhere, well out, beyond…  

 

Dawn-sniffing revenant,  

Plodder through midnight rain,  

Question me again.

 

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