{"id":162773,"date":"2022-12-15T11:00:17","date_gmt":"2022-12-15T16:00:17","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=162773"},"modified":"2022-12-15T11:10:44","modified_gmt":"2022-12-15T16:10:44","slug":"the-blackstairs-mountains","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2022\/12\/15\/the-blackstairs-mountains\/","title":{"rendered":"The Blackstairs Mountains"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

Illustration by Na Kim.<\/p><\/div>\n

In the new Winter issue<\/a> of <\/em>The Paris Review, Belinda McKeon interviews<\/a> the writer Colm T\u00f3ib\u00edn, author of ten novels, two books of short stories, and several collections of essays and journalism. T\u00f3ib\u00edn also writes poetry\u2014\u201cWhen I was twelve,” he tells McKeon, “I started writing poems every day, every evening. Not only that but I followed poetry as somebody else of that age might follow sport”\u2014and we are pleased to publish one of his recent poems here.<\/em><\/p>\n

The Morris Minor cautiously took the turns
\nAnd, behind us, the Morris 1000, driven by my aunt,
\nWho never really learned to work a clutch.<\/p>\n

I remember the bleakness, the sheer rise,
\nAs though the incline had been
\nCut precisely and then polished clean,<\/p>\n

And also the whistle of the wind
\nAs I grudgingly climbed Mount Leinster.
\nAll of us, in fact, trudged most of the way up,<\/p>\n

With my uncle carrying a pair
\nOf binoculars borrowed from Peter Hayes
\nWho owned a pub in Court Street.<\/p>\n

My uncle surveyed the scene
\nAs far as Carlow with the binoculars,
\nAnd up toward the Wicklow Mountains.<\/p>\n

And my father, when he was handed them,
\nClaimed that he could actually see the sea.
\nBut, when it was my turn, all I saw<\/p>\n

Was something vague in the distance
\nThat no amount of focusing
\nCould convince me were foam or waves.<\/p>\n

So much chatter and excitement,
\nMy mother wearing slacks and a headscarf
\nAnd Auntie Kathleen her sensible shoes,<\/p>\n

So much distraction that my uncle did not realize
\nUntil we reached the cars
\nThat he must have left the binocular case<\/p>\n

Somewhere, maybe when we stopped
\nNear Black Rock Mountain on the way down.
\nThe adults all looked worried.<\/p>\n

How could they face Peter Hayes, or face
\nHis wife and his sister who helped
\nHim run the bar, with the news?<\/p>\n

Then my brother Brendan said
\nThat he would go back and see
\nIf he could find the case, but my aunt<\/p>\n

Was even more against the plan
\nThan my mother. It would take an hour
\nTo get up and half an hour to get down.<\/p>\n

And that was if he ran all the way.
\nBut he looked for approval to my father
\nAnd my uncle. He would be quick, he said.<\/p>\n

And, so, he set out to bring back the case.
\nSoon, he was a speck, and then smaller
\nUntil not even the binoculars could find him.<\/p>\n

There was worry that a mist could descend,
\nBut it stayed bright, uncloudy. It was one
\nOf those long July Sundays. We waited.<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t know what we talked about
\nOr what we did. Time passed, I suppose.
\nAll of us worried that he wouldn\u2019t find<\/p>\n

The case after all the trouble,
\nThat he would look everywhere
\nBut eventually appear empty-handed.<\/p>\n

The adults always had something to discuss.
\nMy father and his brother could talk history
\nOr hurling or tell stories about old priests.<\/p>\n

My mother and her sister-in-law
\nCould ask the girls about school, the nuns.
\nAnd I could watch them. I do that to this day.<\/p>\n

But none of us mattered
\nAgainst the one who had left us,
\nWho was still out of sight.<\/p>\n

When he returned, pale-faced, silent,
\nWith the case in his hand, he was greeted
\nBy my uncle with a ten-shilling note.<\/p>\n

He had found the case where my uncle thought
\nIt had been left: on that wall at the lookout point
\nA bit below Black Rock Mountain.<\/p>\n

As we drove south in our convoy of two
\nSmall cars, no one thought of anything more
\nThan the night ahead, the day to come.<\/p>\n

No one imagined another Sunday, years hence:
\nHe has been found dead, your brother.<\/em>
\nYou should get a flight home<\/em><\/p>\n

As soon as you can. <\/em>In the time the taxi snakes
\nToward the airport, and the next day
\nWhen I see him in his coffin,<\/p>\n

I think of that journey up the mountain,
\nThe single intent, and I imagine my brother
\nSearching once again for the leather case,<\/p>\n

Not seeing it there on that wall, and then looking
\nAll around, defeated, knowing that his climb
\nOn this occasion has not worked out,<\/p>\n

And I want him to be assured by someone:
\nThere is nothing to worry about,<\/em>
\nThings have changed, most of those awaiting<\/em><\/p>\n

You are dead: Auntie Kathleen and Uncle Pat,<\/em>
\nHarriet and Maeve, our mother and father,<\/em>
\nAnd Niall too. Even Peter Hayes, his wife and sister.<\/em><\/p>\n

No one will be disappointed.<\/em>
\nThe binocular case can linger where it will.<\/em>
\nEven the binoculars themselves are beyond use.<\/em><\/p>\n

It is better to take your ease, lie down <\/em>
\nIn the scarce grass, wait a while,<\/em>
\nClose your eyes when night falls, dream<\/em><\/p>\n

Of what can be seen through a convex lens:<\/em>
\nThe Barrow, the Slaney, sharp lines<\/em>
\nIn the landscape, a blur that might be Carlow town,<\/em><\/p>\n

And fields, folding out for miles, <\/em>
\nAnd then, to the east, what must be the coast,<\/em>
\nThe soft waves at Cush, the long strand at Curracloe,<\/em><\/p>\n

But really just what I saw that day through\u00a0 <\/em>
\nThose binoculars: something vague in the distance,<\/em>
\nA dimness receding, first shimmering, then still.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Colm T\u00f3ib\u00edn’s most recent book is\u00a0<\/em>The Magician.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cWhen I see him in his coffin, I think of that journey up the mountain\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2311,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[68562],"tags":[24555,5301,67827,33191,1120,21014],"class_list":["post-162773","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry","tag-about-poetry","tag-colm-toibin","tag-featured","tag-funeral","tag-ireland","tag-mountains"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nThe Blackstairs Mountains by Colm T\u00f3ib\u00edn<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"December 15, 2022 \u2013 \u201cWhen I see him in his coffin, I think of that journey up the mountain\u201d\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" 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