This poem is from a a new manuscript of poems set in Ireland and meditations on the Book of Kells.  It’s still in progress . . . . Visit my website, www.barbaracrooker.com for more news.
 

Sceilig Mhichil: A Glosa

It is hard to believe that for quite a long time—almost a hundred years—western Christianity survived by clinging to places like Skellig Michael, a pinnacle of rock eighteen miles from the Irish coast, rising seven hundred feet out of the sea.
                                                                                                                                                                      —Kenneth Clark

Every day, hands are creating the world,
fire is married to steel,
and canvas, linen and cotton come back
from the skirmishings of the laundries.

              “In Praise of Ironing,” by Pablo Neruda
               translated by Alistair Reid


They sat on hard benches in stone beehives
perched above the immaculate sea
on the steepest, most wind-battered peak,
climbing six hundred steps to the scriptoria
on rocks piled by the hand of God.
Skellig Michael, above the waters’ skirl.
The Vikings somehow found them,
looted and plundered, but the monks
built again, and the word unfurled.
Every day hands are creating the world.

On this impossible crag,
this tower of slate, stark fissures,
castellated outcrops terrifying
above the brooding sea, the steps rise
between fangs of rock, a space
to chasten or elevate souls. Feel
how it was to live in a clochán,
nothing but obdurate rock above and below.
In Europe, books burned, but here were concealed.
Fire is married to steel.

No one could labor like this who didn’t love books,
the gospel page shining, white as cotton
fresh from the laundry, a pledge that darkness
could turn into light. Even the shapes
of the letters were magical, the humps
and curves of half-uncial, insular majescule, black
ink made from soot inscribed on sheepskin,
the fabric of God’s words, newly woven,
hands fast as shuttles, each simple act,
canvas, linen, and cotton come back.

Imagine a world without reading or learning;
imagine a life without books. A land ruled
by ax and sword, stones stained with blood.
No bleach or bluing to set things right; no iron
mangle to wring things clean. Cities tumbled
to rubble, books burned for warmth. Armies
looting the countryside. Only the Irish, on an island
in the icy sea, water-swirled and rock-haunted,
the ragged edge of the West, saved whole libraries
from the skirmishing of the foundries.


-first published in One