Life, Views
My favorite Atlanta poem was written by an Irishman
On a flight into Atlanta a few years ago — a journey I had made many times — I sat next to a young man from Dublin, who was on his first trip to the U.S. As the plane made its descent, the young Irishman stared intently out the window and marveled at what he saw.
“It’s a city in a forest,” he told me.
I loved his fresh perspective on the city I knew well, and he was right. Compared to many cities, Atlanta still does have wonderful trees, despite an onslaught by developers determined to knock them all down.
I thought of that young man again today as I tried to cull through the books that are overflowing the shelves at my house. The city of Edinburgh, Scotland, is running a Carry a Poem campaign all this month, and in the spirit of that campaign I’m trying to identify a different poem that I appreciate each day of the month.
The book that came easily to hand offered up one of my all-time favorites.
The book is an acclaimed 1997 collection, Protestant Without a Horse, by the late Irish poet Robert Greacen. (He died in 2008.)
My copy of the book is well-marked with underlinings and arrows pointing to favorite passages, and it’s annotated with my hand-written notes about sections that pointed me to one train of thought or another.
Before I even started reading the collection, I was intrigued by the dedication. It reads: “for my friends Betty and Jack W. Weaver who introduced me to the American South.” Who are the Weavers and what was their connection to Greacen? Some day, I still want to do a little research and learn the answers.
But I get waylaid every time I open the book. The first poem, “At Brendan Behan’s Desk,” introduces the title phrase, “A Protestant without a horse.” (Greacen was born to Protestant parents in the north of Ireland.) The second poem, “Procession,” focuses on a painting of a parade by Orangemen in Portadown in 1928.
It concludes with these lines:
The past invades the present,
The present lives in the past,
The future will never come.
These lines capture some of the ongoing tragedy of Irish history, especially the history of Northern Ireland in the 20th century that Greacen knew so well.
But, as I noted in the book on my first reading, it also captures too much of the experience of people in the American South.
The failure of American Southerners to confront our history honestly is a painful reality. But Greacen’s social commentary was focused on his own people, not on Americans. And in one poem in the book, he offers a soaring little anthem that I have always found as inspiring and revelatory as the words of the young man on the plane.
The poem is called “Flying Into Atlanta.”
It goes like this:
FLYING INTO ATLANTA
A velvet evening at fall’s end,
Day in retreat, I flying high
Look down on diamond lights.
John Keats, come with me now.
Let’s travel in these realms.
Un-misted, mellow, fruitful,
And drink from brimming beakers
Above this city’s radiance,
Nor speak of hemlock, nightingales,
Or northern islands we have fled.
Through this rich Georgian sky
We’ll ride in dazzlement
Deep in romantic images
Yet hear a voice proclaim:
O my America, my new-found land!
NOTE: Protestant Without a Horse was published by Lagan Press in Belfast and copyrighted by Robert Greacen.
Two obituaries for Robert Greacan with details about his life and career: http://www.independent.co.uk/news/obituaries/robert-greacen-ulster-poet-of-considerable-gifts-832109.html
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2008/may/15/culture.obituaries
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eleanor ringel cater says: Keith–thanks so much. I am starved for your writing and insights. and I meant to write you about Bobbie burns.. further, your namesake, Biscuit, still asks about you. In her way, of course…
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Thank you so much, Keith. I have never seen the rich Georgian sky – but I know well from these words that I, too, would ride them in dazzlement.
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Terri Evans says: This was a delight to read with my coffee. The first words I’ve read today were lovely and inspiring — yours and Robert Greacen’s. I love the idea of “carry a poem” around and am inspired to identify the verses I would choose. Sharing the inscription in the book and pondering the people who wrote them is an exercise I’ve done many times since I am blessed with so many “old” books. The inscriptions within always seem so intimate, although they don’t always communicate intimate thoughts – it’s just the idea of a friendship or love that allows someone to select a book for another that is inherently intimate to me.
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Mary Lee (aka Bootsie Lucas) says: Keith,
What a lovely piece of writing. And thanks for alerting us to Robert Greacen and ‘Flying Into Atlanta’. I’m going to look for a poem to put in my pocket every day this month. -
Keith, thank you. What a great flight of language, from Atlanta to Dublin and back again with a wonderful poem, then inside into your house where – pardons to Billy Collins – one can “sail around the room alone” with that wonderful bookshelf and all the books that tumble into your hands.
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Keith, thank you. What a great flight of language, from Atlanta to Dublin and back again with a wonderful poem, then inside your house where – pardons to Billy Collins – one can “sail around the room alone” with that wonderful bookshelf and all the books that tumble into your hands.
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Janet Ward says: Oh, crap. Another poem I ought to memorize. I am getting too old for this…
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Billie, an English teacher says: Thank you for this lovely piece of writing and for an introduction to a poet I didn’t know. I think Pat Conroy also once wrote that Atlanta was “a city in a forest.” There are so many connections between Georgia and Ireland, past and present.
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If Atlanta can inspire such a wonderful poem, alongside a mention of Keats no less, then there is indeed hope for the city. Great story. Thanks Keith!
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Bert Roughton says: I could use a brimming beaker right now as I try to fly out of Atlanta!
Very nice piece, Keith. In many ways, we are the Irish and must find our way despite our own version of The Troubles.
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