Pádraig Ó Tuama - Readings from the Book of Exile

there are no chapters And their god was carved from their own hollow breathing their toil was hard their babies born grieving. Clothed with desire they continued believing that their lives began with their edenic leaving. And hes afraid. And he will fear. And he is hiding. And he is here.

Their path was worn as the furnace was yawning they slept in the evening they spoke in the dawning. She was the mother of all that was breathing. He was the earth and she was his reason. And shes afraid. And she will fear. And she is hiding.

And she is here. They came from nothing so the nothing came with them. Their chaos lay open and their chaos played with them. And theyre afraid. And they will fear. And they are hiding.

And they are here. They move between cunning and exposure sometimes one answer, sometimes many, sometimes silence, never closer. And were afraid. And we fear. And we are hiding.

(for Peter Saunders) And I said to him Are there answers to all of this? And he said The answer is in a story and the story is being told. (for Peter Saunders) And I said to him Are there answers to all of this? And he said The answer is in a story and the story is being told.

And I said But there is so much pain And she answered, plainly, Pain will happen. Then I said Will I ever find meaning? And they said You will find meaning Where you give meaning. The answer is in the story And the story isnt finished.

(for Dani) Its funny how things come in circles. You, sitting on a step, smoking a cigarette, watching leaves fall off a slowly stripping tree. Me, hanging photos on a wall, including one of you receiving, like a priestess, your lovers confession.

Me telling stories of your conversations. You, weeping when your dad asked you how you were. Me writing poems about life while I was slowly plunging into death. You breathing in those same lines, sitting on a step, smoking a cigarette.

And even though you do not know your name you have given nameless places recognition. You have baptised spaces merely by inhabitation, there has been an inner invitation that youve accepted, with all that holy, wholly hesitation.

Leaving others back behind the curtain, youve asserted something in the face of god-divine, something you were finding out, a kind of leave-it-all-behind-and-mind-you-dont-feel-guilty sense of declaration. And even though you do not know your name, your inhabitation space was named by face-to-facing something that you met and listened to. This space is yours, whatever it is called, named by life and all this living, and all the best things that regret can bring and all the hope you muster.

In the Irish language, there is not a word for yes. There is not a word for no either. You can only answer in the affirmative you can say I will, or I wont.

You can say I can. You can say I am or I am not. It is appropriate that a language so poetic as to suggest a bridge between the word for exile and the word for weeping would be rooted in an earthy solidity that requires answers to be linked to an action. Affirmative answers are indicated by action. Let your yes be yes and your no be no. Let your yes be seen in your doing.

Let your no be not-doing. If you say yes, but do-not-do, it is a no. So, forget all your talk. Tell me by what you do. The Irish word for Exile is Deoraocht, which carries the implication to be in a state of tears.

he has been moved beyond belief I used to need to know the end of every story but these days I only need the start to get me going.

God is the crack where the story begins. We are the crack where the story gets interesting We are the choice of where to begin the person going out? the stranger coming in? God is the fracture, and the ache in your voice, God is the story flavoured with choice God is the pillar of salt full of pity accusing God for the sulphurous city. God is the woman who bleeds and who touches. We are the story of courage or blushes. God is the story of whatever works. God is the twist at the end and the quirks.

We are the start, and we are the centre, were the characters, narrators, inventors. God is the bit that we cant explain maybe the healing maybe the pain. We are the bit that God cant explain maybe the harmony maybe the strain. God is the plot, and we are the writers, the story of winners and the story of fighters, the story of love, and the story of rupture, the story of stories, the story without structure.

In-between the sun and moon, I sit and watch and make some room for letting light and twilight mingle, shaping hope and making single glances last eternity, a little more, extending love beyond the doors of welcoming, while wedding all the parted people, even sons to violent mothers, and searching all the others finding light where twilight lingers, in-between the sun and moon. Do you like the smell of tortured Jesus burning the snow? Do you like how his veins are pulsing underneath his ripped skins glow? Do you salivate and lick your lips, swallowing your spit, imagining the sweet meat taste from the barbecuing pit? Do you drink the drink and talk the talk inviting all your friends, To bask in resurrection scents and eat the flesh of all amends? (i) Holy Thursday Some flapping friars, frocked in white and flowing garments billowed at the evenings awning as I stole past and found my half way seat [not too near the front I need to know behind me not too near the back, I want to see the priests] A rare and lovely moment happened an inner calm calling me to gentle prayer crystal voices singing with violins crooning chords to beloved hymns.

A young fellow, sixteen or so, sitting two pews in front of me, wore a blue t-shirt that said: smile if youre a wanker. A young woman, one pew in front of me, sat and cried the whole way through quietly, with two pink roses in her hair. The shy and awkward priest washed the feet of the pre-selected disciples, while the eloquent and prophet-eyed orator spoke cleverly to the gathered about feasts little and large and little again. Pointing, perhaps, to all the little Easters, on the days between our Friday and Good Sundays. A beaming, waif-like lady smiled the holy host from its holder to my waiting palm. While she looked exhausted she twinkled eyes towards me.

And finally, they processed out, the solemn friars, not flapping now, floating towards the door, with us, the brave, us the faithful, us the wise and noble, us the broken, bent and backwards. We the needy and the lonely left quietly row by row. (ii) Good Friday The light looked in the sunstained windows, carved by careful hands with crafted instruments, like a locked-out lover lamenting his lost key. The soon-to-be Easter light flooded the space between the tenth and eleventh stations the stripping and the nailing at twelve oclock, highlighted the night between our fallings and our flyings on this Friday of our good sorrows, or bad sorrows our mad, and sad, and glad that there are gladder days beyond these days sorrows. We toast the night, o felix culpa, and hide the light of lights for a while. (iii) Vigil A tram clanked by and saw firelit people celebrate the light on a dark March evening huddled round a hobos fire breathing in the air of sharing.

Later, following a solemn march to a church of shadowed arches to hear readings from historys pages, a bell was rung and then again, and again, proclaiming peace for these chimneyed houses of our inelegant suburbs. And light is falling, dawning, going, flowing, showing, moving, wooing, gushing, roaring, spouting, rolling down flooding spaces and birthing hidden corners with beauty of a gorgeous kind. My protestant friend beside me cannot take communion but we shared a peaceful silence at gentle harmonies and sung three-tiered responses to centurys prayers. A tram ride later, we shared mountain bread with soft white cheese and tea at the only open street caf. (iv) Bethlehem, Easter 2002 Arrived, in a dark pitching, two thousand and two wintertimes ago. Warmed by animal heat and the nighttime sweat of his exhausted mother, surrounded by angels, singing peace and pleasure to all who follow, while timid shepherds bring kind gifts a lamb, a reassurance a gentle prophecy for long years ahead.