'After the Titanic' by Derek Mahon (1985)

              After the Titanic

                             They said I got away in the boat

                        And humbled me at the inquiry. I tell you

                                    I sank as far that night as any

                        Hero. As I sat shivering on the dark water

                                    I turned to ice to hear my costly

                        Life go thundering down in a pandemonium of

                                    Prams, pianos, sideboards, winches,

                        Boilers bursting and shredded ragtime. Now I hide

                                    In a lonely house behind the sea

                        Where the tide leaves broken toys and hat boxes

                                    Silently at my door. The showers of

                        April, flowers of May mean nothing to me, nor the

                                    Late lights of June, when my gardener

                        Describes to strangers how the old man stays in bed

                                    On seaward mornings after nights of

                        Wind, takes his cocaine and will see no one. Then it is

                                    I drown again with all those dim

                        Lost faces I never understood. My poor soul

                                    Screams out in the starlight, heart

                        Breaks loose and rolls down like a stone.

                                    Include me in your lamentations.

                       

Given that tomorrow is St Patrick’s Day I thought it would be apt to look at a piece by one of the great masters of Irish poetry, Derek Mahon. I am interested, in general, in the kind of modern-day epic tragedies such as the sinking of the Titanic (recounted here), Scott’s polar expedition (about which Mahon has also written), or the Everest attempt by Mallory and Irving (about which I’ve tried to write something). I think the brilliance of this poem derives not only from the dramatic monologue strategy Mahon employs here, but from the choice of point-of-view and timeframe: the tragedy occurs many years and miles away from the actual sinking by a so-called – and maybe actual – “coward” who has survived the catastrophe. It is, in the end, a poem about the guilt of the survivor and the unheroic old age of the those who escaped the explicit tragedy.

Another thing that interests me here is a much smaller technical point. Towards the end of the poem, Mahon writes:

                                                                        …My poor soul

                                                Screams out in the starlight, heart

                                    Breaks loose and rolls down like a stone…

It is the absence of the pronoun “my” before “heart” that draws my attention. It’s not immediately clear why this absence heightens the word “heart” but it does somehow. It moves us, I think, one step closer to the aura of that word, to the feeling it generates. It is not his heart, but heart. My heart, your heart, our heart. Heart. The sense of the word is utterly heightened by the omission. It is a beautiful effect but can only work if used sparingly as it is here.

One further point. There is also the interesting use of the line lengths variations creating a kind of oscillating rhythm. Mahon is a true formalist and there is nothing accidental about the way his poems appear on the page. I think the variation subtly suggests the waves washing up and slipping back from the shore, as the speaker drowns again “with all those dim/ Lost faces I never understood”. The energy and rhythm this carries into the poem is difficult to qualify, but clearly works not just in terms of meaning, but of sound and rhythm also.

Mahon, the great formalist combines all these effects to a brilliant conclusion as the tragic figure asks of us at the poem’s end: “Include me in your lamentations.”



After Note

I just wanted to make a small point about certain devices in pooetry that can really only be observed by seeing the printed poem rather than hearing it. I'm thinking, in particular, about what I wrote about the line length variation and the creeping and falling impression it gives. I think this is only really observable when you read the poem. When you hear poetry the physical design of the poem on the page isn't always completely apparent.

I faced this myself with a poem was about watching my father in his work as a signwriter. I used a short line to convey the intense concentration required as my father used short, delicate strokes to make the letter edge clean and tidy. I wanted to enter in a competition but it ran beyond the forty lines allowed. I reframed the poem with a long line and it worked almost as well, though something was lost in terms of the formal design. That said, I think that element would only be apparent in seeing the poem. If I were to read it out loud, I don't think anyone would be able to tell the difference between the two versions.

I think the same may apply here, as Mahon is constantly disguising the form through the use of run on lines and so forth. I think the point is, some of the formal pleasures of poetry can only be experienced by seeing the presentation of the work on the page. Perhaps, the effect I drew attention to is one such example.