Derek Mahon was born in Belfast in 1941 and studied French literature at Trinity College Dublin and at the Sorbonne. He lived for many years in London, working variously as a reviewer, television adapter of literary texts for British television and poetry editor of the New Statesman. More recently he has lived in Dublin and Kinsale. He is regarded as one of the most accomplished and influential of contemporary Irish poets. He has influenced not only a younger generation of British and Irish poets but has also been one of the influences on a new school of Scandinavian poets centred in Oslo and Gothenburg. He has been described as one of the most musical of poets now writing in English. Derek Mahon received the 2007 David Cohen Prize, for recognition of a lifetime’s achievement in literature.
We were very saddened to learn on October 2, 2020 of Derek Mahon’s passing. Announcing his death that day, Mahon’s publisher Gallery Press called him a “master poet” and a “pure artist”. We couldn’t agree more, remembering fondly his visit to Toronto to take part in the 2009 Griffin Poetry Prize shortlist readings and festivities. Some of the wonderful and comprehensive tributes to the man and his literary accomplishments can be found here, here and here.
Judges’ Citation
Formal grace, uncluttered diction, and sprightliness of movement lend Derek Mahon’s new poems a musicality and memorability which is intensified by their visionary gaze and their poignant yearning for unspoiled and unsoiled places: ‘blue skies, /clear water, scattered light’.
Formal grace, uncluttered diction, and sprightliness of movement lend Derek Mahon’s new poems a musicality and memorability which is intensified by their visionary gaze and their poignant yearning for unspoiled and unsoiled places: ‘blue skies, /clear water, scattered light’. His light-filled work celebrates the sun’s life-sustaining powers; yet he also fears the heat of the sun in the context of global warming: ‘Sea levels rising annually, /glaciers sliding fast, /species extinct …’ Mahon is drawn to the lives, worlds and work of other artists; a vivid bio-poem, retracing Coleridge’s life, and an atmospheric poem evoking the post-war Belfast of the novelist Brian Moore are set alongside elegant versions of Ovid [the desolate ‘Ariadne on Naxos’] and Ibsen [the haunting and unsettling ‘The Lady from the Sea’]. Visual art features prominently too: a sequence of ‘Art Notes’ re-creates the paintings of Edward Hopper, Howard Hodgkin, Renÿ Magritte and others with meticulously-crafted mastery. An outstanding collection from one of Ireland’s most acclaimed poets.
Selected poems
by Derek Mahon
A cold and stormy morning
I sit in Ursula’s place
and fancy something spicy
served with the usual grace
by one of her bright workforce
who know us from before,
a nice girl from Tbilisi,
Penang or Baltimore.
Some red basil linguine
would surely hit the spot,
something light and shiny,
mint-yoghurty and hot;
a frosty but delightful
pistachio ice-cream
and some strong herbal
infusion wreathed in steam.
Once a tomato sandwich
and a pint of stout would do
but them days are over.
I want to have a go
at some amusing fusion
Thai and Italian both,
a dish of squid and pine-nuts
simmered in lemon broth,
and catch the atmospherics,
the happy lunchtime crowd,
as the cold hand gets warmer
and conversation loud.
Boats strain at sea, alas,
gales rattle the slates
while inside at Ursula’s
we bow to our warm plates.
Copyright © Derek Mahon 2008
At Ursula’s
1 A LIGHTHOUSE IN MAINE
– Edward Hopper
It might be anywhere, that ivory tower
reached by a country road. Granite and sky,
it faces every which way with an air
of squat omniscience, intensely mild,
a polished Buddha figure warm and dry
beyond vegetation; and the sunny glare
striking its shingled houses is no more
celestial than the hot haze of the world.
Built to shed light but also hoarding light,
it sits there dozing in the afternoon
above the ocean like a ghostly moon
patiently waiting to illuminate.
You make a left beyond the town, a right,
you turn a corner and there, ivory-white,
it shines in modest glory above a bay.
Out you get and walk the rest of the way.
Copyright © Derek Mahon 2008
from Art Notes
A cold and stormy morning
I sit in Ursula’s place
and fancy something spicy
served with the usual grace
by one of her bright workforce
who know us from before,
a nice girl from Tbilisi,
Penang or Baltimore.
Some red basil linguine
would surely hit the spot,
something light and shiny,
mint-yoghurty and hot;
a frosty but delightful
pistachio ice-cream
and some strong herbal
infusion wreathed in steam.
Once a tomato sandwich
and a pint of stout would do
but them days are over.
I want to have a go
at some amusing fusion
Thai and Italian both,
a dish of squid and pine-nuts
simmered in lemon broth,
and catch the atmospherics,
the happy lunchtime crowd,
as the cold hand gets warmer
and conversation loud.
Boats strain at sea, alas,
gales rattle the slates
while inside at Ursula’s
we bow to our warm plates.
Copyright © Derek Mahon 2008
Homage to Gaia / At Ursula’s
(after Ibsen)
She Born in a lighthouse, I still find it hard
as wife to a doctor ten miles from the coast.
My home is a pleasant one but I get bored;
the mountains bother me. Now, like a ghost,
you show up here, severe and adamant.
What are you anyhow? What do you want?
He I am a simple man upon the land,
I am a seal upon the open sea.
Your eyes are of the depths. Give me your hand,
give me your heart and come away with me.
to the Spice Islands, the South Seas; anywhere.
Only the force of habit keeps you here.
She Even up here, enclosed, I sniff the brine,
the open sea out there beyond the beach;
my thoughts are waves, my dreams are estuarine
and deeper than an anchor chain could reach.
I knew you’d come, like some demonic fate
glimpsed at a window or garden gate.
He How can you live here with no real horizon,
someone like you, a mermaid and a Muse,
a figment of your own imagination,
the years elapsing like a tedious cruise?
Your settled life is like this summer glow;
dark clouds foreshadow the approaching snow.
She Sometimes,emerging frommy daily swim
or gazing from the dock these quiet nights,
I know my siren soul; and in a dream
I stare astonished at the harbour lights,
hugging my knees and sitting up alone
as ships glide darkly past with a low moan.
He If our mad race had never left the sea,
had we remained content with mud and rock,
we might have saved ourselves great misery;
though even this evening we might still go back.
Think of the crashing breakers, the dim haze
of a salt sun rising on watery days.
She My wild spirit unbroken, should I return
to the tide, choosing at last my other life,
reverting to blue water and sea-brine,
or do I continue as a faithful wife?
If faithful is the world for one who clings
to the lost pre-existence of previous things.
He do you remember the great vow you made
to the one man you chose from other men?
The years have come between, with nothing said,
and now the stranger has appeared again
to claim your former love and make it new.
You ask me what I am; but what are you?
She I am a troubled woman on the land,
I am a seal upon the open sea,
but it’s too late to give my heart and hand
to someone who remains a mystery.
Siren or not, this is my proper place;
go to your ship and leave me here in peace.
Copyright © Derek Mahon 2008