THE ONLY JEALOUSY OF EMER

A woman's beauty is like a white Frail bird, like a white sea-bird alone At daybreak after stormy night Between two furrows upon the ploughed land: A sudden storm and it was thrown Between dark furrows upon the ploughed land. How many centuries spent The sedentary soul In toils of measurement Beyond eagle or mole, Beyond hearing or seeing, Or Archimedes guess, To raise into being That loveliness? A strange unserviceable thing, A fragile, exquisite, pale shell, That the vast troubled waters bring To the loud sands before day has broken. The storm arose and suddenly fell Amid the dark before day had broken. What death? what discipline? What bonds no man could unbind Being imagined within The labyrinth of the mind? What pursuing or fleeing? What wounds, what bloody press? Dragged into being This loveliness.

(speaking) I call before the eyes a roof With cross-beams darkened by smoke. A fisher's net hangs from a beam, A long oar lies against the wall. I call up a poor fisher's house. A man lies dead or swooning, That amorous man, That amorous, violent man, renowned Cuchulain, Queen Emer at his side. At her own bidding all the rest have gone. But now one comes on hesitating feet, Young Eithne Inguba, Cuchulain's mistress. She stands a moment in the open door, Beyond the open door the bitter sea, The shining, bitter sea is crying out, (singing) White shell, white wing I will not choose for my friend A frail unserviceable thing That drifts and dreams, and but knows That waters are without end And that wind blows.

(speaking) Come hither, come sit down beside the bed You need not be afraid, for I myself Sent for you, Eithne Inguba.

No, Madam, I have too deeply wronged you to sit there.

Of all the people in the world we two, And we alone, may watch together here, Because we have loved him best.

And is he dead?

Although they have dressed him out in his grave-clothes And stretched his limbs, Cuchulain is not dead; The very heavens when that day's at hand, So that his death may not lack ceremony, Will throw out fires, and the earth grow red with blood. There shall not be a scullion but foreknows it Like the world's end.

How did he come to this?

Towards noon in the assembly of the kings He met with one who seemed a while most dear. The kings stood round; some quarrel was blown up; He drove him out and killed him on the shore At Baile's tree, and he who was so killed Was his own son begot on some wild woman When he was young, or so I have heard it said; And thereupon, knowing what man he had killed, And being mad with sorrow, he ran out; And after to his middle in the foam With shield before him and with sword in hand, He fought the deathless sea. The kings looked on And not a king dared stretch an arm, or even Dared call his name, but all stood wondering In that dumb stupor like cattle in a gale, Until at last, as though he had fixed his eyes On a new enemy, he waded out Until the water had swept over him; But the waves washed his senseless image up And laid it at this door.

How pale he looks!

He is not dead.

You have not kissed his lips Nor laid his head upon your breast.

It may be An image has been put into his place, A sea-born log bewitched into his likeness, Or some stark horseman grown too old to ride Among the troops of Mananan, Son of the Sea, Now that his joints are stiff.

Cry out his name. All that are taken from our sight, they say, Loiter amid the scenery of their lives For certain hours or days, and should he hear He might, being angry drive the changeling out.

It is hard to make them hear amid their darkness, And it is long since I could call him home; I am but his wife, but if you cry aloud With that sweet voice that is so dear to him He cannot help but listen.

He loves me best, Being his newest love, but in the end Will love the woman best who loved him first And loved him through the years when love seemed lost.

I have that hope, the hope that some day and somewhere We'll sit together at the hearth again.

Women like me when the violent hour is over Are flung into some corner like old nut shells. Cuchulain, listen.

No, not yet for first I'll cover up his face to hide the sea; And throw new logs upon the hearth and stir The half burnt logs until they break in flame. Old Mananan's unbridled horses come Out of the sea and on their backs his horsemen But all the enchantments of the dreaming foam Dread the hearth fire.

Can you not hear my voice.

Bend over him. Call out dear secrets till you have touched his heart If he lies there; and if he is not there Till you have made him jealous.

Cuchulain, listen.

You speak too timidly; to be afraid Because his wife is but three paces off When there is so great a need were but to prove The man that chose you made but a poor choice. We're but two women struggling with the sea.

O my beloved pardon me, that I Have been ashamed and you in so great need. I have never sent a message or called out, Scarce had a longing for your company But you have known and come; and if indeed You are lying there stretch out your arms and speak; Open your mouth and speak for to this hour My company has made you talkative. Why do you mope, and what has closed your ears. Our passion had not chilled when we were parted On the pale shore under the breaking dawn. He will not hear me: or his ears are closed And no sound reaches him.

Then kiss that image The pressure of your mouth upon his mouth May reach him where he is.

(starting back) It is no man. I felt some evil thing that dried my heart When my lips touched it.

No, his body stirs; The pressure of your mouth has called him home; He has thrown the changeling out.

(going further off) Look at that arm That arm is withered to the very socket.

(going up to the bed) What do you come for and from where?

I have come From Mananan's court upon a bridleless horse.

What one among the Sidhe has dared to lie Upon Cuchulain's bed and take his image?

I am named Bricriu—not the man—that Bricriu, Maker of discord among gods and men, Called Bricriu of the Sidhe.

Come for what purpose?

I show my face and everything he loves Must fly away.

You people of the wind Are full of lying speech and mockery. I have not fled your face.

You are not loved.

And therefore have no dread to meet your eyes And to demand him of you.

For that I have come. You have but to pay the price and he is free.

Do the Sidhe bargain?

When they set free a captive They take in ransom a less valued thing. The fisher when some knowledgeable man Restores to him his wife, or son, or daughter, Knows he must lose a boat or net, or it may be The cow that gives his children milk; and some Have offered their own lives. I do not ask Your life, or any valuable thing; You spoke but now of the mere chance that some day You'd sit together by the hearth again; Renounce that chance, that miserable hour, And he shall live again.

I do not question But you have brought ill luck on all he loves And now, because I am thrown beyond your power Unless your words are lies, you come to bargain.

You loved your power when but newly married And I love mine although I am old and withered; You have but to put yourself into that power And he shall live again.

No, never, never.

You dare not be accursed yet he has dared.

I have but two joyous thoughts, two things I prize, A hope, a memory, and now you claim that hope.

He'll never sit beside you at the hearth Or make old bones, but die of wounds and toil On some far shore or mountain, a strange woman Beside his mattress.

You ask for my one hope That you may bring your curse on all about him.

You've watched his loves and you have not been jealous Knowing that he would tire, but do those tire That love the Sidhe?

What dancer of the Sidhe What creature of the reeling moon has pursued him?

I have but to touch your eyes and give them sight; But stand at my left side.

My husband there.

But out of reach—I have dissolved the dark That hid him from your eyes but not that other That's hidden you from his.

Husband, husband!

Be silent, he is but a phantom now And he can neither touch, nor hear, nor see; The longing and the cries have drawn him hither. He heard no sound, heard no articulate sound; They could but banish rest, and make him dream, And in that dream, as do all dreaming shades Before they are accustomed to their freedom, He has taken his familiar form, and yet He crouches there not knowing where he is Or at whose side he is crouched.

Who is this woman?

She has hurried from the Country-Under-Wave And dreamed herself into that shape that he May glitter in her basket; for the Sidhe Are fishers also and they fish for men With dreams upon the hook.

And so that woman Has hid herself in this disguise and made Herself into a lie.

A dream is body; The dead move ever towards a dreamless youth And when they dream no more return no more; And those more holy shades that never lived But visit you in dreams.

I know her sort. They find our men asleep, weary with war, Or weary with the chase and kiss their lips And drop their hair upon them, from that hour Our men, who yet knew nothing of it all, Are lonely, and when at fall of night we press Their hearts upon our hearts their hearts are cold.

And so you think to wound her with a knife. She has an airy body. Look and listen; I have not given you eyes and ears for nothing.

Who is it stands before me there Shedding such light from limb and hair As when the moon complete at last With every labouring crescent past, And lonely with extreme delight, Flings out upon the fifteenth night?

Because I long I am not complete. What pulled your hands about your feet And your head down upon your knees, And hid your face?

Old memories: A dying boy, with handsome face Upturned upon a beaten place; A sacred yew-tree on a strand; A woman that held in steady hand In all the happiness of her youth Before her man had broken troth, A burning wisp to light the door; And many a round or crescent more; Dead men and women. Memories Have pulled my head upon my knees.

Could you that have loved many a woman That did not reach beyond the human, Lacking a day to be complete, Love one that though her heart can beat, Lacks it but by an hour or so.

I know you now for long ago I met you on the mountain side, Beside a well that seemed long dry, Beside old thorns where the hawk flew. I held out arms and hands but you, That now seem friendly, fled away Half woman and half bird of prey.

Hold out your arms and hands again You were not so dumbfounded when I was that bird of prey and yet I am all woman now.

I am not The young and passionate man I was And though that brilliant light surpass All crescent forms, my memories Weigh down my hands, abash my eyes.

Then kiss my mouth. Though memory Be beauty's bitterest enemy I have no dread for at my kiss Memory on the moment vanishes: Nothing but beauty can remain.

And shall I never know again Intricacies of blind remorse?

Time shall seem to stay his course, For when your mouth and my mouth meet All my round shall be complete Imagining all its circles run; And there shall be oblivion Even to quench Cuchulain's drouth, Even to still that heart.

Your mouth.

O Emer, Emer.

So then it is she Made you impure with memory.

Still in that dream I see you stand, A burning wisp in your right hand, To wait my coming to the house, As when our parents married us.

Being among the dead you love her That valued every slut above her While you still lived.

O my lost Emer.

And there is not a loose-tongued schemer But could draw you if not dead, From her table and her bed. How could you be fit to wive With flesh and blood, being born to live Where no one speaks of broken troth For all have washed out of their eyes Wind blown dirt of their memories To improve their sight?

Your mouth, your mouth.

If he may live I am content, Content that he shall turn on me, If but the dead will set him free That I may speak with him at whiles, Eyes that the cold moon or the harsh sea Or what I know not's made indifferent.

What a wise silence has fallen in this dark! I know you now in all your ignorance Of all whereby a lover's quiet is rent. What dread so great as that he should forget The least chance sight or sound, or scratch or mark On an old door, or frail bird heard and seen In the incredible clear light love cast All round about her some forlorn lost day? That face, though fine enough, is a fool's face And there's a folly in the deathless Sidhe Beyond man's reach.

I told you to forget After my fashion; you would have none of it; So now you may forget in a man's fashion. There's an unbridled horse at the sea's edge. Mount; it will carry you in an eye's wink To where the King of Country-Under-Wave, Old Mananan, nods above the board and moves His chessmen in a dream. Demand your life And come again on the unbridled horse.

Forgive me those rough words. How could you know That man is held to those whom he has loved By pain they gave, or pain that he has given, Intricacies of pain.

I am ashamed That being of the deathless shades I chose A man so knotted to impurity.

To you that have no living light, but dropped From a last leprous crescent of the moon, I owe it all.

Because you have failed I must forego your thanks, I that took pity Upon your love and carried out your plan To tangle all his life and make it nothing That he might turn to you.

Was it from pity You taught the woman to prevail against me?

You know my nature—by what name I am called.

Was it from pity that you hid the truth That men are bound to women by the wrongs They do or suffer?

You know what being I am.

I have been mocked and disobeyed—your power Was more to you than my good-will, and now I'll have you learn what my ill-will can do; I lay you under bonds upon the instant To stand before our King and face the charge And take the punishment.

I'll stand there first. And tell my story first, and Mananan Knows that his own harsh sea made my heart cold.

My horse is there and shall outrun your horse.

I heard the beat of hoofs, but saw no horse, And then came other hoofs and after that I heard low angry cries and thereupon I ceased to be afraid.

Cuchulain wakes.

Eithne Inguba take me in your arms, I have been in some strange place and am afraid.

What makes her heart beat thus, Plain to be understood I have met in a man's house A statue of solitude, Moving there and walking; Its strange heart beating fast For all our talking. O still that heart at last. O bitter reward! Of many a tragic tomb! And we though astonished are dumb And give but a sigh and a word A passing word. Although the door be shut And all seem well enough, Although wide world hold not A man but will give you his love. The moment he has looked at you, He that has loved the best May turn from a statue His too human breast. O bitter reward! Of many a tragic tomb! And we though astonished are dumb Or give but a sigh and a word A passing word. What makes your heart so beat? Some one should stay at her side. When beauty is complete Her own thought will have died And danger not be diminished; Dimmed at three quarter light When moon's round is finished The stars are out of sight. O bitter reward! Of many a tragic tomb! And we though astonished are dumb Or give but a sigh and a word A passing word.