February 3, 2015

Moira Linehan­­­

THE WAY A PSALM CAN BEGIN

I’ll never figure out my part
in praying. How to even start.
Like the silent heron that lands
mid-scroll in the year’s low pond, I stand
waiting. Who said there were fish here?
So, should I trail the geese? But I hear
those grating squawks. Who’d want a god
who answers the raucous? I’ve slogged
through sacred tomes and ancient scrolls,
still ask, Where’s the Spirit? What holds
Its breath? Migrating mergansers
dive, surface yards away. Answers—
if only they were black and white
as those hooded heads. Prie-dieu, this site,
this pond foxes and raptors ring,
where some black birds are red-winged.

from Rattle #45, Fall 2014
Tribute to Poets of Faith

__________

Moira Linehan: “I am a practicing Catholic. The place where I write overlooks a small pond called Winter Pond. Its weather and wildlife keep showing me the incarnational nature of this world. Scriptural language and stories, embedded since childhood, rise up—often unbidden—and help me give voice to what I am given to praise.” (web)

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July 27, 2008

Review by Marcus Smith

IF NO MOON
by Moira Linehan

Southern Illinois University Press
Crab Orchard Series
1915 University Press Drive
SIUC Mail Code 6806
Carbondale, IL 62902-6806
ISBN: 0-8093-2761-9
2007, 80pp., paper, $14.95
www.siu.edu/~siupress

Moira Linehan begins her debut collection, If No Moon, with a telling passage from Seamus Heaney’s “To a Dutch Potter in Ireland”:

To have lived it through and now be free to give
Utterance, body and soul–to wake and know
Every time that it’s gone and gone for good, the thing
That nearly broke you–

We sense before the first poem the book’s general trajectory and outcome–the poet will survive and transcend something painful. This is like knowing the plot of a play and watching it for the how not the what of its stagecraft. The what here–Linehan’s husband’s gradual death from cancer–we quickly learn, and as for the how, the poems keep mostly to a plain, sober course of grief and mourning. Along the way one can respect the depth of feeling presented, but frequently miss mystery, a feeling that often elevates competent poetry to excellent poetry.

This is not to say that Linehan isn’t very capable of raising her level above the literal and descriptive. Somewhat deceptive, in fact, in terms of the whole book, is the long opening poem “Quarry,” which does establish a tone of the unsayable that poetry has always depended upon for emotional depth. For instance, in this observed narrative about a body missing at the bottom of a quarry reservoir, the quarry serves as a symbol of personal uncertainty. While the speaker wants to “see this story/settled,” she knows that her own current history is deeply confused:

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