一些值得纪念的①

〔爱尔兰〕谢默斯·希尼 著 朱 玉 译

默游拉河从斯波瑞恩山上的一个源头向东南方流去，途径德里县，然后汇入内伊湖。几英里外就是我长大的地方。数十年来，这条河被加深了，也被治理过，但是，四十年代时，下布罗格地带曾有一处浅滩。滩中有一条由大块的踏脚石铺就的小路，从这一岸通到那一岸，连接着布罗格的镇区和贝尔斯希尔的镇区。我们过去常在布罗格这边布满卵石的河床中涉水嬉戏，而我总是喜欢到更远处冒险，从一块踏脚石走到另一块，直进入到河水的中央——尽管这条河很窄也很浅，可是，一旦你置身于河水的主流当中，你还是会有一种勇悍之感。突然间，你只能靠你自己了。你既感到摇摇晃晃，同时又扎根在那个地方。你的身体牢牢地站着，像一个里程碑，或者分界标，但是你的头可能会感到轻飘飘的、游移不定，因为河水在你的脚下奔流，云朵在你头上的天空中庄严地行进。

如今，当我想起那个扎根于中流某个地方的孩子，我就看见一个缩小版的罗马神“特米纳斯”（Terminus）——界限之神。在元老院山上的朱庇特神庙中，罗马人仍供奉着特米纳斯的神像。有趣的是，神像上方的屋顶是洞开的，敞向天空，仿佛在说，一位大地上的界限之神需要有途径进入无限，那无限高远、辽阔、幽深的天空本身；仿佛在说，所有的界限都是必要的恶，而真正值得向往的境界是无拘无束的无限之感，是成为无限空间的王。我们作为人类所拥有的正是这种双重能力——一方面，我们为熟知事物所带来的安全感所吸引；与此同时，我们又难以抗拒那些超越自身的、未知的挑战与惊奇。这种双重能力，既是诗歌的源头，也是诗歌的鹄的。一首好诗让你既把脚放到地上，又把头伸向空中。

Terminus这个词以“tearmann”的形式出现在很多爱尔兰地名中，意思是隶属于修道院或教会的附属地，一片专门划出供教会使用的土地。尽管在默游拉地区并没有一个地方名叫“Termon”，但是，从很小的时候起，我就从骨子里知道，默游拉河本身就是一个名副其实的terminus（界标），将一个地方与另一个地方划分开。当我站在踏脚石上时，我知道。当我站在卡索多森那横跨河水的桥上时，我知道。我喜欢靠在桥的栏墙上，直接俯视下面的流水，鳟鱼疾速游跃，水草宛如彩带，在水底挥舞。我的一侧是卡索多森的村庄，我妈妈那边的人住在那儿的一幢排屋里，屋前的门廊里有长在架上的玫瑰，屋后是菜园。我外祖父在卡索多森的房子，以前很可能处在整齐的英式厂房村落中，或是任何工人阶层的排屋中，在那儿，工人们根据厂房的铃声来来去去。具体来说，是克拉克的亚麻布工厂，铃声在早晚分别响起，八点、十八点，先是唤来劳作的人，再准许他们回家。家，朝着新排、博因排、斯特森路方向，在橘厅和新教教堂的北方，在默游拉公园入口的北边，那儿有卡索多森足球队的球场，还有默游拉寓邸，奇柴斯特·克拉克一家在属于他们的围墙之后过着另一种生活。

所有那些，在心理上，属于河的一侧。在另一侧，是贝拉菲（或，巴里斯卡林）教区。我爸爸那边的家族——希尼家和斯卡林家——世代生活在那里。他们住的屋子是用茅草搭盖的，而不是石板；他们的厨房里是开放见火的炉灶，而不是考究的火炉；房屋站在田地中央，而不是在一排房屋中；住在屋子里的人听着牛儿的吼叫，而不是工厂的铃声。不知怎的，即便在很小的时候，我就知道，我在贝拉菲这边的生活不仅处在另一种物理位置，也处于另一种文化位置。那里没有足球场，或者，按官方的话说，没有英联足球赛。在我的心里，贝拉菲不仅属于盖尔式足球，而且更属于古老得多的盖尔式农牧，以及山上那些关塞。举个例子，每月的第一个星期一是村子的集市日：大街上挤满了奶牛、小母牛和小公牛，整个地方嘈杂一片，臭气熏天。难以想象，这样混乱的场面会发生在卡索多森的主干道上。总的来说，卡索多森是一个更为官方、更加现代的地方，是要道的一部分。其地名本身就来自十八世纪那个有序的英语世界，而贝拉菲则来自爱尔兰语中一个更为古老、名不见经传的起源。所以，如我曾在一首诗中说起的——这首诗题为“界标”（“Terminus”）——我成长于两者之间。

我成长于新教与效忠派主导的卡索多森村庄和天主教与民族主义者的贝拉菲地区之间。在一座位于铁轨和公路之间的房子里。在古老的马蹄声和新近的火车转轨声之间。在教区和语言之间，在不同的口音之间——教区一端的口音让你想起安特里姆①北爱尔兰东北部的地区，一个更大的旧郡的南部。和埃尔郡，②苏格兰西南部一个旧郡。以及我曾在巴里米纳的菲尔山上听到的苏格兰口音，教区另一端的口音则让你想起多尼哥那不同的方言，带着明显而清晰的北爱尔兰口音，那种我曾在拉纳法斯特的爱尔兰语区学习的口音。

自然而然地，一些诸如菲利普·拉金（Philip Larkin）所说的“我内心深处的语言”就来自昔日那个界于时间和语言之间的世界。比如“hoke”这个词。 每当我听到有人说“hoke”，我就被带回了我自身当中那个最初的地方。这个词既不是标准的英语单词，也不是爱尔兰语单词，但是，它就那样深埋于我自己语言的地基之中，无法移除。它在我底下，就像我成长的房子里的地板一样。若有什么值得写的，这个词就是一例。它的意思是探寻、探究、搜寻、挖掘，恰恰是一首诗所做的事情。一首诗将鼻子贴在地面上，沿着一条小径，凭直觉摸索着、探寻着它真正关切的中心。实际上，正是“hoke”这个词本身让我开始写下《界标》这首诗：

当我在那儿探寻着（hoked），我会找到

一颗橡果和一枚生锈的螺栓。

如果我抬起眼睛，一根工厂的烟囱

和一座沉睡的山。

如果我听，一列转轨中的火车

和一匹轻跑的马。

有什么可惊奇的吗，如果我想到

我也会改变想法？

要想在北爱尔兰长大而不被迫改变想法（迟早的事）是很难的。到处是各种划界，人们始终遭遇着让他们突然停步的分界线。改变想法，或重新考虑，就是承认真理被不同的界限所绑缚，承认真理必须考虑到相反的表述。如果有人说“厨师多了烧坏汤”，那么另一个人就会说“众人拾柴火焰高”。如果有人说 “一针及时省九针”，那么另一个人就会说 “杯到嘴边还会失手”。阿尔斯特是英国的，有人说。阿尔斯特（Ulster）是阿尔艾德（Uladh），爱尔兰古代的一个省区，另一个人说。在分界渠（march drain）的一边，你说“土豆”。在另一边，我说“洋芋”。作为不同人种的一员，这些矛盾就是生活的一部分。但是，在北爱尔兰，这些矛盾有一种独特的地域张力：

当他们说起松鼠精明的窖藏，

那就像圣诞节的礼物一样发光。

当他们说起不义之财，

我兜里的硬币就像烧红的炉盖。

我是分界渠也是分界渠的两堤，

承受着来自双方的限极。

“march”这个词是我少年时反复听到的——但不是在通常的示威游行、橙色游行①Orange marches/Orange Walk:北爱尔兰传统的游行活动。每年7月12日举行，纪念1690年威廉王子（Prince William of Orange）在博因的战役中战胜詹姆士二世。和学徒游行②Apprentice Boys marches:1688年，伦敦德里被攻陷。13名新教学徒把城门关起来，以便阻挡信奉天主教的国王詹姆士的进军，共持续了105天。后来，每年举行游行来纪念这一事件。的语境中。在那些日子，在那个地方，游行季（marching season）是一切季节，因为是土地自己在行进。这个动词的意思是“触及边界，被划定边界，相毗邻然而又被划分开”。一个农场界定着另一个农场，一片田地界定着另一片田地。将它们划分开的是分界渠（march drain）或者分界篱（march hedge）。 在此，这个词不是行军的意思，而是指接壤、毗邻、接近边界以及被接近。这个词接受分界，但是它也确实暗示着统一。如果我的土地与你的土地之间有分界线，那么我们既被这个界限分开也被其结合在一起。如果无限的天空完全呈现在特米纳斯神的头上，那么，坚实的大地也就会尽收于他的脚下——他所代表的：分界篱与分界渠。

在我长大的那座房子的厨房里，有一片水泥地。我最初的记忆之一就是脚踩在上面时感到的冰冷和光滑。那时我大概只有两三岁，因为我还睡婴儿床。我记得要从床的底部抽出木板，踩着它们下到真正的地板上。这些木板一条条地安装在床上，但是并没有被钉死。也就是说，它们能够被一张张地抬出来——我想是因为，每当孩子把床弄脏，大人就需要把它们拆开来清洗。不管怎样，我永远不会忘记那温暖的皮肤与冰冷的地板之间的接触，那瞬间的惊悚感，然后，某种更深入、更渐进的东西，一种贴合和熟悉的感觉，一种完全令人安心的基础——大地从你的脚掌向上延伸而进入你。这就像一种你深刻领悟的知识。我扶着婴儿床的栏杆，但它也可能是世界甲板上的栏杆。我同时在两个地方。一个是厨房地板的小正方形地盘，另一个则是一个宏大而渊博的空间，我已经从自身深处步入了它；只要我忆起温暖的脚掌在冰冷的水泥地上的感觉，我依然能够进入那个空间。当我的脚触到地板，我知道我正在通往某个地方的路上，但是在那个时候，我并不能说清到底是哪里。现在我可以说，它通往诗意发现。我想引用十七世纪日本诗人松尾芭蕉的话，关于诗性生活的行为准则，他这样写道：

重要的是，要让我们的心灵高居于真知的世界中，同时又回到我们日常经验的世界中来寻找关于美的真理。无论我们在某一个特定的时刻做着什么，我们一定不要忘记，它影响着我们的永恒自我，亦即诗。

松尾芭蕉说的“心灵”有点像罗马的特米纳斯神像，固着于泥土，存在于此时此地，然而却敞向松尾芭蕉所说的“永恒的自我”，那外在与内在空间都拥有的无限。

默游拉河并非我少年时代唯一认识的分界线。过去，我常常在傍晚沿着家门口的路走下去，将一罐鲜奶从我们的房子送到另一个房子。和我们的房子一样，这个房子也是茅草房。但是，和我们家不同的是，这座房子也是一个客栈，它现在还在那儿，几乎和四十年代时一样，茅草搭成，涂着石灰，典型的、美丽的路边旅舍。

从我家到这个房子后门的旅行是短途的，不过一二百码。然而在我幼小的心中，我每一次都走过了漫长的距离，因为在两个房子的门阶之间，我穿越了德里主教教区和阿尔马主教教区（更恰当地说是大主教教区）之间的分界线。德里主教教区向西北方向延伸，进入到伊尼什欧文和多尼哥，而阿尔马的大主教教区向东南蔓延近一百英里，延伸到博因河以及爱尔兰共和国境内密斯边缘的小城德罗赫达。所以，当我安然地行走在那短短的乡村小路上时，我依然体验到一种由距离和分界所带来的神秘感。

送鲜奶是进入到别处的真正远征。这场远征是在陌生中进行的，因为划定此地与彼处的分界线几乎看不清了。路上没有指示牌告知你已经离开一个行政辖区而进入到另一个。但是在路的底下，在阴沟里，如果你不知道寻找的话，你几乎不会注意到，那儿流淌着细细的水，而这水流就是划分着塔姆尼恩教区和安娜莪瑞什教区的长溪中的一部分。它也划分着贝拉菲教区和新桥教区，划分着我曾说过的德里主教教区和阿尔马大主教教区。这条分界渠或分界河的名字是斯拉根（Sluggan），又一个爱尔兰单词，意识是“沼泽”或“泥沼”。斯拉根河向下流去，经过低矮而古老的湿地草原和种植园，又成为克里格教区和雷特利姆的分界线，直到它倾空于几英里之外的贝格湖中。

每天，我上学和放学的路上都要穿过、再穿过斯拉根河。每穿越一次，我生活在界限两边的感觉就被加强。我从未有过那种完全属于某一个地方的确定感，当然，从地貌和历史的角度来说，我是对的。所有这些镇区、教区、主教教区都曾坚定地属于那个古老的、前种植园的 （pre-Plantation）、盖尔爱尔兰的教会地域，然后被吞并、被接管，被纳入另一种体系、另一个辖区。我刚才提到的很多地名出现在一张清单上，上面记录着伊丽莎白时代的英国征服了阿尔斯特后所没收的土地。这些土地随即被赐予托马斯·菲利普爵士，时任克尔雷恩县的行政长官，在介于“伯爵出走”（Flight of the Earls）①这一事件发生在1607年9月14日，休·奥尼尔和罗伊·欧唐内尔伯爵以及90多名追随者离开爱尔兰，前往欧洲主大陆。和阿尔斯特种植园早期之间的那个时期。封赏中的一部分土地跟我有关系，即称作“默游拉的土地”的地方，它包括了塔姆尼恩、雷特利姆和山姆拉这些地名——这些古盖尔语地名覆盖的地方，如今我们统称为卡索多森：

挑两个水桶比挑一个容易。

我成长在两者之间。

我的左手放好标准的铁砝码，

右手往天平中倾入最后一粒谷子。

男爵领地与教区在我出生的地方相遇。

当我站在中央的踏脚石上

我是中流里马背上最后的伯爵，依然

在听力可及的范围内与对手进行谈判。

在前种植园时期，爱尔兰历史上的一位伟大人物是蒂龙伯爵休·奥尼尔。他是最后一位坚持抵抗伊丽莎白一世女王手下的都铎王朝军队的本地将领，是最后一位表明自己立场的伯爵，也是最初在内心被两种不同的政治忠诚所折磨的人之一。直至今天，在北爱尔兰，这两种不同的政治忠诚依然以致命的暴力交战着。按照英国的法律，奥尼尔是蒂龙的伯爵，因此，按照伊丽莎白女王的理解，他代表的是英国女王在爱尔兰王国的忠实代表。但是，在血缘上和家族谱系上，奥尼尔是神秘的爱尔兰领袖 “九人质尼尔”（Niall of the Nine Hostages）②爱尔兰历史上重要的国王，在4世纪晚期至5世纪初时统治爱尔兰，曾拥有9名人质，故名。的后代，因此，对于爱尔兰人来说，他代表的是盖尔人奥尼尔家族的世袭领袖，命中注定要抵抗英国而维护盖尔人的利益。本文无关伊丽莎白时代在爱尔兰的战争，它随着休·奥尼尔和休·欧唐内尔率领的爱尔兰方面军在金赛尔的失败而告终 （一六〇一）。但是，在这漫长的战线中，有一件插曲始终令我着迷。

事情发生在一五九九年九月的一天，奥尼尔的兵力把英方的军队引到他自己的领地——劳斯郡和阿尔马乡村的林地里。英方的将领是伊丽莎白女王的宠臣埃塞克斯伯爵。数月之前，女王已经命令他采取行动，但是他直到如今才开始动手。然而，奥尼尔是谈判天才，善于推迟对峙的时刻。所以，他设法让埃塞克斯伯爵到格莱德河的两岸（现在的劳斯郡）来跟他谈判。奥尼尔骑在马上，在河的中央，河水深及马的腹部，他那些说爱尔兰语的士兵们在他身后。他对埃塞克斯伯爵讲着英语，伯爵面向他站在对岸。埃塞克斯伯爵本受命追拿叛国者奥尼尔，然而此刻，他却和他交谈着，更像一位故友，而不是命定的敌人——早在一代以前，奥尼尔就供职于伊丽莎白女王的朝廷，他当时的英国庇护人是埃塞克斯的父亲沃特·德弗罗，第一世伯爵。所以，对他们双方来说，这次河畔会面都是一次神秘的转折，一个中断，一场暴力行动中的定格。在这一刻，两岸上的人们都能够看到正在发生的一切，却听不到他们在说些什么。两个人都孤立无援，都面临着自己行动的后果。奥尼尔已被视为叛国者；埃塞克斯由于答应了与对方暂时休战，也将被女王视为叛徒，而事实是，在年底之前，他就被以叛国罪为名施以绞刑。奥尼尔的失败也不远，也就是一两年之后的事情。但是，就在当时，一种平衡颤抖地维持着，水在奔流，他们头上的天空无声地移动：

男爵领地与教区在我出生的地方相遇。

当我站在中央的踏脚石上

我是中流里马背上最后的伯爵，依然

在听力可及的范围内与对手进行谈判。

在当时的历史环境下，奥尼尔和埃塞克斯都无法过河到对方那一边。他们的行进无可避免地带上某种军事色彩。他们处在界标上（terminus），极端地体现了该词的意义。两种真理无法并存。要解决这个问题，只有靠残酷的武力，而不是思想。然而，当我们思索着当时的场景，我们要他们每一个人都能被历史的圈套所释放。我们要他们头上的天空敞开，准许他们摆脱其依附于土地的命运。即使我们知道这种释放是不可能的，我们依然渴望那些能够兼容理想与实际的环境，一种跨越边界而非争夺边界的状况：

奔流的水从不让人失望。

跨越河水总会推动什么。

踏脚石是灵魂的车站。

我在八十年代中期写下 《特米纳斯》这首诗，当时北爱尔兰的政治局势完全封闭不前。那是后饥荒-罢工的世界，爱尔兰共和军（IRA）的战斗丝毫没有消减，撒切尔政府已经准备好接受所谓的“可接受的暴力”。或许这是该诗止于停滞状态的一个原因——伯爵在中流被逮捕，而他的对手在他的对岸遥不可及。这首诗在说，一个分裂的世界给我们的遗产是一个令人无力的世界，它诱捕其居民并将其迫至一隅，使其陷入既定的方位并挫伤其自由的、创造性行动的意志。然而，在那一刻之前，以及从那以后，事情却不同了，并且仍然不同。

比如，大约三十年以前，在我还没有想到松尾芭蕉、特米纳斯、休·奥尼尔，或斯拉根河以及他们可能代表的一切时，我写了一首题为“另一边”（“The Other Side”）的诗。诗的开头回忆了一位新教长老派邻居说过的话，那时，一条草绿色的小溪划分开我家和他家的田地。但是接着，这首诗玩味起那种隔绝感，从分界渠的两边想到北爱尔兰分裂社区的双方——被他们不同的祈祷方式所分开，也被他们不同的语言方式所分开（如前所述）。然而，诗在结尾处暗示，人们可以尝试越界；如果有人想更进一步，他们可以自行铺筑踏脚石：

有时候，当天主教念诵

在厨房里哀婉地拖延

我们能听到尖墙外面他的脚步

尽管直到祈祷完毕

门口才会传来敲门声

随意的口哨声才会在门阶上

响起，“今晚天色不错，”

他会说，“我正巧路过，

念叨着，兴许该登门拜访。”

而此刻我正站在他身后，

在漆黑的院子里，在祷告的沉吟中。

他一手揣在兜里

或腼腆地用李木手杖轻叩出

小曲，仿佛他妨碍了

恋人们调情或陌生人的哭泣。

我该悄悄溜走吗，我想

还是走上前拍拍他的肩膀

然后谈论天气

或草籽的价格？

在过去的三十年里，我有时候会觉得《另一边》这首诗恐怕太安慰人心了。考虑到街头巷尾的现实状况，我觉得这首诗在暗杀和爆炸事件面前过于仁慈，过于温和，也过于乐观了。然而，这个主题从我内心唤出字词。它们自己冒出来并提醒着我：我们的同情是有可能超越边界的。最后，它们还让我想到松尾芭蕉所说的“真知的世界”，它始终存在于表面之下，在我们语言的时空之外。它们让我想到，游行季并不必然仅是游行与挑衅的时节，相反，在我们语言的地面上，在我们脚下的地面上，有另一种行进，承诺着使心智与灵魂更有创造力的环境。因为，在我看来，奥尼尔和埃塞克斯的对峙说明，如果我们以军事方式行进，我们所抵达的不过是停滞不前与生命的残酷，阻碍着一个更美好未来的涌现。但是，在分界渠的会面则说明，我们能够走出来，站到踏脚石上，从而摆脱本方场地的坚硬与系缚。踏脚石邀你改变认识上的局限和界限。它并未让你的脚脱离地面，它只是让你把头伸向天空，让你敏感于自身当中那片敞开的、可能性之天空，以此来更新你的视野。这似乎依然是值得抒写的。

The River Moyola flows southeast from a source in the Sperrin Mountains down through County Derry and enters Lough Neagh just a few miles from where I grew up over the years，the river has been deepened and straightened，but in the 1940s there was a ford at Lower Broagh and a trail of big stepping stones led across from one bank to the other，linking the townland of Broagb to the townland of Bellshill.We used to paddle around the gravel bed on the Broagh side and I always loved venturing out from one stepping-stone to the next，right into the middle of the stream-for even though the river was narrow enough and shallow enough，there was a feeling of daring once you got out into the main flow of the current.Suddenly you were on your own.You were giddy and rooted to the spot at one and the came time.Your body stood stock still，like a milestone or a boundary mark，but your head would be light and swimming from the rush of the river at your feet and the big stately movement of the clouds in the sky above your head.

Nowadays when I think of that child rooted to the spot in midstream，I see a little version of the god the Romans called Terminus，the god of boundaries.The Romans kept an image of Terminus in the Temple of Jupiter on Capitol Hill，and the interesting thing is that the roof above the place where the image sat was open to the sky，as if to say that a god of the boundaries and borders of the earth needed to have access to the boundless，the whole unlimited height and width and depth of the heavens themselves.As if to say that all boundaries are necessary evils and that the truly desirable condition is the feeling of being unbounded，of being king of infinite space.And it is that double capacity that we possess as human beings—the capacity to be attracted at one and the same time to the security of what is intimately known and to the challenges and entrancements of what is beyond us—it is this double capacity that poetry springs from and addresses.A good poem allows you to have your feet on the ground and your head in the air simultaneously.

The word ‘terminus’appears as tearmann in many Irish placenames，meaning the glebe land belonging to an abbey or a church，land that was specially marked off for ecclesiastical use；and even though there were no places called Termon in the Moyola district，I knew in my bones from very early on that the Moyola itself was a very definite terminus，a marker off of one place from another.I knew it when I stood on the stepping-stone but also when I stood on the bridge that spanned the river at Castled awson.I loved to hang over the range wall and look directly down at the flow where the trout were darting about and the riverweed waved like a streamer under the stleam.On one side of me was the village of Castledawson，where my mother’s people lived in a terrace house，with a trellis of roses over the front pathway and a vegetable garden at the back.MY grandparents’house in Castledawson could have been in any spick-and-span English mill village，any working-class terrace where the factory workers came and went to the sound of the factory horn.In this case the faetory was Clarke’s linen mill and the horn blew morning and evening，at eight and at six，first to call the hands in and then to let them go home.Home to New Row and Boyne Row and Station Road，up past the Orange Hall and the Protestant church，up past the entrance to Moyola Park，where the Castleclawson soccer team had its pitch，and Moyola Lodge，where the Chichester Clarkes lived their different life behind the walls of their demesne.

All that was mentally on one side of the river；on the other，there was the parish of Bellaghy，or Ballyscullion，where my father’s side of the family，the Heaneys and the Scullions，had lived for generations.Their dwellings were thatched rather than slated，their kitchens had open fires rather than polished stoves，the houses stood in the middle of the fields rather than in a terrace，and the people who lived in them listened to the cattle roaring rather than the horn blowilng.Somehow，even at.that early age，I knew the Bellaghy side of my life was not only in a different physical location but in a different cultural location as well.There was no pitch there for soccer；or English Association Football，as the game was more officially called.In my mind，Bellaghy belonged not only to Gaelic football but to the much older Gaelic order of cattle herding and hill forts；the village，for instance，had a fair day on the first Monday of every month：the streets would be crammed with cows and heifers and bullocks，the whole place loud and stinking with the smells of the beasts and their dang.It was impossible to think of any such unruly activity happening on the main street of Castledawson.Castledawson was a far more official place altogether，more modern，more a part of the main drag.The very name of the place is from the orderly English world of the eighteenth century，whereas Bellaghy is from an older， more obscure origin in Irish.So，as I once said in a poem—a poem called “Terminus’—I grew up in between.

I grew up between the predominantly Protestant and loyalist village of Castledawson and the generally Catholic and nationalist district of Bellaghy.In a house situated between a railway and a road.Between the old sounds of a trotting horse and the newer sounds of a sh unting engine.On a border between townlands and languages，between accents at one end of the parish that reminded you of Antrim and Ayrshire and the Scottish speech I used to hear on the Fair Hill in Ballymena，and accents at the other end of the parish that reminded you of the different speech of Donegal，speech with the direct，clear ring of the Northern Irish I studied when I went to the Gaehacht in Rannafast.

Naturally enough，some of what Philip Larkin would have called the ‘words of my inner mind’come from that world back there between times and languages.A word like ‘hoke’，for example.When I hear somebody say‘hoke’.I’m returned to the very first place in myself.It’s not a standard English word and it’s not an Irish-language word either，but it’s undislodgeably there，buried in the very foundations of my own speech.Under me like the floor of the house where I grew up.Something to write home about，as it were.The word means to root about and delve into and forage for and dig around，and that is precisely the kind of thing a poem does as well.A poem gets its nose to the ground and follows a trail and hokes its way by instinct towards the real centre of what concerns it.And in fact it was the word ‘hoked’itself that got me started on‘Terminus’：

When l hoked there，I would find

An acorn and a rusted bolt.

If I lifted my eyes，a factory chimney

And a dormant mountain.

If I listened，an engine shunting

And a trotting horse.

Is it any wonder when I thought

I would have second thoughts？

It’s hard to grow up in Northern Ireland and not be forced into second thoughts，sooner or later，With so much division around，people are forever encountering boundaries that bring them up short.Second thoughts are an acknowledgement that the truth is bounded by different tearmanns，that it has to take cognizance of opposing claims.If one person says that too many cooks spoil the broth，another maintains that many hands make light work.If one says a stitch in time saves nine，another says there’s many a slip’twixt the cup and the lip.Ulster is British，says one；Ulster is Uladh，an ancient province of Ireland，says the other.On one side of the march drain，you say potato.On the other side，I say potatto.Such contradictions are part of being alive as a member of the human species.But in Northern Ireland they have attained a special local intensity.

When they spoke of the prudent squirrel’s hoard

It shone like gifts at a nativity.

When they spoke of the mammon of iniquity

The coins in my pockets reddened like stove-lids.

I was the march drain and the march drain’s banks

Suffering the limit of each claim.

The word ‘march’was one that I used to hear again and again when I was a youngster—but not in the usual context of protest marches and Orange marches and Apprentice Boys marches.In those days，in that place，the marching season was every season because it was the land itself that did the marching.The verb meant to meet at the boundary，to be bordered by，to be matched up to and yet marked off from；one farm marched another farm；one field marched another field；and what divided them was the march drain or the march hedge.The word did not mean to walk in a military manner but to be close，to lie alongside，to border upon and be bordered upon.It was a word that acknowledged division，but it contained a definite suggestion of solidarity as well.If my land marched your 1and，we were bound by that boundary as well as separated by it.If the whole of the liberating sky was over the head of the god Terminus，the whole of the solid earth was under what he stood for，the march hedge and the march drain.

In the kitchen of the house where I grew up there was a cement floor，and one of my first memories is the feel of its coldness and smoothness under my feet.I must have been only two or three at the time，because I was still in my cot and can remember taking the boards out of the bottom of it in order to step down to the actual floor.The boards were fitted in like slats but they hadn’t been nailed down，and this meant they could be lifted out one by one—because，I suppose，they needed to be removable for cleaning every time a child soiled them.At any rate.I’ll never forget that contact of warm skin and cold floor，the immediate sensation of surprise；and then something deeper，more gradual，a sensation of consolidation and familiarity，the whole reassuring foundation of the earth coming up into you through the soles of your feet.It was like a knowledge coming home to you.I was holding on to the rail of the cot，but it could have been the deckrail of the world.I was in two places at once.One was a small square of kitchen floor，and the other was a big knowledgeable space I had stepped into deep inside myself，a space I can still enter through the memory of my warm soles on the cold cement.When my feet touched the floor，I knew I was on my way somewhere，but at the time I could not have said exactly where.Nowadays I would say it was to poetic discovery.And I would quote what the seventeenth-century Japanese poet Bashō bad to say about the conduct of the poetic life. ‘What is important’，Bashö wrote.

is to keep our mind high in the world of true understanding，and returning to the world of our daily experience to seek therein the truth of beauty.No matter what we may be doing at a given rnoment，we must not forget that it has a bearing upon our everlasting self which is poetry.

Bashō makes the mind sound a bit like that Roman image of Terminus，earthbound and present in the here and now and yet open also to what Bashö calls the everlasting self，the boundlessness of inner as well as outer space.

The Moyola wasn’t the only boundary that entered into me when I was a youngster.I used to carry a can of fresh milk in the evenings from our house to the next house down the road from us.This was-like our own-a thatched house，but unlike our house it was also a pub，and it is there still，more or less the same as it was in the 1940s，thatched and whitewashed，your typicalpicturesque roadside inn.

My journey from home to the back door of this house was short，no more than a couple of hundred yards，and yet in my child’s mind I covered a great distance every time，because between the two doorsteps I crossed the border between the ecclesiastical diocese of Derry and the diocese—or more properly，the archdiocese-of Armagh.The diocese of Derry stretched away to the northwest，into Inishowen and Donegal，and the archdiocese of Armagh stretched for nearly a hundred miles southeast to the River Boyne and the town of Drogheda on the edge of Meath in the Irish Republic；so while I felt safe and sound on that short stretch of the county road，I still experienced a slightly mysterious sense of distance and division.

Delivering the milk was a genuine expedition into an elsewhere.And the expedition gained in strangeness because the line that marked the division between the here and the there of it was more or less invisible.There was no indication on the road that you were leaving one jurisdiction for the other.But underneath the road，in a culvert that you would hardly notice if you didn’t know to look for it，there ran a small trickle of water，and this water was part of a long drain or stream that marked the boundary between the townland of Tamniarn and the townland of Anahorish，as well as the boundary between the parish of Bellaghy and the parish of Newbridge，and then，as I said，the boundary between the diocese of Derry and the archdiocese of Armagh.The name of this march drain or boundary stream was the Sluggan，another Irish word meaning a marsh or a quagmire，and the Sluggan ran on down through a low-lying spread of old wet meadows and plantations to become the border between the townlands of Creagn and Leitrim before it emptied into the waters of Lough Beg，a couple of miles away.

Every day on my road to and from school I crossed and recrossed the Sluggan，and every time my sense of living on two sides of a boundary was emphasized.I never felt the certitude of belonging completely in one place.and，of course，from the historical as well as the topographical point of view，I was right：all those townlands and parishes and dioceses that had once belonged firmly within the old pre-Plantation，ecclesiastical geography of Gaelic Ireland had been subsumed in the mea ntime and been taken over and taken into another system and another jurisdicgion.Many of the place-names I have just mentioned appear in a list of lands confiscated by the English after the Elizabethan conquest of Ulster，lands that were subsequently granted to Sir Thomas Phillips，the governor of what was then the county of Coleraine，in the period between the Flight of the Earls and the beginning of the Plantation of Ulster.The part of the grant which concerns me here is the area known as the‘Lands of Moyola’and which included the names of Tamniaran，Leitrim and Shanmullagh—the old Gaelic name for the place we nowadays call Castledawson：

Two buckets were easier carried than one.

I grew up in between.

My left hand placed the standard iron weight.

My right tilted a last grain in the balance.

Baronies，parishes met where I was born.

When I stood on the central stepping stone

I was the last earl on horseback in midstream

Still parleying，in earshot of his peers.

One of the great figures of Irish history in the pre-Plantation period was Hugh O’Neill，Earl of Tyrone，the last native leader to hold out against the Tudor armies of Queen Elizabeth I，the last earl to make a stand and one of the first to suffer within himself the claims of the two different political allegiances that still operate with such deadly force inside Northern Ireland to this day.By English law，O’Neill was the Earl of Tyrone and therefore，in the understanding of Queen Elizabeth，the English Queen’s loyal representative in the kingdom of Ireland.But by Irish birth and genealogy，O’Neill was descended from the mythic Irish leader Niall of the Nine Hostages，and to the Irish he therefore appeared as the hereditary leader of the Gaelic O’Neills，with a destined role as the defender of the Gaelic interest against the English.This is not the place to go into a history of the Elizabethan wars in Ireland，which ended with the defeat of the Irish under Hugh O’Neill and Red Hugh O’Donnell at Kinsale in 1601；but there is one incident that happened in the course of those long-drawn-out campaigns that never ceases to fascinate me.

The event occurred one day early in September 1599，after O’Neill’s forces had drawn the English Army up into his own territory，in the wooded countryside of Louth and Armagh.The leader of the English expedition was Queen Elizabeth’s favourite courtier，the Earl of Essex，and the Queen had been ordering him into action for months before he had taken this initiatixre.But O’Neill was a master negotiator and a great one for putting off the moment of confrontation，so he contrived to get Essex to come for a parley with him，on the banks of the River Glyde in what is now County Louth.O’Neill was on horseback，out in midstream，with the water up to his horse’s belly and his Irish-speaking soldiers behind him，speaking English to Essex，who was standing facing him on the other bank.Essex was under orders to pursue O’Neill as a traitor，but here he was in con-versation，more like the old friend he had once been than the enemy he was destined to become—for O’Neill had been at the court of Elizabeth a generation earlier，and his patron in England at that time had been Essex’s father，Walter Devereux，the first Earl.So，for each of them，this meeting by the river was a mysterious turn，a hiatus，a frozen frame in the violent action，a moment when those on either bank could see what was happening but could not hear what was being said.Both men were alone and exposed to the consequences of their actions；O’Neill was already regarded as a traitor，and Essex，by agreeing to a truce with him at this moment，was going to be seen as a betrayer by the Queen and in fact before the end of the year would be executed for treason.O’Neill’s ultimate defeat lay ahead also，in a couple of years’time.But for the moment，the balance trembled and held，the water ran and the sky moved silently above them：

Baronies，parishes met where I was born.

When I stood on the central stepping stone

I was the last earl on horseback in midstream

Still parleying，in earshot of his peers.

There was no way，given their historical circumstances，that O’Neill and Essex could cross to each other’s side.Their march had turned into something irrevocably military.They were at the terminus，in an extreme sense of tbat word.There was no room for two truths.The brutality of power would have to decide the issue，not the play of mind.And yet as we think about the scene，we want each of them to be released from the entrapment of history.We want the sky to open above them and grant them release from their earthbound fates.And even if we know that such a release is impossible，we still desire conditions where the longed-for and the actual might be allowed to coincide.A condition where borders are there to be crossed rather than to be contested：

Running water never disappointed.

Crossing water always furthered something.

Stepping stones were stations of the soul.

I wrote the ‘Terminus’poem in the mid-1980s，when the political situation in Northern Ireland was totally locked and blocked；in the post-hunger-strike world，when the IRA’s campaign showed no sign ot abating and the Thatcher government was prepared to live with what was termed an acceptable level of violence.Maybe that is one reason why the poem ends in stasis，with the Earl arrested in midstream and his opposite out of reach on the bank beyond him；the poem is saying that the inheritance of a divided world is a disabling one，that it traps its inhabitants and corners them in determined positions，saps their will to act freely and creatively.But before that moment and since that moment，things nevertheless were and have been different.

Nearly thirty years ago，for example，long before I gave any thought to Bashö or Terminus or Hugh O’Neill or the Sluggan drain and all that they might mean，I wrote a poem call ed‘The other Side’.It began with a recollection of something a Presbyterian neighbour had said about a field of ours that marched a field of his and was divided from it by a little grassy stream，but then the poem went on to play with the notion of separation，of two sides of the march drain being like the two sides of the divided community in Northern Ireland—two sides divided by the way they pray，for example and in little subtle but real ways（as I was suggesting earlier on）by the way they speak.The poem，however，ended up suggesting that a crossing could be attempted，that stepping-stones could be placed by individuals who wanted to further things.

Then sometimes when the rosary was dragging

mournfully on in the kitchen

we would hear his step round the gable

though not until after the litany

would the knock come to the door

and the casual whistle strike up

onthedoorstep，‘Aright-lookingnight’，

he might say，‘I was dandering by

and says I，I might as well call’

But now I stand behind him

in the dark yard，in the moan of prayers.

He puts a hand in a pocket

or taps a little tune with the blackthorn

shyly，as if he were party to

lovemaking or a stranger’s weeping.

Should I slip away，I wonder，

or go up and touch his shoulder

and talk about the weather

or the price of grass-seed？

There were times during the last thirty years when l thought‘The Other Side’might be too consoling.Given the actual conditions on the roads and the streets， I thought it might be too benign，too tender in the face of assassination and explosion，too hopeful.And yet the subject had called words from my inner mind.They had dandered in and reminded me of the possible boundlessness of our sympathies.In the end they reminded me also of what Bashö called ‘the world of true understanding’，which is always lying just beneath the surface and just beyond the horizon of the actual words we speak.They reminded me that the marching season need not just be the season of parades and provocation but that in the ground of the language and the ground beneath our feet there is another march which promises far more creative conditions for the mind and soul.For it seems to me that the confrontation between O’Neill and Essex represents where we arrive if we walk in a military manner，a condition of stasis and embittered rigor vitae that hampers the emergence of a better future；but the encounter at the march drain represents the possibility of going out on the steppingstone in order to remove yourself from the hardness and fastness of your home ground.The steppingstone invites you to change the terms and the tearmann of your understanding；it does not ask you to take your feet off the ground，but it refreshes your vision by keeping your head in the air and bringing you alive to the open sky of possibility that is within you.And that still seems something to write home about.