POETRY, CONFLICT AND RECONCILIATION

First Transnational Literary Dialogue

A conversation with Ruth Padel

Bogota 13 August 2014

1. GREEKS AND TROJANS

Homer’s epic poem The Iliad (8th c BC), first recorded poem of Western literature, describes a decisive phase in a 10-year war. The Greeks, camped outside Troy (south of today’s Istanbul), have plundered villages round Troy and besieged the city to get back Helen, “most beautiful woman in the world” (later interpreted as any universal masculine dream), wife of Menalaos. King Priam’s son Paris has abducted Helen and is living with her in Troy.

Both sides are sick of the war but both are controlled by a male code of “glory”. Troy’s best warrior is another son of Priam: Hector. He killed the friend of the best Greek warrior, Achilles, in combat. Achilles killed Hector and angry at his friend’s death, is pulling Hector’s corpse behind his chariot every day around Troy.

This is a cosmic war, the gods have favourites and take sides but all respected  Hector. They preserve his body and protect old King Priam in a dangerous midnight expedition to the Greek tents to ransom Hector’s body from Achilles. He loads a mule-cart with treasure, his wife urges him to pray before he sets out, he meets a god disguised as a Greek who guides him through the tents to Achilles’ door.

Priam came to Achilles, clasped his knees

and kissed his hands, those dreadful hands
which had killed so many of his sons. Achilles

looked at him in astonishment. They gazed at one another.

“Achilles,“ pleaded Priam, “Think of your father, back in Greece.

He is as old as me. He may well be harrassed

by people round about, with no son there to help.

But when he hears you’re still alive, his heart feels joy,

hoping he’ll see his dear son come back home from Troy.

But me – I’m doomed. I fathered fifty sons

but hardly one remains. Hector. the best, was guardian

of our city, protector of its people. You’ve just killed him

as he fought for his native land.  For his sake I’ve come

to the Greek ships: to win him back from you.
I’ve brought a ransom,  treasure beyond counting.

So Achilles, respect the gods, and pity me, remembering

your own father.  Two old men – but I’m more pitiful

because I´m doing what no mortal on this earth has borne:

kissed the hands of the man who killed my son.”

His words made Achilles want to weep for his own father.

He took Priam’s hand, he gently moved him back, and both

remembered victims of the war-god- Fighters

who had died. Priam wept aloud for man-killing Hector.

Achilles for his father and Patroclus.
The sound of their lamenting filled the tent.

Then Achilles helped the old man to his feet

feeling pity for that grey head and beard.

“Unhappy man, you´ve had to bear so many evils.
How did you dare come to the Greek ships, alone,

to rest your eyes on me,  when I’ve killed so many of your sons?

You must have a heart of iron.  But come, sit on this chair.

We are both feeling pain. But let our grief lie quiet

on our hearts.” He told his servants to wash the body

moving it away, so Priam wouldn’t see, and, heart-stricken,

be unable to contain his fury at the sight pf his dead son –

and Achilles’ spirit might get so aroused

he could break out and kill Priam,

disobeying the gods´ orders. His servants

washed the corpse. Wrapped it in a lovely cloak.
Achilles lifted it and placed it on a bier

and set it on the wagon. He called to his dear dead friend.

“Patroclus, don’t be angry that I´ve given Hector back.

HIs father brought a fitting ransom.” He ordered up a meal.

The old king looked at Achilles, admiring his size and beauty.

Achilles gazed at Priam, marvelling at his royal bearing and his words.

1. ISRAELIS AND PALESTINIANS- AND THE RESONANCE OF THIS CONFLICT IN THE WEST

This extract from the poem ‘Facing East’, comes from Ruth Padel, Learning to Make an Oud in Nazareth, a collection about the Middle East, about conflict, how we are all conflicted in ourselves, and how our defence against conflict is human constructiveness: craftsmanship, creativity and “making things” – e.g. music and harmony as an image of peace. This poem begins “over here”, in UK. The poet examines a memorial to the British composer Benjamin Britten, a huge bronze shell facing the sea on the East coast of Britain, quoting a line from his opera Peter Grimes: “I hear the voices of the drowned”.

Facing East

I hear the voices of the drowned. Iron cloud

on the horizon splices day from night

like west from east. On the news

is flat-to-flat urban warfare in Aleppo

and air attacks on Gaza. Over here

in kitchens, at the Tuesday evening

pub quiz, on bus or underground

how quickly arguments flare up

even in England; even if we’ve never been

to what we call the middle of the east.

We identify. Some chasm through the centre

must be in and of us all: creatures of relation

and division, always wrong-footed by the past

on its bed of ice, the sub-tectonic clash

of ancient histories on common ground.

East or west, the first thing looting soldiers smash

(before starting on God’s perfect instrument,

the larynx) is an oud or violin.

What would we be without desire for form?

Pattern keeps us safe. We break the line

to shape it, string catgut over membrane,

set up a memorial to music

and turn it east to face the storm.

Voices of the drowned. I watch dawn

gild the sea to iridescence. Sea-birds arc

and squawk and flicker-print the air.

Breakers roar on draining shingle.

Palmetto patterns dint the waves

from grey to silver, hyacinth and jade.

Making is our defence against the dark.

• NORTHERN IRELAND: CATHOLIC AND PROTESTANT

On 31 August 1994, the Provisional Irish Republican Army (Catholic, which was formd to break away from British sovereinty over Northern Ireland) announced a “cessation of military operations”. The President of the Irish Republic accepted the IRA statement as implying a permanent ceasefire. Many Protestants in Northern Ireland (“Unionists”, who want Northern Ireland to stay in the Union with Great Britain) were sceptical. There followed months of disputes about the ceasefire’s permanence, and whether parties linked to paramilitaries should be included in talks, Protestant bombings and shootings, and punishment beatings from both sides, continued. But the peace process was visible from that date. On the Saturday after the IRA announcement, the Northern Irish poet Michael Longley, published this poem in the Irish Times.

Ceasefire

Put in mind of his own father and moved to tears
Achilles took him by the hand and pushed the old king
Gently away, but Priam curled up at his feet and
Wept with him until their sadness filled the building.

Taking Hector’s corpse into his own hands Achilles
Made sure it was washed and, for the old king’s sake,
Laid out in uniform, ready for Priam to carry
Wrapped like a present home to Troy at daybreak.

When they had eaten together, it pleased them both
To stare at each other’s beauty as lovers might,
Achilles built like a god, Priam good-looking still
And full of conversation, who earlier had sighed:

‘I get down on my knees and do what must be done
And kiss Achilles’ hand, the killer of my son.’

Thank you for sharing and reimagining experiences of reconciliation and healing in our Transnational Literary Dialogues!

Ruth Padel is an award-winning British poet and writer, Poetry Fellow at King’s College London, Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature and Council Member for the Zoological Society of London.

Rodeemos el Diálogo (ReD) is a transnational network of Colombians and friends of Colombia supporting the negotiated solution to the Colombian conflict and building a culture of dialogue to ensure a long lasting peace in Colombia. Visit our website www. Rodeeemoseldialogo.org and  follow us on Twitter @RodeemosDialogo