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Saffron, I would say you are a 'truant' but not a delinquent.

And Poem Number 2 - After his Death - Norman MacCaig

It turned out
that the bombs he had thrown
raised buildings:

that the acid he had sprayed
had painfully opened
the eyes of the blind.

Fishermen hauled
prizewinning fish
from the water he had polluted.

We sat with astonishment
enjoying the shade
of the vicious words he had planted.

The government decreed that
on the anniversary of his birth
the people should observe
two minutes pandemonium.

I know you're on to the B's, but wandering in at this point I may make just a few tardy comments, which don't require any response to divert you from your current progress.

I am compelled to say that I really enjoyed being ambushed by Norman MacCaig, in this poem.

Like a mouse sniffing the cheese, our interest is piqued by the unexpected turn of events. Yes, we too are astonished--and so relieved--that these horrible behaviors could turn out so well! But just for an instant. Only for an instant. A crucial instant that allows cruel reason to slap us in the face, to snap back and assure us that this is nonsense.

MacCaig could have written a straight-forward poem about the doleful effects of bombs, chemical warfare, and hatefulness, and we would have all nodded...and yawned. Instead he performed a fresh little satirical blitz. Irony is always achieved between writers and readers together, so that MacCaig forces the understanding reader to provide the poet's true argument, seemingly as the reader’s own. A rough and intrusive bit of pacifism.

Presenting the matter as a post-mortem reflection draws the reader's attention to the impact on future humanity, the legacy of the warmonger's actions. Legacy is often a remaining concern for those who have attained great wealth and power. MacCaig seems to hope to move them by recourse to this last vulnerability of self-interest.

While the final verse is certainly clever, and funny to imagine, I wonder if we wouldn't be better served in observing the anniversaries of destructive leaders with some sort of cathartic pandemonium (akin to the noise-making of old used to oust demons), than by solemn reverence to whitewashed pseudo-heroes. Some public lament, with a physical and vocal expression of the anger we should have toward forces of repression, exploitation, and destruction. An anger now often tucked away behind our sophisticated cynicism, our philosophic resignation. It might break the catatonic civility we are so trained in, and allow us to be both more alert to destructive forces, and quicker to action when they rear their heads. Fat chance, eh?

Ah, irony, the defense against which is a shield no man can lift. Once you see it, I suppose, it’s no more genius than the average sneering teenager--but the first time MacCaig twirls you around and spanks you, it's fun.

Welcome DireCari, jump in wherever you like

Your comment about After His Death made me go back and look at that poem.

A rough and intrusive bit of pacifism.

I only lived with the pacific kind of pacifist, so this was a splash of refreshing water.

DireCari wrote:

It might break the catatonic civility we are so trained in, and allow us to be both more alert to destructive forces, and quicker to action when they rear their heads. Fat chance, eh?

Well, fat chance when we are so mislead by the media who have their own axes to grind. I would refer you to the book by Noam
Chomsky - 'Manufacturing Consent'. It makes us cautious in reaching a conclusion when judging world events.

All over the place, from the popular culture to the propaganda system, there is constant pressure to make people feel that they are helpless, that the only role they can have is to ratify decisions and to consume.
Noam Chomsky

I very much enjoyed reading your comments, thank you.

Dire Cari:

Thanks for your insightful review of After His Death, I think this is one of the best poems we have covered to date from the Rattle Bag. I like the use of 'we' in the 4th stanza, it really twists around the role of poet, reader and subject. And further to your intro, I also like brussel sprouts, especially cooked with turmeric.

Turmeric rocks, giselle.

I wandered over to the nonfiction section earlier, which prompted me to open my copy of The Hero with a Thousand Faces. Just scanning it randomly I came across the tale of how the sorceress, Ceridwen, transformed the boy, Gwion Bach, into the legendary Welsh poet, Taliesin.

Though there are some differences, I'm betting "The Allansford Pursuit" is a version of this tale. I read it as a call and response with the two characters and a chorus.
http://www.pantheon.org/articles/t/taliesin.html

For ease of comparison:

The Allansford Pursuit

Cunning and art he did not lack
But aye her whistle would fetch him back.

O, I shall go into a hare
With sorrow and sighing and mickle care,
And I shall go in the Devil's name
Aye, till I be fetched hame.
--Hare, take heed of a bitch greyhound
Will harry thee all these fells around,
For here come I in Our Lady's name
All but for to fetch thee hame.

Cunning and art he did not lack
But aye her whistle would fetch him back.

Yet, I shall go into a trout
With sorrow and sighing and mickle doubt,
And show thee many a crooked game
Ere that I be fetched hame,
---Trout, take heed of an otter lank
Will harry thee close from bank to bank,
For here come I in Our Lady's name
All but for to fetch thee hame.

Cunning and art he did not lack
But aye her whistle would fetch him back.

Yet I shall go into a bee
With muckle horror and dread of thee
And flit to hive in the Devil's name
Ere that I be fetched hame.
---Bee, take heed of a swallow hen
Will harry thee close, both butt and ben,
For here come I in Our Lady's Name
All but for to fetch thee hame.

Cunning and art he did not lack
But aye her whistle would fetch him back.

Yet I shall go into a mouse
And haste me unto the miller's house,
There in his corn to have good game
Ere that I be fetched hame.
---Mouse, take heed of a white tib-cat
That never was baulked of mouse or rat,
For I'll crack thy bones in our Lady's name:
Thus shalt thou be fetched hame.

Cunning and art he did not lack
But aye her whistle would fetch him back.

ROBERT GRAVES

A restoration of the fragmentary seventeenth-century text, sung by north-country witches at their sabbaths.

I appreciate the information about Isabel Gowdie, Penny.

Well, the note at the bottom of the poem, did say North country witches, which suggests to me, Scottish Borders, Northumberland area. The legend you cite is Welsh.....very Welsh....with those names.

I think the druids and witches lived in Wales during the Roman occupation of the British Isles, and there seems to be a lot of evidence for that. But the Welsh people had a great Christian Revival with John Wesley....and I think perhaps a lot of the pagan ways of thinking and evidence of their ways of being was stamped out. Which is a pity, although it has to be said that the revival brought great benefit to the Welsh, that is comparing before and after writings.