I am told that Robert Graves’s poetry is not much read these days, and that, ironically enough, he is now chiefly remembered as the writer of historical novels such as ‘I Claudius’, which he wrote only to subsidise his less financially rewarding work as a poet. I suppose one can see some reason for the neglect: he was uncompromisingly patrician, perhaps too much so for our populist age, and of course he belongs to a time when poets were still judged on things like skill with words and a mastery of poetic form. But it’s a pity: his oeuvre is large and became a bit repetitive towards the end, but he wrote more good poems with a wider range of style and subject than most twentieth-century poets. Here is another of his takes on Irish legend, that he used to such effect in week 81’s offering.

In case you are unfamiliar with the story, some background may be useful. Fionn mac Cumhaill, chief of the warrior-band known as the Fianna, has grown old and wishes to take a young bride. He chooses Grainne, daughter of the High King of Ireland, but at the wedding-feast her eye falls on one of Fionn’s young champions, the irresistibly handsome Diarmuid. Deciding that he would be a better bet, and being a spirited young woman, she demands that he elopes with her. Diarmuid is reluctant  to break his oath of fealty to Fionn, but in those days it was unthinkable for a man of honour to deny a woman anything that she asked of him (so not much change there, then). Off they go to have many adventures, relentlessly pursued by Fionn and his band, passing the night together in secret places throughout Ireland. Thngs do not go entirely smoothly in the relationship because in an attempt to stay true to his oath to Fionn Diarmuid refrains from actual intercourse with Grainne (hence the ‘pure embrace’ of the poem), and alas, the essential nobility of a man’s character is not always appreciated by the woman in his life…

Graves seems to be using the story to postulate a distinction between sacred and profane love, which probably gives an insight into his own somewhat complicated psyche, but I think one can enjoy the poem for its resonant invocation of legend without worrying too much about that.

sain: to bless

The Beds of  Grainne and Diarmuid

How many secret nooks in copse or glen
We sained for ever with our pure embrace,
No man shall know; though indeed master poets
Reckon one such for every eve of the year,
To sain their calendar.
                                        But this much is true:
That children stumbling on our lairs by chance
In quest of hazelnuts or whortleberries
Will recognise the impress of twin bodies
On the blue-green turf, starred with diversity
Of alien flowers, and shout astonishment.
Yet should some amorous country pair, presuming
To bask in joy on any bed of ours,
Offend against the love by us exampled,
Long ivy roots will writhe up from beneath
And bitterly fetter ankle, wrist and throat.

Robert Graves