Poetry has long been a space where language bends, breaks, and rebuilds meaning—and few modern poets do this as masterfully as Paul Muldoon. Known for his wit, complexity, and playful use of language, Muldoon’s poetry challenges readers to think beyond the obvious. His work blends history, politics, and personal experience, often layered with hidden references and unexpected twists.
Born in Northern Ireland, Muldoon emerged as a distinctive voice in contemporary poetry, earning global recognition for his innovative style. His poems are not always easy to decode, but that is part of their charm—they invite readers into a puzzle where every word matters. From themes of identity and conflict to love and memory, his writing captures both the intimate and the universal.
In this blog, we will POST some of Paul Muldoon’s most remarkable poems.
The Birth
Seven o'clock. The seventh day of the seventh month of the year.
No sooner have I got myself up in lime-green scrubs,
a sterile cap and mask,
and taken my place at the head of the table
than the windlass-woman ply their shears
and gralloch-grub
for a footling foot, then, warming to their task,
haul into the inestimable
realm of apple-blossoms and chanterelles and damsons and eel-spears
and foxes and the general hubbub
of inkies and jennets and Kickapoos with their lemniscs
or peekaboo-quiffs of Russian sable
and tallow-unctuous vernix, into the realm of the widgeon—
the 'whew' or 'yellow-poll', not the 'zuizin'—
Dorothy Aoife Korelitz Muldoon: I watch through floods of tears
as they give her a quick rub-a-dub
and whisk
her off to the nursery, then check their staple-guns for staples
Chunkey
A game about which we've got next to nothing straight,
it seems to have been a mash-up of buzkashi and road bowls.
As I try to anticipate a spear-thrower trying to anticipate
the spot where the chunkey-stone rolls
to a standstill, I hear a ten thousand strong shout
go up over the abandoned chunkey-yard at Cahokia, in support,
maybe, of the idea Cahokia will win out.
Maybe we should accept our understanding must fall short
as a spear falls short of this sandstone disk
some take to represent the sun.
Maybe we should accept our grand ambitions as grandiose
and our aversion to averting risk
merely rash. Maybe we should support the idea that having won
will mean merely 'to have come close.'
Holy Thursday
They're kindly here, to let us linger so late,
Long after the shutters are up.
A waiter glides from the kitchen with a plate
Of stew, or some thick soup,
And settles himself at the next table but one.
We know, you and I, that it's over,
That something or other has come between
Us, whatever we are, or were.
The waiter swabs his plate with bread
And drains what's left of his wine,
Then rearranges, one by one,
The knife, the fork, the spoon, the napkin,
The table itself, the chair he's simply borrowed,
And smiles, and bows to his own absence.
Anseo
When the Master was calling the roll
At the primary school in Collegelands,
You were meant to call back Anseo
And raise your hand
As your name occurred.
Anseo, meaning here, here and now,
All present and correct,
Was the first word of Irish I spoke.
The last name on the ledger
Belonged to Joseph Mary Plunkett Ward
And was followed, as often as not,
By silence, knowing looks,
A nod and a wink, the Master's droll
'And where's our little Ward-of-court?'
I remember the first time he came back
The Master had sent him out
Along the hedges
To weigh up for himself and cut
A stick with which he would be beaten.
After a while, nothing was spoken;
He would arrive as a matter of course
With an ash-plant, a salley-rod.
Or, finally, the hazel-wand
He had whittled down to a whip-lash,
Its twist of red and yellow lacquers
Sanded and polished,
And altogether so delicately wrought
That he had engraved his initials on it.
I last met Joseph Mary Plunkett Ward
In a pub just over the Irish border.
He was living in the open,
In a secret camp
On the other side of the mountain.
He was fighting for Ireland,
Making things happen.
And he told me, Joe Ward,
Of how he had risen through the ranks
To Quartermaster, Commandant:
How every morning at parade
His volunteers would call back Anseo
And raise their hands
As their names occurred.
Hedgehog
The snail moves like a
Hovercraft, held up by a
Rubber cushion of itself,
Sharing its secret
With the hedgehog. The hedgehog
Shares its secret with no one.
We say, Hedgehog, come out
Of yourself and we will love you.
We mean no harm. We want
Only to listen to what
You have to say. We want
Your answers to our questions.
The hedgehog gives nothing
Away, keeping itself to itself.
We wonder what a hedgehog
Has to hide, why it so distrusts.
We forget the god
under this crown of thorns.
We forget that never again
will a god trust in the world.
A mayfly
A mayfly taking off from a spike of mullein
would blunder into Deichtine's mouth to become Cú Chulainn,
Cú Chulainn who had it within him to steer clear
of a battlefield on the shaft of his own spear,
his own spear from which he managed to augur
the fate of that part-time cataloguer,
that cataloguer who might yet transcend the crush
as its own tumult transcends the thrush,
the thrush that's known to have tipped off avalanches
from the larch's lowest branches,
the lowest branches of the larch
that model themselves after a triumphal arch,
a triumphal arch made of the femora
of a woman who's even now filed under Ephemera.
Why Brownlee Left
Why Brownlee left, and where he went,
Is a mystery even now.
For if a man should have been content
It was him; two acres of barley,
One of potatoes, four bullocks,
A milker, a slated farmhouse.
He was last seen going out to plough
On a March morning, bright and early.
By noon Brownlee was famous;
They had found all abandoned, with
The last rig unbroken, his pair of black
Horses, like man and wife,
Shifting their weight from foot to
Foot, and gazing into the future.
In conclusion, the poetry of Paul Muldoon stands as a remarkable blend of intellect, creativity, and linguistic playfulness. His works challenge readers to engage deeply with language, uncover hidden meanings, and appreciate the richness of poetic expression. Through themes of identity, history, and personal reflection, Muldoon creates poems that are both complex and rewarding. Although his style may seem difficult at first, it ultimately offers a unique and enriching reading experience. Exploring his poetry not only broadens literary understanding but also reveals the endless possibilities of modern verse in a constantly changing world.
