Bernard O’Donoghue was born in Cullen, County Cork in 1945. Many of his poems – notably in his most recent collection
The Seasons of Cullen Church
(2016) – offset the small histories of people from his childhood
against grander mythological and literary precursors, since, as he
observes, the
same characters, stories and motifs occur in every place and era.
“Ter Conatus”, first published in the TLS in 1997, gives an account of two rural, proud lives that end with grief and regret: “Sister and brother, nearly sixty years / They’d farmed together, never touching once”. Although they “wondered”, “tried” and “might have”, they tragically miss their final chance to show each other affection before the sister dies. The speaker’s slow-paced, euphemistic lines mirror the hesitancy and frustration in their relationship: “When, / Finally, she went, it was too late, / Even for chemotherapy”. The title, ter conatus (“having tried three times”), is taken from two moments in the Aeneid when Aeneas tries and fails to embrace shades of lost loved ones: first, his wife Creusa; then his father Anchises. When the phrase appears in O’Donoghue’s poem, its repetition anticipates inevitable failure: “Three times, like that, he tried to reach her . . . / Three times the hand fell back”. The brother will never forget this moment of “Almost breaking with a lifetime of / Taking real things for shadows”. Here, O’Donoghue reverses Dante’s phrase from Purgatory on Statius’ reaction to Virgil (“Taking shadows for real things”), emphasizing the strain and sadness of a lifetime of repressed affection and physicality.(tls)
Ter Conatus
Sister and brother, nearly sixty years
They’d farmed together, never touching once.
Of late she had been coping with a pain
In her back, realization dawning slowly
That it grew differently from the warm ache
That resulted periodically
From heaving churns on to the milking-stand.
She wondered about the doctor. When,
Finally, she went, it was too late,
Even for chemotherapy. All the same,
She wouldn’t have got round to telling him,
Except that one night, watching television,
It got so bad she gasped, and struggled up,
Holding her waist. “D’you want a hand?”, he asked,
Taking a step towards her. “I can manage”,
She answered, feeling for the stairs.
Three times, like that, he tried to reach her.
But, being so little practiced in such gestures,
Three times the hand fell back, and took its place,
Unmoving at his side. After the burial,
He let things take their course. The neighbours watched
In pity the rolled-up bales, standing
Silent in the fields, with the aftergrass
Growing into them, and wondered what he could
Be thinking of: which was that evening when,
Almost breaking with a lifetime of
Taking real things for shadows,
He might have embraced her with a brother’s arms.
BERNARD O’DONOGHUE (1997)
“Ter Conatus”, first published in the TLS in 1997, gives an account of two rural, proud lives that end with grief and regret: “Sister and brother, nearly sixty years / They’d farmed together, never touching once”. Although they “wondered”, “tried” and “might have”, they tragically miss their final chance to show each other affection before the sister dies. The speaker’s slow-paced, euphemistic lines mirror the hesitancy and frustration in their relationship: “When, / Finally, she went, it was too late, / Even for chemotherapy”. The title, ter conatus (“having tried three times”), is taken from two moments in the Aeneid when Aeneas tries and fails to embrace shades of lost loved ones: first, his wife Creusa; then his father Anchises. When the phrase appears in O’Donoghue’s poem, its repetition anticipates inevitable failure: “Three times, like that, he tried to reach her . . . / Three times the hand fell back”. The brother will never forget this moment of “Almost breaking with a lifetime of / Taking real things for shadows”. Here, O’Donoghue reverses Dante’s phrase from Purgatory on Statius’ reaction to Virgil (“Taking shadows for real things”), emphasizing the strain and sadness of a lifetime of repressed affection and physicality.(tls)
Ter Conatus
Sister and brother, nearly sixty years
They’d farmed together, never touching once.
Of late she had been coping with a pain
In her back, realization dawning slowly
That it grew differently from the warm ache
That resulted periodically
From heaving churns on to the milking-stand.
She wondered about the doctor. When,
Finally, she went, it was too late,
Even for chemotherapy. All the same,
She wouldn’t have got round to telling him,
Except that one night, watching television,
It got so bad she gasped, and struggled up,
Holding her waist. “D’you want a hand?”, he asked,
Taking a step towards her. “I can manage”,
She answered, feeling for the stairs.
Three times, like that, he tried to reach her.
But, being so little practiced in such gestures,
Three times the hand fell back, and took its place,
Unmoving at his side. After the burial,
He let things take their course. The neighbours watched
In pity the rolled-up bales, standing
Silent in the fields, with the aftergrass
Growing into them, and wondered what he could
Be thinking of: which was that evening when,
Almost breaking with a lifetime of
Taking real things for shadows,
He might have embraced her with a brother’s arms.
BERNARD O’DONOGHUE (1997)
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