THERE is often the sear of religion through Tim Cunningham’s work. The Limerick writer’s perspectives vary wonderfully: iconic and iconoclastic, reverent, doubting. He is a shrewd observer of change.
Cunningham has a way of locking in the temporal world of bricks, the tea-time table, a butcher’s apron, even smells from a tannery, with the great abstracts.
In ‘On Hold’, he finds himself waiting for a sense of connection in chapel alone with his Maker. Who hasn’t dialled a prayer? Time but not hope elapses with his number not ringing through the Exchange. The sanctuary lamp is lit, but not for our chap. Not today. It is a tender, wry admission.
‘Eviction’ is another work-like metaphor and exploration of loss. The tone is bemused in this report of an old Ireland and Church making way for new, or for nothing at all. We are none the wiser and there is a complete lack of judgement in Tim Cunningham’s account. He’s far too smart.
Eviction
Here no thud of wrecking ball,/ No burning thatch, no bailiff/ Parroting his master’s voice,/ No soldiers with fixed bayonets/ Keen to make a point.
This eviction was discreet,/ The statue of the Virgin/ Lowered from its plinth,/ Trundled down the centre aisle/ And winched aboard the truck/ Like cattle swung and slung/ Onto an island ferry./ Hardly an assumption.
As if consigned to a retirement home,/ They said she was earmarked for some grotto.
The statue stood at six feet four,/ Her dress pure white,/ The flowing sash sky blue,/ A golden rose on each bare foot/ And, dangling by her side,/ The golden rosary that sinners climbed,/ Their ladder into heaven.
Her fingers were not bowered in prayer;/ The mediatrix’s slender hands/ Had broken off in transit/ And, at the back, her long white dress/ Was nothing like immaculate,/ Seldom painted with the rest/ Because she stood against the wall.
All those years we were unaware/ That her back was to the wall.
The collection ‘Siege’ is a meld of old and new published by Revival Press through Limerick Writers Centre. This elegy to a felled Mary rests beautifully within the concept of siege. We arrive at the end, questioning the hold of doctrine and in an odd way, dignity is restored with an inkling of Her prescience.
The lack of respect to a cracked ridiculous statue begins to rankle.
