Category Archives: poetry

Poet in Mind: Her Accompanying Poetry – Rhoda Coghill

My father was a lifetime member of ACDA (the American Choral Directors Association), and despite his passing several years ago, I’ve continued to receive monthly copies of their flagship publication, The Choral Journal. Even though I am not a choral director, I find it a calming connection to my dad’s interests, in a way, and sometimes I learn something new.


For example, I recently read an article in the August issue of “The Choral Journal” about the problems and possibilities of Irish choral music. The article largely lays out the argument that Irish choral music is sparse due to the non-indigenous nature of “native” choral music in Ireland. This is partly due to Irish music’s historical development of ornamental solo melodies coupled more with unison responses; however, subsequent development is complicated by the cultural implications of British colonialism and the suppression of the Irish language, and the long polarizing battle over religious preferences. That many Irish themes in choral music are largely the work of British composers is unique to this environment.

Within the article, the author identifies that there are a small number of Irish-born composers that deserve more mention in the history of Irish music composition, and in particular, choral composition. One of these – Rhoda Coghill – is who I want to feature in this “Poet in Mind.”

Rhoda Coghill was born in Dublin on October 14,1903. She was the youngest of eight children. Her father was a Scotsman who worked as a printer, and her mother was a Dublin native. Rhoda displayed musical ambition at an early age, beginning piano lessons at the age of eight. She was talented and considered a prodigy. By the time she was 22, she had amassed twenty-one prizes at the Feis Ceoil [fesh-k’yole], an Irish classical music festival to encourage native Irish performers and composers.

Over her lifetime she was a sought-after soloist and accompanist and served as the primary accompanist for Radio Eireann. She was self-taught as a composer, composing piano pieces, selections for voice and piano, and arrangements of Irish folk songs. Arguably, her best-known work was composed when she was twenty years of age in 1923. It was a rhapsody for Tenor, choir, and orchestra, entitled “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking.” The work uses text from the poem by Walt Whitman. Coghill was a student at Trinity College, Dublin at the time, and being just after the conclusion of the Irish civil war, the work was unable to be performed due to inadequate orchestral resources. The work wasn’t fully performed live until 1990.

As mentioned previously, Coghill composed a number of original pieces based on Irish poetry. She specifically used several George Russell and Padraic Colum poems. Two examples are A Ballad Maker, by Padraic Colum and Refuge, by George Russell. Her poetic tendencies in composition fell toward the romantic and beauty in nature. Her attempts to be taken seriously as a composer were met with a certain ambivalence typical of the period towards women. She had conquered music as a performer and held a respected position as accompanist for the state radio; however, acknowledge of her compositional successes were not to come in her lifetime.

Coghill began writing poetry in the 1940s. She only published two small poetry collections in her lifetime: The Bright Hillside (1948) and Time is a Squirrel (1956) and, sadly, both are out of print. I’ve only been able to find excerpts that were used in the references. She wrote from a musician’s point of view, with phrasing and thematic elements that are expressed in rhythm. Her work was praised as a new voice at the time of publication. Several of her poems are gendered female and express the stark societal expectations of Irish women during the early 20th century: forced into marriage with older, more financially secure men, having very little control over their destiny, and the sense of duty carried. Some reviewers have speculated that her poems were a reaction to her dismay at the lack of recognition for her musical compositions.

With a gull’s beak I cry,
And mount through strong resistance.
My wingspan beats the sky,
Across the high distance,

Circling about your place,
Wheeling to cover your bed
With the curve of space
And the airs overhead;

To keep you, to delay
Spirit in one dear shape;
But spirit will not stay
When it has planned escape,

And life at last will leave
This, and all bodies dead
Those who remain to grieve,
The world they habited.

From “The Young Bride’s Dream.” In “The Bright Hillside”, Rhoda Coghill

Another poem excerpt appears to lament the loss of inspiration, and the hope of finding it elsewhere… perhaps in poetry.


…I’ll find a fruit upon another tree,
One day, so full of juice that I’ll be sucking
Until my very lips drip poetry
Coghill, ‘Lamenting a Sterile Muse’, The Bright Hillside, 1948

I hope to one day find a copy of either of these collections. I am grateful to have happened upon this writer and musician.


Boushel, Kevin, Irish Choral Music: Problems and Possibilities, Choral Journal, August 2024, Vol 63, No. 1, pp 6 – 20
Watson, Laura, Epitaph for a Musician: Rhoda Coghill as Pianist, Composer and Poet, Journal of the Society for Musicology in Ireland, 11 (2015–16), p. 3
Schreibman, Susan, Irish Women Poets 1929-1959 Some Foremothers, Colby Quarterly, Vol. 37, Issue. 4 [2001], Article 4

Encased

In my personal shadow-box are many treasures and perhaps some rocks, toys and memories from my past, and in the shadow-box, they last.

From my pocket to the side, I pulled a pinch of something ossified, what once may have been from a wound debrided. It’s simply a pebble, I’ve now decided.  

A marble, glassy, green and blue, from a collection of many I had and threw around the playground tree at school, collecting spoils for keeps like jewels.

His gun raised up high, a green plastic soldier from a platoon of recruits that I had as I was older. Despite the difference in my age and size, I never developed a loud battle-cry.

A tiny, tyrannosaurus rex, a figurine without a sex, insignias on patches and badges – but none of them jog my memory with matches.

A matchbox car painted apple-red, with opening doors and the letter zed on the hood. Don’t ask me why it’s there, I’m not sure I could.

An old pocket watch that no longer tells time, I’m grateful to all that had passed in its prime, next to a heart made from elastic and beads, stretchy and tactile and has met all my needs.

A rounded, polished piece of quartz made from tumbling, now distorts lines and letters like mumbling. This shadow box where these trinkets have graced, all the while keeping my memories encased.

Perspective on a hill

The view from the window is a hill I won’t die on.

Framed on all sides by brick and concrete or old pine trim, it is a portal of a shelter built with a single perspective.

This limited view of the world, covered in dull charcoal – interwoven to attract our focus and screen out flies – mutes the light of new vision and also things to the left and right of the sight line.

Though I do see the changes of a season through it. When the orange and reds arrive, and I see leaves falling – I want to see more. More than this view offers.

And I peek around the edges of the frame to see the wind move through and the rainclouds form. This, rather than wait for darkness to enclose the hill outside my window, is a better view.

Even more so to step outside to feel the wind and hear the leaves. To watch as the rain arrives, then departs. The uneven steps and grassy plots to the pinnacle -where I can see more horizons.

Beyond the window, the hill is even more beautiful when I’m out upon it and living the terrain. This is a hill I will die on.

Fishing Is Many Things

It is an effort, to awaken before the dawn, when the water is like glass

and fog clings to the cat tails in the quiet moving hours.

It is faith, to set your mind on a place you believe to be a “lucky spot.”

It is diligence, to prepare your gear for the casting. Untangling lines, selecting a lure or bait, the weight to place it at the depth of optimization.

It is serenity, following the sailing line to the splashdown.

and then – patience – the wait, the weight of time on your mind – but with no unsettling burden.

With all the effort and often no reward, having to throw back something too small, or catching the boot of a tall tale from long ago, or dredging up someone’s garbage.

The fishing is more about the process, rather than the end result. If you designed the process well, then a catch was inevitable – though not always a fish. It is no wonder you excelled in the preparation of tasks such as this.

It was skill that walked the halls, teaching others the high loft of a cast to the horizon or how to bait for walleye – wriggling worms – versus musky, with big colorful spinners or spoons.

It was your laboratory to assess, and we were neophytes to the process,

Teaching is what it was. Fishing was teaching.

From your spot on some empyreal bank, you can see the slack line of your recent cast, then begin to reel it in from the lake

and we, your family of friends, see the ripple of water left in your wake.

*******

A poem written to honor a good person who was taken from us way too soon.

A little blues philosophy

It’s a part of the tune that doesn’t last long.

When I need a deep breath after things have gone wrong,

it’s a fishhook to bring me up from the depths. 

I find myself seeking a felicitous sound

and listening for the turnaround.

It’s a movement that’s made, whether in blues or in jazz

to keep a song interesting -some razzmatazz –

about one chords to sevens and other such stuff,

I won’t pretend to knowingly expound,

just listen for the turnaround.

It’s the first bud of spring coming out of the frost

and the very first lightnin’ bug of past summers lost,

It’s the yellow and red sneaking out of the green,

The first floating snowflake that lights on the ground

all transitions worthy of a turnaround.

The best we can do is to move on our own,

but walk among others so we won’t be alone.

It’s the time and the place of the new moon and stars,

As we are feet first. with our souls earthbound,

The last call will sound like a turnaround. 

Close your eyes

Close your eyes and count to ten.
Wishes won't come true 'til then.
Considerations blink and mar your thoughts.
Up to two you've tied a dream in knots.

In this moment, circumspect
reaction might cause you neglect.
The delay in what your heart is wishing for -
not long - succinct - a brief six-seconds more.

Close your eyes, accumulate -
(your mind digresses while you wait).
Make a list of salient bullet-points
to greet the sunrise when you wake your voice.

And in the moment just before
you reach the end count's opening door,
in heroic fashion speak your truth and due
and banish all the hardness once beshrewed.



Opening

A shrieking blue jay sounds a turning point.
The day might be too long.
Cardinals perch in boxwood sacs, 
reminding me of those now gone.

I've skirted 'round an earthen hole,
peering to the bottom.  
Dirt and pebbles slip from my steps
and down into the dark and glum.

Choristers pause, holding a note
that pierces incense smoke.
The carillons ring out the hour
and half a prayer's invoked.

Is this how changes snap and tear
when events go awry?
a grinding crevice in the ground? 
a ripped seam in the sky?

Careful plots, with no solid facts
are awfully mistook,
our hero left with no recourse
but to rely upon a hook.

A shrieking blue jay sounds a turning point.
The day might be too long.
Cardinals perch, reminding me 
of people that are gone.

Opalescence

A jellyfish cloud drifted in the sky

propelling itself hither and nigh.

The type of motions that mesmerize,

whilst I woolgather time in the ocean wide.

A rabbit perched upon some pillow fluff,

awaiting a moment to jump, and not to muff-

then disappear inside a hole in a huff.

(All this I’ll imagine soon enough.)

And later, the sky I watched was flattened and grey.

A canvas without texture on a humid summer’s day

settled in to remove my imaginative display.

And the daydreams diverted down and away.

The shades of green caught now in my sight,

Jagged lines on the edge of the canvas’ chalk-white.

whispering connections to the last vestiges of light.

And the opalescence of dreams settled in for the night.

Torte, with my father

Chocolate dense as darkness.

The flourless cake, its heaviness derived of bittersweet.

A china cup , a black pool swirled with an opaque liqueur.

The taste of each as contribution –

rancor offset by the affable.

I sit across the from the empty seat you once used.

My memories are heavy with the affection of your company

and controverted by your absence.

Each bite with a following sip a battle of emotions.

How it lingers, the memory of your sudden death

followed by the overtones of your prescience.

The night we talked late, and you said “the parent becomes the child”

Yet, I still want to ask you for advice and you never quite accepted mine.

The sound of my fork clinks and the resonant ding of the cup

as I set it down upon a saucer

all I hear in reply.

*****A memory of my father on this Father’s Day. Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

Driving into Lascassas after midnight

Driving into Lascassas after midnight, when only the ghosts walk.

The glint of streetlights launches from the pavement,

a blank page to capture dreams

and past countenances in the moonlight.

The words you speak echo in the night and pass through blinking traffic lights;

As poems create themselves in flight.

Not like arriving at LaGuardia on a Sunday afternoon,

with its hallways filled with a thousand stories at every turn.

There is a rush and jumble to this world,

only small pockets of stillness swirl

to float a verse into the air.

Most often colliding in the face of a hurried elsewhere.

Almost never staying free and clear,

like driving through Lascassas after midnight

with soundless ghosts and streetlight glare.