John O’Donahue has died, taking sudden flight in his sleep, slipping over the thresholds, through the horizons, giddy, shocked, light as air, a poet found in Poetry, wild eyes full of Light, heart stunned by beauty. He drank whiskey. He loved women. There is a special place for poets at God’s table amidst the riotess uproar of heaven’s laughter.
John Moriarty died last May, that Beethoven of intellect, that hermit wielding his pencil amidst a pile of books, that gargantuan face, that heart tender as an infant’s lips.
Two of Ireland’s vast voices, two dancers of thought, two warriors of delectable words, forging hope through that imperceptible shift of perspective that lets trees rattle reinterpretations in the sound of their leaves, that makes bird song mystery, that seduces the Universe to burst with sudden meaning.
With their passing their work shall expand and gain new impetus. It will seem richer, more urgent and real. This is the work of those angels that stir the deep waters of the heart. Are we made poorer or richer by their passing? How would they have us interpret that? Lyrically I suppose.