An Irishwoman’s Diary on the kitschification of Yeats

Under bare Ben Bulben's head in Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is not, according to The Irish Times, laid, but the coaches keep rolling on in anyway and tourists have not ceased to pose by the famous stone with its austere, breath-stopping lines:

“Cast a cold eye

On life, On death.

Horseman, pass by!”

Rest assured, the marketeers of Sligo have no intention of letting anyone pass by that easily during this year of the 150th anniversary of his birth. There will be fumbling in the greasy till ere you go. Yes, there are many wonderful things to do. Plays, concerts, exhibitions, listening to the wind in the reeds.

But the kitschification of Yeats has also arrived, its hour come round at last.

“For Yeats’ sake”, large municipal signs around Sligo urge: “Please do not drop your litter.” Presumably the evidence of the poet’s concern on this front arises from his admission in “The Circus Animals’ Desertion” that the “masterful images” of his poetry began in “A mound of refuse, or the sweepings of a street”.

Bottles and cans

I do not see many old kettles lying about, but there are a few old bottles and cans, right enough. The hideous statue of the poet still sniffs the air outside the old Ulster Bank.

In one shop, propped up among teddy bears in Aran jerseys and leprechaun egg timers, there is a helpful list of “Yeats Gifts”.

The shopkeeper sees me turn aside from the Irish coffee glasses. They have what appears to be the new Yeats logo on them, the squiggled quiff of hair above a pair of round glasses. “I have shot glasses too,” he offers. There is an opticians sign that says “wine comes in at the mouth and love comes in at the eye” and has Yeats with his round glasses emphasised. A shiny brochure for a big house for sale by Lough Gill gushes that it is in the heart of “Yates country”.

In Drumcliff church a young man with a loud voice jokes with his customers as he sells rolled-up scrolls of the poems. A sticker in the door of the (excellent) café beside it entices with: “Yeats spoken here”, and the cover of the menu says: “All things can tempt me . . .”, which is at least witty.

Hard sell

Around the walls, lines have been painted in gothic script from “He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven” which run seamlessly into, in the same font, “please order at the counter.” At wonderful Lissadell, the hard sell meets you in the courtyard.

In Glencar, Leitrim County Council has been unable to damage the potent magic of “the waters and the wild” but not for want of trying. For a while there was a motorway-sized sign in front of the waterfall which warned: “Danger – deep water”, though in fairness, there was no attempt to attribute this to Yeats. There have been endless “improvements” including Narnia-style streetlamps and some more unspeakable planning decisions.

The post office in Sligo has a lurid three-dimensional postcard from John Hinde, from the depths of which images of Beckett, Stoker, Wilde, Joyce and Yeats loom out, alongside quotations allegedly from their work. Attributed to Yeats is: “There are no strangers here; Only friends you haven’t yet met.” All over Sligo this line features on all manner of items. Prince Charles even took the trouble to translate it into Irish for his speech.

Can this clunky bumper sticker bonhomie really be from the magnificent, haughty Yeats? He valued friendship, writing of a select few: “My glory was I had such friends” but also: “There’s not a fool can call me friend”. Nor did he welcome all comers, confiding in Lady Gregory of partition: “I have long been of opinion that, if such disagreeable people shut the door, we should turn the key in the lock before they change their mind.”

Tea towel

For all this, many grotesque opportunities have been missed. I find no tea towel with “Great hatred, little room”. No mug declaring that “Empedocles has thrown all things about”. No T-shirt declaring: “All out of shape from toe to top”, available in motley colours and all sizes. I seek in vain a set of baseball caps emblazoned: “Base-born products of base beds”, though plenty of us, whose parents are neither aristocrats nor fishermen, are surely eligible to wear them. Perfect for stag parties. Why stop? Wherever he lies, the poet must already be turning and turning. “You have disgraced yourselves again.” (WB Yeats).