A limited-edition book of 12 poems is being hand made using traditional printing methods and materials. Already 67 copies have been sold at €1,000 each, writes ROSITA BOLAND

ONE COPY of Many Mansions has already been reserved for Barack Obama, for the as-yet unscheduled day when he comes to visit Ireland. There are 124 other copies in this limited edition of poems by six Irish poets, but you wouldn’t want to be leaving this particular book behind on the train after you, as it costs €1,000. So far 67 copies have been sold.

Many Mansions is a small, jewel-like book of just 12 poems, on 48 pages, all of them previously unpublished. The book is itself a piece of art: handmade paper, using letterpress printing, handbound in goatskin; each exacting part of the process done by different craftsmen. It is being published by Stoney Road Press to raise money for the Ireland Chair of Poetry Trust; a professorship set up in partnership with the Arts Councils of Northern Ireland and Ireland, Trinity College, Queen’s University and UCD.

To date, Michael Longley, John Montague, Paul Durcan and Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill have each held the chair. Seamus Heaney and Ciaran Carson are trustees. All six poets have contributed two poems each to the anthology, and each of them have signed their title page. The title comes from a John Montague poem.

James O’Nolan is one of two directors of Stoney Road, a press which specialises in artists’s prints and limited edition books for collectors. Stoney Road was approached a couple of months ago to take on the project, which it is charging a small cost for. Most of the profit will go to The Poetry Trust. So what kind of person is buying this book, which is certainly beautiful but also very expensive?

“Private collectors in Ireland and abroad, some universities, a few libraries and a few independent bookshops,” explains O’Nolan. “And dealers,” he acknowledges. “They always buy some of these kinds of books.”

There are a number of craftspeople working on different stages of the book, including bookbinders Antiquarian Bookcrafts. Purists will note, though, that it is not a wholly Irish-produced piece of work, as the 250gsm Rives Blanc paper was made in England, and the dyed blue goatskin for the binding comes from France.

However all the pages have been printed at the National Print Museum at Beggars Bush, Dublin 4, using a traditional letterpress method, by typographer Conrad Devlin (73).

“I’ve been working on the book now for about a month,” Devlin says. A typesetter all his life, he donated some of his printing equipment to the National Print Museum, and thus has an arrangement with them to come in a couple of days a week to work on small, specialised projects. This, however, is the most expensive edition he’s ever worked on.

“Letterpress was the principal method of printing for five centuries and suddenly we have a generation of people out there, young people, who have no idea what it’s about and how much skill went into it, because it’s so easy now to do things on computer. People come in here to the museum and they think everything here dates back to the Middle Ages but, in actual fact, it was all working in my lifetime!” Devlin laughs.

The poem that has most stuck in his head is Heaney’s Lick the Pencil, because it reminds him of his childhood. “It was about copying ink pencils that used be around when I was a child, and if you licked the top, you got a purple effect, and everyone was going around with purple tongues.” He also recalls Paul Durcan’s poem, Nuala O’Faolain, which is about hearing the news on the day of her death.

Today is last day of printing, and Devlin is 80 pages away from finishing his part of the job. The plate in place is the last verse of one of John Montague’s two poems, Disappointments. “There’s a value attached to working by hand in this high-technology world.”

The pages are about the size of telephone book leaves, and their large size has meant Devlin has to be particularly careful when inserting them to be printed.

“It’s a bit complex, simply because the press I have won’t take the width of the sheet,” he explains, demonstrating as he feeds a sheet into the “grabbers”.

Expertly, he pulls the paper through a mangle-type piece of equipment. “So I’m printing sideways and that creates problems.” He holds up the printed sheet and carefully puts it to one side. Then he peers down at the freshly inked zinc plate. “When you print sideways, you’re up against a lot of technical problems – the rollers tend to leave a residue of ink on the side. It needs to be cleaned off between each printing, so the ink is not too dark nor too light. So it’s a labour of love, really,” Devlin says, and he is happy to admit it.

For more information: irelandchairofpoetry.org or mail@stoneyroadpress.com. Copies that are reserved before publication on Nov 23 are €1,000 and after that they will be €1,250

LICK THE PENCIL

by Seamus Heaney

i

'Lick the pencil' we might have called him

So quick he was to wet the lead, so deft

His hand-to-mouth and tongue-flirt round the stub.

Or 'drench the cow', so fierce his nostril-grab

And peel-back of her lip, so accurately forced

The bottle-neck between her big bare teeth.

Or 'catch the horse', for in spite of the low-set

Cut of him, he could always slip an arm

Around the neck and fit winkers on

In a single move. But as much for the surprise

As for the truth of it, 'Lick the pencil'

Is what it's going to be.

ii

A 'copying pencil', so called who knows why,

That inked itself and purpled when you licked,

About as short

As the long butts in his pocket

And every bit as tangy, in constant need

Of sharpening, then of testing

On the back of his left hand, the line as bright

As bloodlines holly leaves might score

On the back of a bird-nester's,

Indelible as the glum grey pocks

White dandelion milk

Would mark your skin with as it dried.

iii

In memory of him, behold those pigmentations

Moisten and magnify to resemble marks

On Colmcille's monk's habit

The day he died, the day he didn't need

To catch the horse since the horse had come to him

Where he sat beside a path

Because, as the Vita says, 'he was weary'.

And the horse 'wept on his breast

So the saints clothes were made wet.'

Then 'Let him, Diarmait, be,' said Colmcille

To his attendant, 'till he has sorrowed for me

And cried his fill.'

The poets and their poems

JOHN MONTAGUE

Many Mansions

Disappointments

NUALA NÍ DHOMHNAILL

As an gcaoineadh 'BÁS AN tSEALGAIRE'

Dán Pósta Do Ay?

PAUL DURCAN

Death of a Miniaturist

Nuala O'Faolain

MICHAEL LONGLEY

Firewood

Mary O'Toole

CIARAN CARSON

Until 1

Until 2

SEAMUS HEANEY

The Conway Stewart

Lick the Pencil