An Irishman's Diary

IT’S A PITY WB Yeats is not alive to make sense for us of these confusing times. The great man had a useful habit of writing poems that summed up moments in history, eg: September 1913 and Easter 1916. And while it’s true that “March 2010” does not sound so poetic, he could surely have done something interesting with the material.

For starters, he would have had to revise his opinion that romantic Ireland is dead and gone. I’m not referring here only to Patsy Brogan, the 72-year-old Donegal philanthropist who keeps a fully stocked pub in his shed, provides free drink for neighbours, and is planning to marry his 29-year-old Polish girlfriend. Although that might provide Yeats with a verse or two, right enough.

No, I was thinking more about the news that the Central Bank is hiring a consultant to manage its art collection, which was acquired both for the moral benefit of staff and to support struggling artists. This could only warm the heart of a poet who wrote September 1913in protest at a materialist Ireland's refusal to fund the Hugh Lane gallery. How times have changed.

Presiding over the collapse of the Irish banking system might have weakened the commitment to art of a lesser Central Bank. But not ours: which continues to soar over Dublin’s commercial district, literally and metaphorically, like a bricks-and-mortar version of Mount Parnassus. No fumbling in a greasy til there.

The message from banking headquarters, to paraphrase another Yeats poem, is that things may fall apart, but the centre can hold: if only onto its art collection. WB must be smiling down on the building. Come to think of it, maybe he was reincarnated as that peregrine falcon on the roof.

This week has not been all good news for Irish culture, however. With his dramatist hat on, Yeats would have been concerned by the comments of Denis Conway, after he was named best actor at the Irish Timestheatre awards. Railing against Arts Council cuts, Conway warned: "Though our art seems to be getting in the way of their accountancy, they should be careful their accountancy does not get in the way of our art."

This would be very interesting material for Yeats. For even as the Central Bank is reaffirming its commitment to the arts, apparently, the Arts Council is diversifying into accountancy. It’s just a good thing Colm McCarthy didn’t notice the two bodies had such complementary skill-sets, or he would have recommended a merger.

Another cultural issue Yeats might touch upon in "March 2010" is the closure of Sallynoggin Library in South Dublin: also a result of the cutbacks. I thought it was April 1st yesterday when Morning Irelandinterviewed the council official responsible, whose name was – wait for it – "Shakespeare".

Even after I checked the date, my suspicions lingered, especially when Mr Shakespeare said of the closure: “It’s not a closure. It’s a redefining [of] the way the service is delivered.” He went on to explain that, although the branch was indeed closing, there would continue to be a lending facility, albeit for only six to 10 hours a week and staffed by volunteers. I suspect everyone listening had the same Shakespearian thought at this point, ie: “What’s in a name? That which we call a closure by any other name would smell as bad.” But no doubt Yeats would have been more original.

OF COURSE, even Yeats might have struggled to make something coherent from the chaos of contemporary events. Which is where I suggest the antique Chinese vase that sold for a thousand times its guide price in Durrow on Tuesday would come in.

Like Keats and his Grecian urn, Yeats could have used the vase as a unifying motif to reflect on the difference between what is passing and what is permanent. Also, on balance, “Ode to a Chinese Vase” would make a better title than “March 2010”.

Maybe his ode would have started with a mention of how the vase was pilfered from Peking’s Imperial Palace by 19th century occupiers. It could then have juxtaposed that crisis for China with Ireland’s current occupation (near enough) by the IMF: in the process making an implied comparison between the theft of the vase and the disappearance of Sallynoggin Library.

In passing, Yeats might have explored the irony of reports that the vase may now be sold back to China for €3 million. And, on behalf of despairing taxpayers, might have wondered why, if the Central Bank is such an experienced dealer in objets d'art, it didn't buy the vase for Ireland, as a back-payment of the cost of the banking collapse.

But naturally, in the end, Yeats would have concluded that none of this matters. When all else subsides, he would have said, great art will prevail. Which is presumably also the Central Bank’s message to its employees, as it aims to “enhance and enrich” their workplace by surrounding them with beautiful things.

In fact, perhaps this will also be the sentiment of senior officials when they descend from Mount Parnassus in due course to face the banking inquiry. Then, in the absence of anything new from Yeats, they will at least be able to quote Keats, vis-a-vis the urn, to their questioners. “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,” they can say. “That is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”