Only Now, Niall

                                                  RIP sweet Niall McDevitt cosmic being.
                                                                                 Photo: Julie Goldsmith                                                    

                                                                  Writer, poet-psychogeographer,
                                                                      Editor of International Times
                                                              lover of William Blake and cosmic being. 
                                                       Passed gentle away, his love Julie Goldsmith at his side.

                                  (i.m. Niall  McDevitt, 22^ND February 1967 – 29^th September 2022)

Born with Blake on your lips and the uncommon breath
Of all poets, you slip now from the stanza into the founding
Source of all art. To be immortalised in the earth, gardened
With grace and gain from your shadow, while ordering both
Light and language, the study of which shaped your heart,

The scrutiny of your stare, your intellect and your walking,
As an Avenue-Acolyte, Niall, you led us back across time
To strange streets which were re-lit by the force of your ever
Adventurous spirit, which will be writing now as you watch us,
Side by side with Blake, Gascoyne, Swinburne and all of

The golden ones you now meet. Where are you? We wait,
All who talked and drank with you. Max, Micalef, Robert,
Heathcote, and your family too, whom you’ve graced.
Roddy, Yvonne, your Mother and shining still,
Your lost father, whose hand now grasps your shoulder

And sweetly leads you into a dark and deep, firm embrace.
And then of course, more than all, more even than your friends
Who have gathered, there is your beloved Julie, partner in life
And all time, whose own work looks on worlds separate
To ours, dream constructed; hers is now, Niall, your kingdom,
The towers of which she will climb when she too answers
The call to which you have so bravely responded. Telling no-one
At all but those loved ones who shared each strained hour,
Which played with your measure, but the measure of a man
Like you stays divine, on earth and in air which we will now

Have to complete and breathe for you; those who liked, loved
And learned from you, as you stood in that suit, with those shoes! 
Golden trainers, which sport your new Hermes like journey
All of the way to Olympus, from Dublin, Portobello, the Isle of Wight,
And the corners where Barker, Blake, Byron, Marlowe and Yeats

Met their muse. Boy, how you blazed! The Bohran and heart
Drumming! That rich voice! That steeled passion! Undimmed
With the humour that still decorated your smile, right until
A fulfilling Wednesday night and before Thursday’s first hours,
From which sleep’s scent stole you swiftly and bore you towards

The far isle, beloved of all writers when we come to understand
Our words go there, for death’s a translation into the proper tongue
Of the stars. This could be heard in your voice when proclaiming
And expertly explaining, as it becomes memory-music, we will
Listen, ears pressed to love’s bars. It reminds me that these

Scratchings we make, from whim to word, and then paper
Are but the descriptions of gifts we must give to the Gods,
Be they deities, or something else, distant, astral.
Now you know, Niall. You teach us, as we shuffle to fill the space
You once trod. Your trail remains.  And it will be our test

And our trial to follow and further the sentence from which
Your brilliance was begat.  You were a pure poet, made in total
Dedication to verses, which contained, kept and coloured
All that an unkept Mum will relinquish and all that will not stay
Still under  hats. And so, Niall McDevitt, your style, your sense,

Your faith in the poem as prince, and your fervour will be
Remembered as Kensal  Rise houses your body and breath
For  new air caught in the trees and heard in your next
Earth-stirred poem. Just over one year ago, this was where
You eulogised Michael. and we can all see you now,

Standing there.  You were Horovitz’s neighbour, always. 
And here you are still, lost heads talking. Discussing the prize
In all poems. Our vow now keeps you with us.  In loss
And with love.

                               This I swear.

                                                                          David Erdos, 29th September 2022
                                                                          Photo: Julie Goldsmith

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