Pangur Bán BY ANONYMOUS TRANSLATED BY SEAMUS HEANEY From
the ninth-century Irish poem Pangur Bán and I at work,
Adepts, equals, cat and clerk: His whole instinct is to hunt, Mine
to free the meaning pent. More than loud acclaim, I love
Books, silence, thought, my alcove. Happy for me, Pangur Bán
Child-plays round some mouse’s den. Truth to tell, just being
here, Housed alone, housed together, Adds up to its own reward:
Concentration, stealthy art. Next thing an unwary mouse Bares
his flank: Pangur pounces. Next thing lines that held and held
Meaning back begin to yield. All the while, his round bright eye
Fixes on the wall, while I Focus my less piercing gaze On the
challenge of the page. With his unsheathed, perfect nails
Pangur springs, exults and kills. When the longed-for, difficult
Answers come, I too exult. So it goes. To each his own. No
vying. No vexation. Taking pleasure, taking pains, Kindred
spirits, veterans. Day and night, soft purr, soft pad, Pangur
Bán has learned his trade. Day and night, my own hard work Solves
the cruxes, makes a mark.
This week’s we’re reading a poem by
an anonymous Irish monk of the 9th century – “Pangur Ban.” This
wonderful poem was written by a monk, about his cat—probably a white
cat, since the word “Ban” means white. The poem is found in only one
manuscript, the Reichenau Primer, which dates to the early 800s. It was
written by an Irish monk at Reichenau Abbey in Germany. How did
an Irish monk end up in Germany? Irish monks were everywhere—in the
early Middle Ages, Irish monasteries sent missionaries and scholars all
over Europe. Reichenau was a thriving center for the arts, perhaps best
known for a book of Gospel readings called the Pericopes of Henry II,
which contains magnificent illuminations. The “primer” or
notebook in which the poem is found gives us a glimpse into the wide
range of interests of an Irish monk. It includes a glossary of Greek
words, as well as notes on Homer’s Aeneid, on angels, on places
mentioned in the Bible, and on astronomy, not to mention several poems
written in old Irish. In this poem, the monk works alone in his
cell—well, not quite alone, because Pangur Ban, the cat, is there as
well. The monk compares his own work with that of Pangur Ban. Monastery
cats had work to do; their job was to control the monastery population
of mice! The poem cleverly juxtaposes the task of scholarship
with the task of the cat. The cat hunts for mice; the monk hunts for
meanings. Both of them work in silence; and sometimes they have to wait
patiently for a long time. But eventually “an unwary mouse / Bares his
flank” to Pangur, and in the same way the difficult texts the monk is
working on gradually begin to yield up their meaning. The monk marvels
at Pangur’s determination: “his round bright eye / Fixes on the wall,”
waiting for any sign of a mouse, while the poet’s “less piercing gaze”
is focused on “the challenge of the page.” The cat and the scholar are
both exultant when the mouse is caught; when the meaning is captured.
This little poem opens a window on life in a 9th century monastery,
giving us a glimpse of people like us: people who spend days working at
a desk; people who delight in the company of their favorite animals.
Pangur may be there because he has a job to do, but the affection the
monk has for the cat is unmistakable. In fact, he seems to get along
better with the cat than anyone else: they work in harmony with each
other, “adepts, equals,” “no vying, no vexation.” They are “kindred
spirits, veterans”—in other words, they are friends. Pangur Ban
is a celebration of the intellectual life, the joy that comes with
discovery and understanding. It’s also a celebration of animals and the
way they enrich our lives. Though it was written almost four hundred
years before St. Francis of Assisi was born, these words about Saint
Francis could be said of the anonymous poet as well: “He rejoices in all
the works of the Lord’s hands, and through their delightful display he
gazes on their life-giving reason and cause. In beautiful things he
discerns Beauty Itself; all good things cry out to him: ‘The One who
made us is the Best.’” (Thomas of Celano)
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