Biography of Michael Donaghy
Michael Donaghy (May 24, 1954 – September 16, 2004) was a New York poet and musician, who lived in London from 1985.
Donaghy was born into an Irish family and grew up with his sister Patricia in the Bronx, New York, losing both parents in their early thirties. He studied at Fordham University and did postgraduate work at the University of Chicago, where, at 25, he edited the Chicago Review. Donaghy commented: “I owe everything I know about poetry to the public library system (in New York City) and not to my miseducation at university [...] I mean, the Bronx, who knows, now it may be full of cappuccino bars and bookshops, but back in those days it wasn’t. My parents would say something like ‘go out and play in the burning wreckage until dinnertime’ and I’d make a beeline for the library.” He founded the acclaimed Irish music ensemble Samradh Music and played the tin whistle, the bodhran and was a flute player of distinction, music echoing in the themes and forms of his writing.
In 1985, he moved to just off Green Lanes in Harringay, north London to join his partner and fellow musician, Maddy Paxman, whom he married in 2003; their son, Ruairi, was born in 1996. He joined the London poetry workshop, founded by the Belfast poet Robert Greacen and later chaired by Matthew Sweeney, whose members included Vicki Feaver, Ruth Padel, Jo Shapcott, Maurice Riordan, Eva Salzman and Don Paterson. Rapidly establishing himself on the poetry scene, he published his first full collection, Shibboleth, in 1988 - the title poem of which won second prize in the 1987 National Poetry Competition. Errata followed in 1993, and Conjure in 2000. Recognition came in the form of the Geoffrey Faber and Cholmondeley awards and the Whitbread and Forward prizes, among others. In 2003, he teamed up with Cyborg scientist Kevin Warwick and wrote Grimoire. He continued to play in various Irish music groups, as well as the early line-up of Lammas, the jazz/traditional crossover band led by Tim Garland and poet Don Paterson. He was a creative writing tutor for the Arvon Foundation and the Poetry Society and later ran an extension course for City University London. He wrote and reviewed for Poetry Review, Poetry, The New Yorker and The Times Literary Supplement. His poetry, influential to a younger generation of poets, is noted for its metaphysical elegance and playfulness, and his skillful use of form.
He died suddenly of a brain haemorrhage on September 17, 2004. David Wheatley wrote in The Guardian: "The death of Michael Donaghy in 2004 at the age of 50 has been one of the most deeply felt losses to the poetry world in recent years. Not since Sylvia Plath almost half a century ago had an American poet living in Britain so decisively entered the bloodstream of his times." The Times described him as "one of the most widely respected figures on the British poetry scene and a fierce defender of poetry as a source of pleasure and truth." His fourth collection Safest was published posthumously in 2005 and a prose collection The Shape of the Dance in 2009.
Michael Donaghy Poems
Dearest, note how these two are alike: This harpsicord pavane by Purcell And the racer's twelve-speed bike.
For the present there is just one moon, though every level pond gives back another.
are shed, and every day workers recover the bloated cadavers of lovers or lover who drown in cars this way. And they crowbar the door and ordinary stories pour, furl, crash, and spill downhill - as water will - not orient, nor sparkling, but still.
Dearest, note how these two are alike: This harpsicord pavane by Purcell And the racer's twelve-speed bike. The machinery of grace is always simple. This chrome trapezoid, one wheel connected To another of concentric gears, Which Ptolemy dreamt of and Schwinn perfected, Is gone. The cyclist, not the cycle, steers. And in the playing, Purcell's chords are played away. So this talk, or touch if I were there, Should work its effortless gadgetry of love, Like Dante's heaven, and melt into the air. If it doesn't, of course, I've fallen. So much is chance, So much agility, desire, and feverish care, As bicyclists and harpsicordists prove Who only by moving can balance, Only by balancing move.
Black Ice and Rain
Can I come in? I saw you slip away. Hors d'oeuvres depress you, don't they? They do me. And cocktails, jokes … such dutiful abandon.
For the present there is just one moon,
though every level pond gives back another.
But the bright disc shining in the black lagoon,
perceived by astrophysicist and lover,
is milliseconds old. And even that light's
seven minutes older than its source.