Mo Ghrá-Sa (Idir Lúibini) / My Own Love (In Brackets)
K. E. Dennis
of Thomas Wyatt
in the " Glanmore Sonnets." This is, I think, one of the
happier results of the cultural mix that has evolved into modern
Irish culture - that complex interaction between the two rich
traditions of poetry in Irish & English.
It can be seen not only in those Irish poets who write in
English, but in the works of those committed to the First
National Language - as witness this poem by Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill,
a wry & charming update of the theme of Shakespeare's Sonnet 130.
Respectfully submitted,
|K.E. Dennis den...@mail.montclair.edu
|My employer is not responsible for my opinions,
|regardless of how sensible they are.
----------------------
Mo Ghrá-Sa (Idir Lúibini) / My Own Love (In Brackets)
Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill
Selected Poems: Rogha Dánta
1988, Raven Arts Press
----------------------
Mo Ghrá-Sa (Idir Lúibini)
Nil mo ghrá-sa
Mar bhláth na n-airní
Ar bhíonn i ngairdín
(nó ar chrann ar bith)
is má tá aon ghaol aige
le nóiníní
is as a chluasa a fhásfaidh siad
(nuair a bheidh sé ocht dtroigh síos)
ní haon ghlaise cheolmhar
iad a shúile
(táid róchóngarach dá chéile
ar an gcéad dul síos)
is más slim é síoda
tá ribí a ghruaige
(mar bhean dhubh Shakespeare)
ina _wire_ deilgní.
Ach is cuma sin.
Tugann sé dom
Úlla
(is nuair a bhíonn sé i ndea-ghiúmar
caora finiúna).
----------------------
My Own Love (In Brackets) [trans., Michael Hartnett]
My own love --
he's no sloe-blossom
in a garden
(nor on any tree)
and if he's anything to do
with daisies
it's from his ears they'll grow
(when he's eight feet under)
His eyes do not shine
like a mountain stream
(they're much too close-set
to make him a Hollywood dream)
and if silk is smooth
the hairs of his head
(like Shakespeare's Dark Lady)
are thorny wire.
But it doesn't matter.
He gives me
apples
(and when he's in a good humour
he gives me grapes).
----------------------
Sonnet 130
William Shakespeare
----------------------
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the Sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts be dun;
If hairs be wires, black wire grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks,
And in some perfumes there is more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go -
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet by heaven I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
---------
eala liath
be well along the path which I have only recently begun, a journey
into the primal power of poetry. Connections made on this level are
almost mystic, indescribable. Thanks to your previous post I have
become aware of other "echoes", for example of "The Fisherman" by
Yeats in "Casualty" by Heaney..
eala liath
On Fri, 23 Oct 1998 20:58:04 -0400, "K. E. Dennis"
<den...@mail.montclair.edu> wrote:
- - ->In a recent thread on Seamus Heaney's poetry, I noted his
echoing
- - ->of Thomas Wyatt
- - ->in the " Glanmore Sonnets." This is, I think, one of the
- - ->happier results of the cultural mix that has evolved into modern
- - ->Irish culture - that complex interaction between the two rich
- - ->traditions of poetry in Irish & English.
- - ->
- - ->It can be seen not only in those Irish poets who write in
- - ->English, but in the works of those committed to the First
- - ->National Language - as witness this poem by Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill,
- - ->a wry & charming update of the theme of Shakespeare's Sonnet
130.
- - ->
- - ->Respectfully submitted,
- - ->
- - ->|K.E. Dennis den...@mail.montclair.edu
- - ->|My employer is not responsible for my opinions,
- - ->|regardless of how sensible they are.
- - ->
- - ->----------------------
- - ->
- - ->Mo Ghrá-Sa (Idir Lúibini) / My Own Love (In Brackets)
- - ->Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill
- - ->Selected Poems: Rogha Dánta
- - ->1988, Raven Arts Press
- - ->
- - ->----------------------
- - ->
- - ->Mo Ghrá-Sa (Idir Lúibini)
- - ->
- - ->Nil mo ghrá-sa
- - ->Mar bhláth na n-airní
- - ->Ar bhíonn i ngairdín
- - ->(nó ar chrann ar bith)
- - ->
- - ->is má tá aon ghaol aige
- - ->le nóiníní
- - ->is as a chluasa a fhásfaidh siad
- - ->(nuair a bheidh sé ocht dtroigh síos)
- - ->
- - ->ní haon ghlaise cheolmhar
- - ->iad a shúile
- - ->(táid róchóngarach dá chéile
- - ->ar an gcéad dul síos)
- - ->
- - ->is más slim é síoda
- - ->tá ribí a ghruaige
- - ->(mar bhean dhubh Shakespeare)
- - ->ina _wire_ deilgní.
- - ->
- - ->Ach is cuma sin.
- - ->Tugann sé dom
- - ->Úlla
- - ->(is nuair a bhíonn sé i ndea-ghiúmar
- - ->caora finiúna).
- - ->
- - ->----------------------
- - ->
- - ->My Own Love (In Brackets) [trans., Michael Hartnett]
- - ->
- - ->My own love --
- - ->he's no sloe-blossom
- - ->in a garden
- - ->(nor on any tree)
- - ->
- - ->and if he's anything to do
- - ->with daisies
- - ->it's from his ears they'll grow
- - ->(when he's eight feet under)
- - ->
- - ->His eyes do not shine
- - ->like a mountain stream
- - ->(they're much too close-set
- - ->to make him a Hollywood dream)
- - ->
- - ->and if silk is smooth
- - ->the hairs of his head
- - ->(like Shakespeare's Dark Lady)
- - ->are thorny wire.
- - ->
- - ->But it doesn't matter.
- - ->He gives me
- - ->apples
- - ->(and when he's in a good humour
- - ->he gives me grapes).
- - ->
- - ->----------------------
- - ->
- - ->Sonnet 130
- - ->William Shakespeare
- - ->----------------------
- - ->
- - ->My mistress' eyes are nothing like the Sun;
- - ->Coral is far more red than her lips red;
- - ->If snow be white, why then her breasts be dun;
- - ->If hairs be wires, black wire grow on her head.
- - ->I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
- - ->But no such roses see I in her cheeks,
- - ->And in some perfumes there is more delight
- - ->Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
- - ->I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
- - ->That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
- - ->I grant I never saw a goddess go -
- - ->My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
- - ->And yet by heaven I think my love as rare
- - ->As any she belied with false compare.
- - ->
- - ->---------
- - ->
- - ->
K. E. Dennis
> I thank you for your reflective and insightful postings. You seem to
> be well along the path which I have only recently begun, a journey
> into the primal power of poetry.
<blush>
Only an amateur, ma'am, only an amateur.
But many thanks for your generous comments.
<deep bow>
> Thanks to your previous post I have
> become aware of other "echoes", for example of "The Fisherman" by
> Yeats in "Casualty" by Heaney..
You've certainly returned the favour: I hadn't previously seen the way in
which themes in "The Fisherman" can be read in "Casualty."
[For those who haven't ready access to a volume of Yeats, I've posted it
below.]
There is another of Yeats' poems that I think Heaney echoes in "Casualty"
as well: the heartsick & angry " Nineteen Hundred and Nineteen," the first
part of which is also below.
Respectfully submitted,
|K.E. Dennis den...@mail.montclair.edu
|My employer is not responsible for my opinions,
|regardless of how sensible they are.
----------------------------------------
William Butler Yeats
The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats
Pub., 1933 The Macmillan Co.
----------------------------------------
The Fisherman
Although I can see him still,
The freckled man who goes
To a grey place on a hill
In grey Connemara clothes
At dawn to cast his flies,
It's long since I began
To call up to the eyes
This wise and simple man.
All day I'd looked in the face
What I had hoped 'twould be
To write for my own race
And the reality;
The living men that I hate,
The dead man that I loved,
The craven man in his seat,
The insolent unreproved,
And no knave brought to book
Who has won a drunken cheer,
The witty man and his joke
Aimed at the commonest ear,
The clever man who cries
The catch-cry of the clown,
The beating down of the wise,
And great Art beaten down.
Maybe a twelvemonth since
Suddenly I began,
In scorn of this audience,
Imagining a man,
And his sun-freckled face,
And grey Connemara cloth,
Climbing up to a place
Where stone is dark under froth,
And the down-turn of his wrist
When the flies drop in the stream;
A man who does not exist,
A man who is but a dream;
And cried, 'Before I am old
I shall have written him one
Poem maybe as cold
And passionate as the dawn.'
---------------------------------------------
From: Nineteen Hundred and Nineteen
I.
Many ingenious lovely things are gone
That seemed sheer miracle to the multitude,
Protected from the circle of the moon
That pitches common things about. There stood
Amid the ornamental bronze and stone
An ancient image made of olive wood -
And gone are Phidias' famous ivories
And all the golden grasshoppers and bees.
We too had many pretty toys when young:
A law indifferent to blame or praise,
To bribe or threat; habits that made old wrong
Melt down, as it were wax in the sun's rays;
Public opinion ripening for so long
We thought it would outlive all future days.
O what fine thought we had because we thought
That the worst rogues and rascals had died out.
All teeth were drawn, all ancient tricks unlearned,
And a great army but a showy thing;
What matter that no cannon had been turned
Into a ploughshare? Parliament and king
Thought that unless a little powder burned
The trumpeters might burst with trumpeting
And yet it lack all glory; and perchance
The guardsmen's drowsy chargers would not prance.
Now days are dragon-ridden, the nightmare
Rides upon sleep; a drunken soldiery
Can leave the mother, murdered at her door,
To crawl in her own blood, and go scot-free;
The night can sweat with terror as before
We pieced our thoughts into philosophy,
And planned to bring the world under a rule,
Who are but weasels fighting in a hole.
He who can read the signs nor sink unmanned
Into the half-deceit of some intoxicant
From shallow wits; who knows no work can stand,
Whether health, wealth or peace of mind were spent
On master-work of intellect or hand,
No honour leave its mighty monument,
Has but one comfort left: all triumph would
But break upon his ghostly solitude.
But is there any comfort to be found?
Man is in love and loves what vanishes
What more is there to say? That country round
None dared admit, if such a thought was his,
Incendiary or bigot could be found
To burn that stump on the Acropolis,
Or break in bits the famous ivories
Or traffic in the grasshoppers and bees.
------------------------
K. E. Dennis
is most endearing is how each poet finds a unique way to express a
common theme - so, just as Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill echoed Shakespeare,
here John Montague echoes Ní Dhomhnaill.
Respectfully submitted,
|K.E. Dennis den...@mail.montclair.edu
|My employer is not responsible for my opinions,
|regardless of how sensible they are.
---------------------
The Well-Beloved
John Montague
Bitter Harvest: An Anthology of Contemporary Irish Verse
Pub., 1989, Charles Scribner's Sons
---------------------
The Well-Beloved
To wake up and discover -
a splurge of chill water -
that she was but a forthright woman
on whom we had bestowed
(because of the crook of an elbow,
the swing of a breast or hip,
a glance half understood)
divinity or angelhood?
Raised by the fury of our need,
supplicating, lusting, grovelling
before the tall tree of Artemis,
the transfiguring bow of Diana,
the rooting vulva of Circe, or
the slim shape of a nymph,
luring, dancing, beckoning:
all her wild disguises!
And now she does not shine,
or ride, like the full moon,
gleam or glisten like cascades
of uncatchable, blinding water;
disturb like the owl's cry
by night, predatory, hovering;
marshlight, moonstone, or devil's daughter.
But conducts herself like any
Normal citizen, orderly or slattern,
giving us a piece of her mind,
pacifying or scolding children,
or, more determinedly, driving
or riding to her office, after
depositing the children in a crêche,
while she fulfills herself,
competing with the best.
Of course, she is probably saying
the same thing of us, as oisin,
our tall hero from fairyland,
descends or falls from the saddle
to dwindle into an irritable husband,
worn down by the quotidian,
unwilling to transform the night
with love's necessary shafts of light.
Except that when the old desires stir
- fish under weed-tangled waters -
will she remember that we once were
the strange ones who understood
that powers that coursed so furiously
through her witch blood, prepared
to stand bareheaded, open handed,
to recognise, worship, and obey:
to defy custom, redeem the ordinary,
with trembling heart, and obeisant knee
to kneel, prostrate ourselves again,
if necessary, before the lady?
------------------------