Poets of Ireland
Kenneth F. Shilkun
My wife, nee Christina Riley, needs a list of Irish Poets. If you have a
favorite poet or poem, would you be so kind as to post it for her. She
wishes to introduce the Irish soul to the kids in middle school in central
Texas.
Thank you
eilonwy
One of my favorites is W.B. Yeats...I enjoy all of his work that I've read,
but a few poems that stand out for me are "When You Are Old", "Adam's
Curse", "Easter 1916", & "A Prayer for My Daughter".
A couple of the more well-known poems by Yeats (read: On the syllabus in
just about every poetry class I took both in high school and in college)
are "Sailing to Byzantium" & "Leda and the Swan"
--el
Kenneth F. Shilkun <shi...@ktc.com> wrote in article
<34f95...@207.71.36.3>...
Conrad Jay Bladey
Czech out my web pages under literature and verse
That should get things moving along:
http://www.ncf.carleton.ca/~bj333/HomePage.home.html
Conrad
Kenneth F. Shilkun wrote:
>
> My wife, nee Christina Riley, needs a list of Irish Poets. If you have a
> favorite poet or poem, would you be so kind as to post it for her. She
> wishes to introduce the Irish soul to the kids in middle school in central
> Texas.
> Thank you
--
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Tony Dermody
Kenneth F. Shilkun wrote:
>My wife, nee Christina Riley, needs a list of Irish Poets. If you have a
>favorite poet or poem, would you be so kind as to post it for her. She
>wishes to introduce the Irish soul to the kids in middle school in central
>Texas.
Hmmm.
I presume that middle school is secondary school for children from about 12 to
18 years of age.
The list of Irish poets is far too long to post. You should get one of the good
anthologies of Irish poetry, such as Faber's, the Oxford, and so on. They will
be found in any good bookshop, especially in a large city.
William Butler Yeats is unquestionably the greatest modern Irish poet in the
English language. I believe he is the greatest English language poet since
Shakespeare. That is not to say he is everyone's favourite; far from it. But
he is mine. Here are two of my favourites from him:
The Song of the Wandering Aengus
I went out to a hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream,
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
(This poem employs the 'Aisling' or dream experience common in old Irish
language poetry. There are myriad layers of meaning in the poem which we can
tease out if you wish. But it still can be enjoyed perfectly well just for its
beautiful imagery and word craft).
Or how about this extraordinary masterpiece:
The Wild Swans at Coole
The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine and fifty swans.
The nineteenth autumn has come upon me
Since first I made my count;
I saw, before I had well finished,
All suddenly mount
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings
Upon their clamorous wings.
I have looked upon these brilliant creatures,
And now my heart is sore.
All's changed since I, hearing at twilight,
The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
Trod with lighter tread.
Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.
But now they drift on the clear water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?
I haven't time to post any more at this time, but I hope to return to this theme
shortly. I haven't finished by a long shot.
Tony Dermody
(Delete 'nodamnjunk.' from e-mail address to reply).
SPARK: http://www.iol.ie/~tdermody/index.html
Unfortunately, now somewhat out-of-date.
CHARLIE MCKENDY
I highly recommend Paul Durcan, a contemporary Irish poet, many of
whose poems are available on the web. One of my current favourites is
" I am the Centre of the Universe".
"Kenneth F. Shilkun" <shi...@ktc.com> wrote:
>My wife, nee Christina Riley, needs a list of Irish Poets. If you have a
>favorite poet or poem, would you be so kind as to post it for her. She
>wishes to introduce the Irish soul to the kids in middle school in central
>Texas.
>Thank you
>
>
>
Denis Patrick
Kenneth F. Shilkun wrote:
>
> My wife, nee Christina Riley, needs a list of Irish Poets. If you have a
> wishes to introduce the Irish soul to the kids in middle school in central
> Texas.
> Thank you
The young Irish poet Davoren Davoren Hanna wrote this little gem:
HOW THE EARTH WAS FORMED QUIZ.
What does a volcano do?
It sends Pliny the roman Naturalist
rushing to Vesuvius's gaping jaw
in search of its scarlet secret.
And how was the earth's crust formed?
Heaven's master-baker,
Lord of holocausts and light,
touched his dough with fingers of fire
and then sighed upon it.
And do lines of latitude run north to south?
Why, a swallow's heart quickening
will tell the way home to it's haven
whatever way the lines are drawn.
Davoren Hanna wrote this in geography class when he was fifteen or sixteen. He
died in 1994 aged nineteen.
Keep an eye on this newsgroup for inf.. on the upcoming Davoren Hanna Poetry
Page.
D.
Denis Patrick
D Patrick.
kps...@hotmail.com
I guess the poem below is a great favorite poem, and a-sometime hit
with my students. But my favorite Irish poets would be people like
Michael Longley, Paul Muldoon, Medbh McGuckian, John Hewitt, John
Montague - and Heaney, of course.
I'm going to post these poets and more at an educational site quite
soon, cf. the AISLING-posts on this list - a version is on line at the
moment at http://home1.inet.tele.dk/jenskoch/aisling/aisling.htm.
Enjoy,
Jens
A Farewell to English by MICHEAL HARTNETT
for Brendan Kennelly
1
Her eyes were coins of porter and her West
Limerick voice talked velvet in the house:
her hair was black as the glossy fireplace
wearing with grace her Sunday night-dance best.
She cut the froth from glasses with a knife
and hammered golden whiskies on the bar
and her mountainy body tripped the gentle
mechanism of verse: the minute interlock
of word and word began, the rhythm formed.
I sunk my hands into tradition
sifting the centuries for words. This quiet
excitement was not new: emotion challenged me
to make it sayable. The clichés came
at first, like matchsticks snapping from the world
of work: mánla, séimh, dubhfholtach, álainn, caoin:
they came like grey slabs of slate breaking from
an ancient quarry, mánla, séimh, dubhfholtach,
álainn, caoin, slowly vaulting down the dark
unused escarpments, mánla, séimh, dubhfholtach,
álainn, caoin, crashing on the cogs, splinters
like axeheads damaging the wheels, clogging
the intricate machine, mánla, séimh,
dubhfholtach, álainn, caoin. Then Pegasus
pulled up, the girth broke and I was flung back
on the gravel of Anglo-Saxon.
What was I doing with these foreign words?
I, the polisher of the complex cause,
wizard of grasses and warlock of birds
midnight-oiled in the metric laws?
1975
On Sun, 1 Mar 1998 06:55:37 -0600, "Kenneth F. Shilkun"
<shi...@ktc.com> wrote:
>My wife, nee Christina Riley, needs a list of Irish Poets. If you have a
>favorite poet or poem, would you be so kind as to post it for her. She
kps...@hotmail.com
I forgot to add the linguistic footnote to the poem, which is:
re: mánla, séimh, dubhfholtach, álainn, caoin
dubhfholtach: blacklocked
álainn : beautiful
mánla, séimh, and caoin : words whose meanings hover about the English
adjectives graceful, gentle.
K. E. Dennis
Kenneth F. Shilkun wrote:
>
> My wife, nee Christina Riley, needs a list of Irish Poets. If you
> have a
> favorite poet or poem, would you be so kind as to post it for her.
> She
> wishes to introduce the Irish soul to the kids in middle school in
> central
> Texas.
> Thank you
Have you looked @ Ger Cunningham's poetry page for this newsgroup?
http://www.wwa.com/~abardubh/poetry/
Some more places to find Irish poets & poetry:
WEB SITES:
A very useful listing, including links to some works by each named poet,
can be found on THE IRISH POETRY PAGE, @
http://www.spinfo.uni-koeln.de/~dm/eire.html#poets
Main page @
http://www.spinfo.uni-koeln.de/~dm/eire.htm
Early Irish Poetry to c.1200
http://www.ucc.ie/celt/earlypoetry.html
Medieval Irish poetry, bibliography & links
http://www.dnaco.net/~mobrien/irishptr/biblio.html
PUBLISHED ANTHOLOGIES:
An Duanaire: Poems of the Dispossessed
trans/ed., Seán Ó Tuama & Thomas Kinsella
pub. 1981, Bord na Gaelige
An Crann Faoi Blath /the Flowering Tree : Contemporary Irish Poetry
Declan Kiberd, Gabriel Fitzmaurice, ed.
pub 1991, Irish American Book Co
Contemporary Irish Poetry
Anthony Bradley, ed.
pub. 1988, U. of CA Press
Modern Irish Poetry: An Anthology
Patrick Crotty,ed.
pub. 1995, The Blackstaff Press
_____
respectfully submitted,
|K.E. Dennis den...@mail.montclair.edu
|My employer is not responsible for my opinions,
|regardless of how sensible they are
Tony Dermody
Kenneth F. Shilkun wrote:
>My wife, nee Christina Riley, needs a list of Irish Poets. If you have a
>favorite poet or poem, would you be so kind as to post it for her. She
>wishes to introduce the Irish soul to the kids in middle school in central
When I posted two of my favourite poems from W. B. Yeats, I said I would return
to the theme of Irish poetry. Well here I am.
This time I'll post two Patrick Kavanagh's poems. Since Yates, Irish poets (in
English) have had some difficulty in finding an original and authentic voice.
In my opinion Kavanagh managed better than most. I cannot speak for those poets
who write 'prose poems' or free verse, as unfortunately I have very rarely
managed to connect with the voice of the poet in these forms. But Kavanagh was
special.
I am conscious that these poems are needed for 12 to 14 year old children.
(Remember that Kavanagh forsook the life of a farmer in Monaghan to live in
Dublin city, and (like Yates) endured long years of sexual loneliness).
Memory of My Father
Every old man I see
Reminds me of my father
when he had fallen in love with death
One time when sheaves were gathered.
That man I saw in Gardiner Street
Stumble on the kerb was one,
He stared at me half-eyed,
I might have been his son.
And I remember the musician
Faltering over his fiddle
In Bayswater, London,
He too set me the riddle.
Every old man I see
In October-coloured weather
Seems to say to me:
'I was once your father'.
Spraying the Potatoes
The barrels of blue potato-spray
Stood on a headland in July
Beside an orchard wall where roses
Were young girls hanging from the sky.
The flocks of green potato stalks
Were blossom spread for sudden flight,
The Kerr's Pinks in frivelled blue,
The Arran Banners wearing white.
And over that potato-field
A lazy veil of woven sun,
Dandelions growing on headlands, showing
Their unloved hearts to everyone.
And I was there with a knapsack sprayer
On the barrel's edge poised. A wasp was floating
Dead on a sunken briar leaf
Over a copper-poisoned ocean.
The axle-roll of a rut-locked cart
Broke the burnt stick of noon in two.
An old man came through a cornfield
Remembering his youth and some Ruth he knew.
He turned my way. 'God further the work'.
He echoed an ancient farming prayer.
I thanked him. He eyed the potato drills.
He said: 'You are bound to have good ones there'.
We talked and our talk was a theme of kings,
A theme for strings. He hunkered down
In the shade of the orchard wall. O roses
The old man dies in the young girl's frown.
And poet lost to potato-fields,
Remembering the lime and copper smell
Of the spraying barrels he is not lost
Or till blossomed stalks cannot weave a spell.
Finally, I give you 'On Raglan Road'. If you can, you should get a tape or disk
of Luke Kelly of 'The Dubliners' folk group singing this. In fact I can
recommend an album I have, called 'Luke Kelly - The Collection'. 'Raglan Road
is the first song on it. This is definitely the definitive version of this
wonderful poem. It is published by: Chyme Music, 15/21 Gordon Street, Belfast,
Northern Ireland, BT1 2LG. Phone: 00 44 232 322826 or fax 00 44 232 332671.
On Raglan Road
On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,
And I said: Let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day'.
On Grafton Street, in November, we tripped lightly along the ledge
Of a deep ravine, where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge:
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay -
O! I loved too much, and by such, by such, is happiness thrown away.
I gave her gifts of the mind, I gave her the secret sign that's known
To the artists who have known true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint. I did not stint, for I gave her poems to say
With her own name there, and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May.
On a quiet street, where old ghosts meet, I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had loved not as I should a creature made of clay -
When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day.
Tony Dermody
Kenneth F. Shilkun wrote:
>My wife, nee Christina Riley, needs a list of Irish Poets. If you have a
>favorite poet or poem, would you be so kind as to post it for her. She
>wishes to introduce the Irish soul to the kids in middle school in central
>Texas.
My final two offerings under this topic are perhaps not appropriate for
Christina Reilly. However, I cannot leave it entirely to Karen E. Dennis to
keep us reminded of the riches of poetry in the Irish language.
I would ask Christina Reilly to struggle with the first poem, for it is one of
my favourite poems of all (in either Irish or English) and it is written by one
of my favourite poets, who wrote only in Irish. I have taken it from 'An Crann
Faoi Bláth - The Flowering Tree', a reference to which has ben posted in this
thread by the inimitable K. E. Dennis. It is really a child's poem, and the
translation into English is by David Marcus. Unfortunately, the translation has
little merit, and doesn't get within a million miles of the simplicity, music,
and power of the original. The poet is Seán Ó Ríordáin. The poem: Cúl An Tí.
Cúl An Tí
Tá Tír na nÓg ar chúl an tí,
Tír álainn trína chéile,
Lucht cheitre chos ag súil na slí,
Gan bróga orthu ná léine,
Gan Béarla acu ná Gaeilge.
Ach fásann clócha ar gach droim
Sa tír seo trína chéile,
Is labhartar teanga ar chúl an tí
Nár thuig aon fhear ach aesop,
Is tá sé siúd sa chré anois.
Tá cearca ann is ál sicín,
Is lacha righin mhothaolach,
Is gadhar mór dubh mar namhaid sa tír
Ag drannadh le gach éinne,
Is cat ag crú na gréine.
Sa chúinne thiar tá banc dramhaíl,
Is iontaisi an tsaoil ann,
Coinnleoir, búclaí, seanhata tuí,
Is trúmpa balbh néata,
Is citeal bán mar gé ann.
Is ann a thagann tincéirí
Go naofa, trína chéile,
Tá gaol acu le chúl an tí,
Is bíd ag iarraidh déirce
Ar cúl gach tí in Éirinn.
Ba mhaith liom bheith ar chúl an tí
Sa doircheacht go déanach
Go bhfeicinn ann ar cuairt gealaí
An t-ollaimhín sin Aesop
Is é in phúca léannta.
The Back of the House
At the back of the house is Fairyland -
A lovely, anyhow place -
With four-footed creatures on every hand
Completely shoeless and shirtless,
Knowing no English nor Irish.
But on each one there grows a cloak -
In that anyhow place of places -
And back of the house a language is spoken
That no man could follow but Aesop,
And he's in his grave a long day now.
There are some hens there and a clutch of chickens,
And a duck like a simpleton,
And a big black dawg who raises the dickens
Barking at everyone,
And a cat milking the sun.
In that corner is a bank of Things Put Away and That's-That,
With its wonders unbelievable -
Wax candles, gold buckles, an old straw hat,
A trumpet, dumb without battle,
And, of all things, a white kettle.
There come the tinkers, kicking up no rows,
But saintly, like Simple-Simons,
They are one kin with the back of the house
And they come a-begging, their quiet hands
At the back of each house in Ireland.
At the back of the house I'd like to be
In the darkness, in the lateness,
And perhaps on his moonlit visit I'd see
Little professor Aesop
That knowledgeable fairy.
Finally, since Karen E. Dennis was foolhardy enough, some time ago, to post some
poems by Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill, which skated on thin ice across the sixth
commandment, causing me to regress to my latent redemptorist missionary
personality (how did Gerard Cunningham know that?), I felt I should post an
Irish language morality poem, as a salutary warning to those (post Vatican II)
bishops and politicians, who may be tempted to consort with harlots (I must get
a grip; I feel the redemptorist in me trying to burst forth). Here it is - once
again from 'An Crann Faoi Bláth - The Flowering Tree' - Rún na Striapaí, by
Deaglán Collinge. The translation is by the author.
Rún na Striapaí
'Scríobhfaidh mé scéal mo bheatha',
Arsa an striapach lá,
'Is leis an bhfáltas
Mairfidh mé go cuibhiúil feasta'.
Ar an bpointe, chroith buncloch
Clainne stáit is eaglaise
Is níor dhúthracthaí paidir
An fhir chlainne is an polaiteora
Ar a nglúine
Ná achaní an easpaig
Ag ulmhú os cionn na maighdine:
Mar ó rinne sí súgán díobh
Ní dea-chlú go súgán sneachta
I mbéal striapaí.
The Harlot's Secret
'I shall write the story of my life',
Said the harlot one day,
'And with the proceeds
I shall live respectably
In future'.
On the instant the cornerstone
Of family church and state
Trembled loudly
And no more earnest
Was the prayer of family man
And polititian on their knees
Than the pleading
Of the bishop
Crouched low before the virgin
For once around her finger
What was social status but a puff of smoke
From a harlot's mouth.
Sin agaibh an focal deirneach uaimse ar an abhar seo.
Tony Dermody
Tony Dermody
Kenneth F. Shilkun wrote:
>My wife, nee Christina Riley, needs a list of Irish Poets. If you have a
>favorite poet or poem, would you be so kind as to post it for her. She
>wishes to introduce the Irish soul to the kids in middle school in central
>Texas.
I have been away most of the week, and have only just come back, to find that
postings to this thread have dried up. However, I have a further couple of
poems to add.
In this post I will give you one poem from each of two poets who were born in
the 1890s. These two poems, very beautiful in themselves, address in
contrasting ways, the struggles of the people of Ireland in the second decade of
this century.
Inscription for a Headstone (by Austin Clarke)
What Larkin bawled to hungry crowds
Is murmured now in dining-hall
And study. Faith bestirs itself
Lest infidels in their impatience
Leave it behind. Who could have guessed
Batons were blessings in disguise,
When every ambulance was filled
With half-killed men and Sunday trampled
Upon unrest? Such fear can harden
Or soften heart, knowing too clearly
His name endures on our holiest page,
Scrawled in a rage by Dublin's poor.
[Ends]
This poem is apposite in the light of the eulogy to James Larkin, appearing
under the subject heading "There was a man sent from God, and whose name was
Jim", elsewhere on this newsgroup currently. It is also appropriate to remind
ourselves that Ryanair must be frustrated in their attempt to roll the clock
back to 1913. I am glad to see that what James Larkin bawled to the workers
then still reverberates, as the workers at Dublin Airport have so convincingly
demonstrated today.
The second poet is Francis Ledwidge, who died in the First World War in 1917.
He wrote this poem in memory of another poet, Thomas MacDonagh, who died in the
1916 uprising.
Lament for Thomas MacDonagh
He shall not hear the bittern cry
In the wild sky, where he is lain,
Nor the voices of the sweeter birds
Above the wailing of the rain.
Nor shall he know when loud March blows
Thro' slanting snows her fanfare shrill,
Blowing to flame the golden cup
Of many an upset daffodil.
But when the dark cow leaves the moor,
And pastures poor with greedy weeds,
Perhaps he'll hear her low at morn
Lifting her horn in pleasant meads.
Tony Dermody
I regret the multiple posts which I have made to the Poets of Ireland thread on
this newsgroup. I have been having severe problems connecting to
Ireland-on-Line for the past few days, including problems reading the newsgroups
on the iol news server. I thought that perhaps a poor telephone line might be
contributing to the problem, so I changed some settings on my modem, to make it
less sensitive to various tones. That appears to have been a mistake, as it
seems to prevent my news reader and the news server communicating with each
other in the correct manner. Hence the multiple posts.
Sorry.
K. E. Dennis
Tony Dermody wrote:
>
> I would ask Christina Reilly to struggle with the first poem, for it is one of
> my favourite poems of all (in either Irish or English) and it is written by one
> of my favourite poets, who wrote only in Irish. I have taken it from 'An Crann
> Faoi Bláth - The Flowering Tree', a reference to which has ben posted in this
> thread by the inimitable K. E. Dennis. It is really a child's poem, and the
> translation into English is by David Marcus. Unfortunately, the translation has
> little merit, and doesn't get within a million miles of the simplicity, music,
> and power of the original. The poet is Seán Ó Ríordáin. The poem: Cúl An Tí.
>
As Tony has done the difficult work of offering a child's poem in
Irish, I can relax & post one of the few poems I know written in
English by a contemporary Irish poet, that would be (I think) both
accessible & enjoyable for middle school students.
Peter Fallon, who lives in Meath (where he is a farmer-poet, in true
Irish style) has authored several volumes of poetry, edited others, &
translated from the Irish the works of both ancient & modern poets
(such as Nuala ní Dhomhnaill - see Carrie Cochrane's recent post of
"Inside Out / An Taobh Tuathail").
BTW, Tony: If you're unhappy w/ the David Marcus translation of Cúl
an Tí), I can't help but suggest you give it a try yourself.... <says
the inimitable troublemaker>
respectfully submitted,
|K. E. Dennis den...@mail.montclair.edu
|My employer is not responsible for my opinions,
|regardless of how sensible they are.
_______________
Spring Song
Peter Fallon
in _Contemporary Irish Poetry_ , Anthony Bradley, ed.
pub. 1988, University of California Press
Spring Song
It was as if
someone only had to say
Abracadabra
to set alight
the chestnut
candelabra.
Bloom and blossom
everywhere, on furze,
on Queen Anne's lace.
A breeze blew
cherry snows
on the common place.
Weeds on walls;
the long grass
of the long acre:
the elderberry bushes
blazing thanks
to their maker.
Loud leaves of
southside trees,
the reticent buds of ash
the reach of undergrowth
were voices, voices,
woods' panache.
Cub foxes.
Pheasants galvanised
themselves to sing.
The white thorn flowers
were the light infantry
of Spring
marching down the headlands.
A new flock flowed
through a breach,
a makeshift gate.
And this is heaven:
sunrise through a copper beech.
_____________________
K. E. Dennis
Tony Dermody wrote:
[snip of Cúl an Tí & related remarks]
> Finally, since Karen E. Dennis was foolhardy enough, some time ago, to post some
> poems by Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill, which skated on thin ice across the sixth
> commandment, causing me to regress to my latent redemptorist missionary
> personality (how did Gerard Cunningham know that?), I felt I should post an
> Irish language morality poem, as a salutary warning to those (post Vatican II)
> bishops and politicians, who may be tempted to consort with harlots (I must get
> a grip; I feel the redemptorist in me trying to burst forth). Here it is - once
> again from 'An Crann Faoi Bláth - The Flowering Tree' - Rún na Striapaí, by
> Deaglán Collinge. The translation is by the author.
[snip of Rún na Striapaí / The Harlot's Secret]
Father Dermody has here shown us (appropriately enough in this Lenten
season), in Rún na Striapaí / The Harlot's Secret, the stern
consequences of consorting w/ sinners & loose women.
Alas, as one who has indeed long been accustomed to skating on thin
ice, I cannot helped but be reminded of the following poem by W.R.
Rodgers, which takes a rather different stance on these topics....
Rodgers was a Belfast man, & a Presbyterian minister for over a decade
(in Co. Armagh). He wrote "Lent" after resigning his ministry &
moving to London to work for the BBC.
respectfully submitted,
|K. E. Dennis den...@mail.montclair.edu
|My employer is not responsible for my opinions,
|regardless of how sensible they are.
_______________
Lent
W.R. Rodgers
_Modern Irish Poetry: An Anthology_, Patrick Crotty, ed.
pub. 1995, The Blackstaff Press
Lent
Mary Magdalene, that easy woman,
Saw, from the shore, the seas
Beat against the hard stone of Lent,
Crying, 'Weep. seas, weep
For yourselves that cannot dent me more.
'O more than all these, more crabbed than all stones,
And cold, make me, who once
Could leap like water, Lord. Take me
As one who owes
Nothing to what she was. Ah, naked.
'My waves of scent, my petticoats of foam,
Put from me and rebut;
Disown. And that salt lust stave off
That slavered me -- O
Let it whiten in grief against the stones
"And outer reefs of me. Utterly doff,
Nor leave the lightest veil
Of feeling to heave or soften.
Nothing cares this heart
What hardness crates it now or coffins.
"Over the balconies of these curved breasts
I'll no more peep to see
The light procession of my loves
Surf-riding in to me
Who now have eyes and alcove, Lord, for Thee.'
'Room, Mary,' said He, 'ah make room for me
Who am come so cold now
To my tomb.' So. on Good Friday,
Under a frosty moon
They carried Him and laid him in her womb.
A grave and icy mask her heart wore twice,
But on the third day it thawed,
And only a stone's-flow away
Mary saw her God.
Did you hear me? Mary saw her God!
Dance, Mary Magdalene, dance, dance and sing,
For unto you is born
This day a King. 'Lady,' said He,
'To you who relent
I bring back the petticoat and the bottle of scent.'
___________
Tony Dermody
>As Tony has done the difficult work of offering a child's poem in
>Irish, I can relax & post one of the few poems I know written in
>English by a contemporary Irish poet, that would be (I think) both
>accessible & enjoyable for middle school students.
>
>Peter Fallon, who lives in Meath (where he is a farmer-poet, in true
>Irish style) has authored several volumes of poetry, edited others, &
>translated from the Irish the works of both ancient & modern poets
>(such as Nuala ní Dhomhnaill - see Carrie Cochrane's recent post of
>"Inside Out / An Taobh Tuathail").
Thank you for Spring Song. These are days of singing spring, in
Ireland, right now.
>BTW, Tony: If you're unhappy w/ the David Marcus translation of Cúl
>an Tí), I can't help but suggest you give it a try yourself.... <says
>the inimitable troublemaker>
I have a feeling I may regret this! I'll try if I get a chance. But
don't sit in front of the computer all night waiting for it to appear.
I'll post it if I succeed. If I fail, I'll say 'I didn't get time'.
K. E. Dennis
Tony Dermody wrote:
> Thank you for Spring Song. These are days of singing spring, in
> Ireland, right now.
Is there any time of year lovelier?
But right now I must content myself w/ only having the tickets that will
bring me over in the summer....
> >BTW, Tony: If you're unhappy w/ the David Marcus translation of Cúl
> >an Tí), I can't help but suggest you give it a try yourself.... <says
> >the inimitable troublemaker>
>
> I have a feeling I may regret this! I'll try if I get a chance. But
> don't sit in front of the computer all night waiting for it to appear.
> I'll post it if I succeed. If I fail, I'll say 'I didn't get time'.
I use that line all the time myself, Tony. But just think how it will
look on Ger's web page: "Translation by Tony Dermody"...
(I said I was a troublemaker, now didn't I.)
Well here, then, to give you strength for the task: a poem I was reminded
of when you posted those two by Kavanagh, "Memory of my Father" &
"Spraying the Potatoes." I meant to reply w/ it @ the time, but....
<ahem> ....didn't get time.
|K.E. Dennis den...@mail.montclair.edu
|My employer is not responsible for my opinions,
|regardless of how sensible they are.
_____________
Bernard O’Donoghue
_The Weakness_
pub. 1991, Chatto & Windus
A Nun takes the Veil
That morning early I ran through briars
To catch the calves that were bound for market.
I stopped the once, to watch the sun
Rising over Doolin across the water.
The calves were tethered outside the house
While I had my breakfast: the last one at home
For forty years. I had what I wanted (they said
I could), so we’d loaf bread and Marie biscuits.
We strung the calves behind the boat,
Me keeping clear to protect my style:
Confirmation suit and my patent sandals.
But I trailed my fingers in the cool green water,
Watching the puffins driving homeward
To their nests on Aran. On the Galway mainland
I tiptoed clear of the cow-dunged slipway
And watched my brothers heaving the calves
As they lost their footing. We went in a trap,
Myself and my mother, and I said goodbye
To my father then. The last I saw of him
Was a hat and jacket and a sally stick,
Driving cattle to Ballyvaughan.
He died (they told me) in the county home,
Asking to see me. But that was later:
As we trotted on through the morning mist,
I saw a car for the first time ever,
Hardly seeing it before it vanished.
I couldn’t believe it, and I stood up looking
To where I could hear its noise departing
But it was only a glimpse. That night in the convent
The sisters spoilt me, but I couldn’t forget
the morning’s vision, and I fell asleep
With the engine humming through the open window.
_____________
Carrie Cochrane
K. E. Dennis den...@mail.montclair.edu wrote in article
3509358B...@mail.montclair.edu...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
<sigh>
...what this makes me see....
Last year, in June and July, I used my tax refund to take a trip. My
older brother works for a company that transfered him to work on a
project in Middlesbrough, England for a year. He's usually in Yemen.
He was staying out in the country, between, say, Stokesley and Great
Ayton. You could look out my window and see Captain Cooks monument
off in the distance with the black clouds rolling over it. I stared
out that window alot.
My brother still had to work, so I stayed there during the week by
myself and read alot of the books that were there in the apartment.
They were former stables that had been converted, and very
beautifully. Stone and rough beams, weather chilly enough to have a
fire every morning and evening, which I adore. To me a fireplace is
a necessity.
I did walk alot...tried to figure out how to get up to the monument
via the foot paths, but most of them seemed to go right into
someone's yard, and I was wary of tresspassing. Also, didn't want to
take the chance of running into someone and them trying to conversate
with me. My hearing loss has made me into someone that I never used
to be, I
am VERY solitary, actually to an unhealthy point, I'm sure some folks
think. Now, trying to have something as simple as a conversation with
someone new, can make my heart pound. I like to have someone with me
to help "translate," so to speak.
There was a pasture on the grounds that was below the "momument
hill," and one day, in the late afternoon, I walked there.....my plan
was to walk the perimeter all the way around, since it didn't get
fully dark until close to 11:00pm. I started on the side that was
next to a small river.....I was singing and talking to myself, and
off in the distance I saw this little white dot coming towards me and
as I stood still it kept coming. I thought it was a dog, and I
started to call out to it. Closer and closer it came at running
speed, so I squatted down with my arms out, preparing to meet this
little doggie that was so anxious to see me. It was very dusky, so
it wasn't until it got right to me and crashed into me that I
realized it was a tiny little lamb. I've seen sheep, but never a
lamb so tiny. I scooped it up and was just laughing. I had
immediate thoughts of putting it in my bag and taking it home with
me...all of the sudden I realized there were two others, a little
bigger, but here they came, straggling behind. I thought they were
much to tiny to be here on their own, so I started walking with them
in the direction in which they came from. I carried the little baby
the entire way with the others on my heel. I am an animal lover
extraordinaire, ( I catch bugs and put them outside....they will die,
but not by my hand) so I was in my element.
I came to a bigger pasture, with all sorts of cows and sheep grazing
together. I finally came to the conclusion that these three must have
somehow gotten out and had spent quite a while away from their source
of milk and when they heard my voice they must've thought, "ah, a
human bean! A way to get to FOOD!!" So I switched into my
shepherdess mode and lifted them over. Sure enough they went straight
to their mommies, very hungry.
God, it was such a picture! This is what the poem makes me think of.
I found a huge oak tree and sat there for what felt like hours,
watching the sheep and the cows and the rabbits (or hares?) that
began coming out of their little holes. The leaves on the trees
where rustling, feathery seeds were floating in the air. Up above
stood the monument, with the moors behind it and the clouds rolling
over it.
Tony Dermody
K. E. Dennis wrote:
>Tony Dermody wrote:
>> >BTW, Tony: If you're unhappy w/ the David Marcus translation of Cúl
>> >an Tí), I can't help but suggest you give it a try yourself.... <says
>> >the inimitable troublemaker>
>>
>> I have a feeling I may regret this! I'll try if I get a chance. But
>> don't sit in front of the computer all night waiting for it to appear.
>> I'll post it if I succeed. If I fail, I'll say 'I didn't get time'.
>
>I use that line all the time myself, Tony. But just think how it will
>look on Ger's web page: "Translation by Tony Dermody"...
>
>(I said I was a troublemaker, now didn't I.)
You've bought yourself a mess of trouble now. Unfortunately you will
have to look under the heading 'Irish Poetry Again', to find it. This
is because I have changed my newsgroup reader, in an effort to escape
the havoc wreaked by Ireland-on-Line's new news-server, which caused
Outlook Express to post a hundred or so copies of every article. The
new reader, Agent, has a different notion of how to organise subjects
and threads, and so, until tonight, I couldn't find your post to
respond to it. Probably serves me right for dumping Netsacpe and
moving over to Microsoft.
Anyway, I have posted there a translation of 'Cúl an Tí'.