Thanks, Jjorge. I wish I could see everyone and I like to travel. That's Easter Weekend and for people with families, a time to at least consider gathering together.
We used to have Easter Egg hunts on the lawn in front of my dad's house with lots of cousins -- seven of them. My sister made Rabbit one year...
Many family arrangements to consider.
I found this odd little poem today in my April 2004 datebook where I looked to see your San Francisco dates. Since it was a poem about the great Celtic figure, Dagda, I thought I'd add it.
In Praise of Dagda
Our thanks we offer to the Father God
Whose cauldron pours his plenty on the land,
A flood of fragrant beauty and rebirth,
He blesses seeds that lie in fertile sod
And shelters us beneath his mighty hand.
Our thanks we offer to the God of Earth
Whose harpings leads the seasons in the dance,
With measures bright and graceful, steps so grand.
He blesses all the minstrels in their mirth,
And beckons lads and lasses to romance.
We seek him as a ship seeks out its berth,
The beach grown thick with thyme and goldenrod.
The priests may whisper of such things in trance --
But Dagda is the one who shouts our worth.
Elizabeth Barrette
Quote:And it was at
Brugh na Boinne the Dagda, the Red Man of all Knowledge,
had his house. And the most noticeable things in it were ...
Here's one my mother learned as a girl in school in Ireland - she hated it and associated it with the repressive Jansenist element in the culture. But it is Irish and lyrical nonetheless.
Hy-Brasail--The Isle of the Blest
Gerald Griffin
1803-1840
On the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell,
A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell;
Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest,
And they called it Hy-Brasail the isle of the blest.
From year unto year on the ocean's blue rim,
The beautiful spectre showed lovely and dim;
The golden clouds curtained the deep where it lay,
And it looked like an Eden, away, far away!
A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale,
In breeze of the Orient loosened his sail;
From Ara, the holy, he turned to the west,
For though Ara was holy, Hy-Brasail was blest.
He heard not the voices that called from the shore--
He heard not the the rising wind's menacing roar;
Home, kindred, and safety, he left on that day,
And he sped to Hy-Brasail, away, far away!
Morn rose on the deep, and that shadowy isle,
O'er the faint rim of distance, reflected its smile;
Noon burned on the wave, and that shadowy shore
Seemed lovelily distant, and faint as before;
Lone evening came down on the wanderer's track,
And to Ara again he looked timidly back;
Oh! far on the verge of the ocean it lay,
Yet the isle of the blest was away, far away!
Rash dreamer, return! O, ye winds of the main,
Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again.
Rash fool! for a vision of fanciful bliss,
To barter thy calm life of labour and peace.
The warning of reason was spoken in vain;
He never re-visited Ara again!
Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and spray,
And he died on the waters, away, far away!
Piffka wrote: Here's the beginning few verses of a poem I've been reading called MARY HYNES
(After the Irish of Raftery)
That Sunday, on my oath, the rain was a heavy overcoat
On a poor poet, and when the rain began
In fleeces of water to buckleap like a goat
I was only a walking penance reaching Kiltartan;
And there, so suddenly that my cold spine
Broke out on the arch of my back in a rainbos,
This woman surged out of the day with so much sunlight
I was nailed there like a scarecrow,
But I found my tongue and the breath to balance it
And I said:"If I bow to you with this hump of rain
I'll fall on my collarbone, but look, I'll chance it,
And after falling, bow again."
She laughed, ah, she was gracious, and softly said to me,
For all your lovely talking I go marketing with an ass,
I'm no hill-queen, alas, or Ireland, that grass widow,
So hurry on, sweet Raftery, or you'll keep me late for Mass!"
The parish priest has blamed me for missing second Mass
And the bell talking on the rope of the steeple,
But the tonsure of the poet is the bright crash
Of love that blinds the irons on his belfry;
Were I making an Aisling I'd tell the tale of her hair
But now I've grown careful of my listeners
So I pass over one long day and the rainy air
Where we sheltered in whispers.
This continues for eight more stanzas. I couldn't find it online in a brief search so I've had to key it all in. I'll finish it later though, if you like.
Raftery (1784?-1835) was a famous itinerant Irish bardic poet, and Mary Hynes was the peasant girl who he made famous in his verse.
So, do you want me to key in the other eight stanzas, Jjorge?
edit: Corrected belfry spelling.
Thanks, Mark!
Okay... here is the ending of the poem:
Mary Hynes
When we left the dark evening at last outside her door,
She lighted a lamp though a gaming company
Could have sighted each trump by the light of her unshawled poll,
ANd indeed she welcomed me
With a big quart bottle and I mooned there over glasses
Till she took that bird, the phoenix, from the spit;
And, "Raftery," says she, "a feast is no bad dowry,
Sit down now and taste it!"
If I praised Ballylea before it was only for the mountains
Where I broke horses and ran wild,
And for its seven crooked smoky houses
Where seven crones are tied
All day to the listening top of a half door,
And nothing to be heard or seen
But the drowsy dropping of water
And a gander on the green.
But Boys! I was blind as a kitten till last Sunday,
This town is earth's very navel!
Seven palaces are thatched there of a Monday,
And O the seven queens whose pale
Proud faces with their seven glimmering sisters,
The Pleiads, light the evening where they stroll,
And one can find the well by their wet footprints,
And make one's soul;
For Mary Hynes, rising, gathers up there
Her ripening body from all the love stories;
And rinsing herself at morning, shakes her hair
And stirs the old gay books in libraries;
And what shall I do with sweet Boccaccio?
And shall I send Ovid back to school again
With a new headline for his copybook,
And a new pain?
Like a nun she will play you a sweet tune on a spinet,
And from such grasshopper music leap
Like Herod's hussy who fancied a saint's head
For grace after meat;
Yet she'll peg out a line of clothes on a windy morning
And by noonday put them ironed in the chest,
And you'll swear by her white fingers she does nothing
But take her fill of rest.
And I'll wager now that my song is ended,
Loughrea, that old dead city where the weavers
Have pined at the mouldering looms since Helen broke the thread,
Will be piled again with silver fleeces:
O the new coats and big horses! The raving and the ribbons!
And Ballylea in hubbub and uproar!
And may Raftery be dead if he's not there to ruffle it
On his own mare, Shank's mare, that never needs a spur.
But ah, Sweet Light, though your face coins
My heart's very metals, isn't it folly without a pardon
For Raftery to sing so that men, east and west, come
Spying on your vegetable garden?
We could be so quiet in your chimney corner--
Yet how could a poet hold you any more than the sun,
Burning in the big bright hazy heart of harvest,
Could be tied in a henrun?
Bless your poet then and let him go!
He'll never stack a haggard with his breath:
His thatch of words will not keep rain or snow
Out of the house, or keep back death.
But Raftery, rising, curses as he sees you
Stir the fire and wash delph,
That he was bred a poet whose selfish trade it is
To keep no beauty to himself.
Padraic Fallon
--------
further notes:
The poem, while not a translation of any Raftery poem, does depend on a sense of Raftery as a folk figure, as well as on a mixture of Irish and classical mythology. An account of Raftery and Mary Hynes is given in W.B. Yeats' essay, "Dust Hath Closed Helen's Eye" from
The Celtic Twilight.
Aisling, btw, is an old name for Ireland; a vision of a maiden, usually Ireland personified.
Haggard is an enclosure of stacked grain and Delph is china.
Pif,
Mary Hynes is DELIGHTFUL!
Thanks for posting it.
-jjorge
NORTH AND SOUTH OF THE RIVER - U2
I want to reach out over the Loch
And feel your hand across the water
Walk with you along an unapproved road
Not looking over my shoulder
I want to see, and I want to hear
To understand your fears
But we're north and south of the river
I've been doing it wrong all of my life
This holy town has turned me over
A young man running from what he didn't understand
The wind from the Loch just get colder, colder
There was a badness that had its way
But love wasn't lost, love will have its day
North and south of the river
North and south of the river
Can we stop playing these old tattoos
Darling I don't have the answer
I want to meet you where you are
I don't need you to surrender
'Cause there's no feeling that's so alone
As when the one you're hurting is your own
North and south of the river
North and south of the river
North and south of the river
Some high ground is not worth taking
Some connections are not worth making
There's an old church bell no longer ringing
Some old songs are not worth bringing
North...
(Higher ground is not worth taking)
North and south of the river
Raftery and Mary Hines
Piffka, thank you ! I've been looking for this poem, typing phrases from it from now and then for more than 3 years without result. Then Eureka !last night "since Helen broke the thread" yielded your posting.
I heard most of it recited in a richly beautiful Irish voice by Liam Clancy on an Irish music CD (Joannie Madden's "Whistle on the Wind") and learnt these verses by heart. Some of the terms escaped me and I could only guess what they were. You've cleared that up for me and and I'm grateful. I didn't know either that Padraig Fallon had written it.
Able2know seems like an interesting site,. I just registered last night. I'll read the rest of the Irish thread as it looked intriguing when I had a quick look.
Thanks again , Mark
jjoge I saw the pictures from San Fran and you do not look like you are even related to a pumpkin!
Re: Raftery and Mary Hines
MarkFeeney wrote:Piffka, thank you ! I've been looking for this poem, typing phrases from it from now and then for more than 3 years without result. Then Eureka !last night "since Helen broke the thread" yielded your posting.
I heard most of it recited in a richly beautiful Irish voice by Liam Clancy on an Irish music CD (Joannie Madden's "Whistle on the Wind") and learnt these verses by heart. Some of the terms escaped me and I could only guess what they were. You've cleared that up for me and and I'm grateful. I didn't know either that Padraig Fallon had written it.
Able2know seems like an interesting site,. I just registered last night. I'll read the rest of the Irish thread as it looked intriguing when I had a quick look.
Thanks again , Mark
Hi Mark and welcome to a2k! Thanks for the PM!
You know the words to Mary Hynes by heart? <thud!!!>
On that recommendation alone I have gone searching for "Whistle on the Wind." I want to hear Liam Clancy. What I copied here of the poem and some of the notes came from an old paperback text... a wonder of good poetry. Laurence Perrine knew something of poetry, I think. (When I read it through this morning, btw, I corrected fungers to fingers... hope there aren't any other mistakes.)
Hope you keep posting!
Piffka
Hi Jjorge! Hi Joanne!
Piffka, Yes Liam Clancy is a treat to listen to, you'll enjoy it. It's a Green Linnet recording if that helps. Thanks to you and also to Jjorge and Margo for you're welcomes. I don't often find time to use the internet ( I have a 16 yo son who hogs it somewhat ) + 3 other kids at home still.
I thought you might like this poem By Archie Fisher that I copied from a record sleeve about 20 years a go in England. Archie Fisher is a very talented Scottish singer/songwriter who was active in the 60's and 70's. Gifted but notoriously unreliable. Where is he now?
THE BALLAD SINGER (To Al O'Donnell)
(Archie Fisher - 1968)
I watched a piper take the wind that blew around his hair
And with the supple leather
lead the hard black wood and brittle reed
A dance into the air
I watched a boy that stood with men
A whistle at his tongue
Breathe the old and smokey air into his breast
then with careful fingers
Make it young
I saw a chin rest on a fiddle
And watched the fingers dance
Letting the notes slip from the strings into the wind
that takes all things
That music leaves to chance
I heard the singer read the wind
And listened to his song
That told of all the wind had known
and when and where the wind had blown
And why he'd been so long.
Mark --
Glad to see you made it back here! Ahhh, four kids at home and under 16? You're busy! I have two kids at home, but one just turned 21 and the other will be 20 next month. They have their own computers!
That is a terrific poem, thanks for sharing. The last verse is just stunning. <whew!> Gorgeous stuff. Twenty years ago in London and you still kept the copy. I'm impressed. Maybe you're like Jjorge and have notebooks of your favorite poems??? I admire that ability to keep track of things.
I thought I recognized the name, Archie Fisher, from my forays looking for that CD (I think he was mentioned somewhere). Anyway, it was quick to look him up on the web... you'll be glad to know he's alive and well and living in Scotland. Here's
his website.
(Just click on the colored link and it should take you to the website.)
Archie Fisher, born 23.10.39 Glasgow, Scotland ...
The only son in a family of seven
Now lives in the Scottish Borderlands
Has presented Radio Scotland's weekly 'Travelling Folk' programme since 1983
He wrote the Witch of the Westmorelands??? I think that's the ballad that Mikey copied for me for my birthday -- I'm going to have to check.
It said that he's planning a tour of Canada and the USA. I'm going to see if I can tell if he's playing in Seattle.
Cheers,
Piffka
Hi Piffka, Thanks for your answer.
I haven't heard Archie Fisher for years and then only recordings a couple of times. I had a squiz at his website and I'm glad he's still active.
Oh... in the 3rd verse of Mary Hines you've got "blfry"
Got to go.
Mark
And I called Padraic Fallon , Padraig Fallon
Thanks Mark, glad you liked the Archie Fisher website. Thanks also for noticing -- I corrected the spelling in two places!
I'm not going to change Padraic to Padraig though, because it's spelled with a 'c' on his website. Beautiful name though, either way.
The most active poetry thread right now is one on Italy. You'd be most welcome to join us!
