Will You Taste Some Irishness? IV (2005)

For today:


A Dialogue Of Self And Soul

My Soul. I summon to the winding ancient stair;
Set all your mind upon the steep ascent,
Upon the broken, crumbling battlement,
Upon the breathless starlit air,
"Upon the star that marks the hidden pole;
Fix every wandering thought upon
That quarter where all thought is done:
Who can distinguish darkness from the soul

My Self. The consecretes blade upon my knees
Is Sato's ancient blade, still as it was,
Still razor-keen, still like a looking-glass
Unspotted by the centuries;
That flowering, silken, old embroidery, torn
From some court-lady's dress and round
The wodden scabbard bound and wound
Can, tattered, still protect, faded adorn

My Soul. Why should the imagination of a man
Long past his prime remember things that are
Emblematical of love and war?
Think of ancestral night that can,
If but imagination scorn the earth
And interllect is wandering
To this and that and t'other thing,
Deliver from the crime of death and birth.

My Self. Montashigi, third of his family, fashioned it
Five hundred years ago, about it lie
Flowers from I know not what embroidery -
Heart's purple - and all these I set
For emblems of the day against the tower
Emblematical of the night,
And claim as by a soldier's right
A charter to commit the crime once more.

My Soul. Such fullness in that quarter overflows
And falls into the basin of the mind
That man is stricken deaf and dumb and blind,
For intellect no longer knows
Is from the Ought, or knower from the Known -
That is to say, ascends to Heaven;
Only the dead can be forgiven;
But when I think of that my tongue's a stone.

II

My Self. A living man is blind and drinks his drop.
What matter if the ditches are impure?
What matter if I live it all once more?
Endure that toil of growing up;
The ignominy of boyhood; the distress
Of boyhood changing into man;
The unfinished man and his pain
Brought face to face with his own clumsiness;

The finished man among his enemies? -
How in the name of Heaven can he escape
That defiling and disfigured shape
The mirror of malicious eyes
Casts upon his eyes until at last
He thinks that shape must be his shape?
And what's the good of an escape
If honour find him in the wintry blast?

I am content to live it all again
And yet again, if it be life to pitch
Into the frog-spawn of a blind man's ditch,
A blind man battering blind men;
Or into that most fecund ditch of all,
The folly that man does
Or must suffer, if he woos
A proud woman not kindred of his soul.

I am content to follow to its source
Every event in action or in thought;
Measure the lot; forgive myself the lot!
When such as I cast out remorse
So great a sweetness flows into the breast
We must laugh and we must sing,
We are blest by everything,
Everything we look upon is blest.
-William Butler Yeats

For more on William Butler Yeats go to:
http://www.online-literature.com/yeats/

I will follow along, since I have a tad of Irish blood somewhere in this Hienz mixture.

Hi Edgar!

Bienvenido, as we say in..........err......Spain...

Nice to 'see' you.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful writings jjorge! Yeats is indeed an wonderful poet, but you are equally divine in my opinion.

Thank you for doing this!

Thankee lady J, You are too kind indeed!




For March 10, 2005:


'Irish Hierarchy Bans Colour Photography'


After a Spring meeting in their nineteenth-century fastness at
Maynooth
The Irish Hierarchy has issued a total ban on the practice of colour
photography:
A spokesman added that while in accordance with tradition
No logical explanation would be provided
There were a number of illogical explanations which he would
discuss;
He stated that it was not true that the ban was the result
Of the Hierarchy's tacit endorsement of racial discrimination;
(And, here, the spokesman, Fr Marksman, smiled to himself
But when asked to elaborate on his smile, he would not elaborate
Except to growl some categorical expletives which included the
word 'liberal')
He stated that if the Press corps would countenance an unhappy
pun
He would say that negative thinking lay at the root of the ban;
Colour pictures produced in the minds of people,
Especially in the minds (if any) of young people,
A serious distortion of reality;
Colour pictures showed reality to be rich and various
Whereas reality in point of fact was the opposite;
The innate black and white nature of reality would have to be
safeguarded
At all costs and, talking of costs, said Fr Marksman,
It ought to be borne in mind, as indeed the Hierarchy had borne in
its collective mind,
That colour photography was far costlier than black and white
photography
And, as a consequence, more immoral;
The Hierarchy, stated Fr Marksman, was once again smiting two
birds with one boulder;
And the joint-hegemony of Morality and Economics was being
upheld.

The total ban came as a total surprise to the accumulated Press
corps
And Irish Roman Catholic pressmen and presswomen present
Had to be helped away as they wept copiously in their cups:
'No more oranges and lemons in Maynooth' sobbed one
cameraboy.
The general public, however, is expected to pay no heed to the ban;
Only politicians and time-servers are likely to pay the required
lip-service;
But the operative noun is lip: there will be no hand or foot service.
And next year Ireland is expected to become
The EEC's largest money-spender in colour photography:

'This is Claudia Conway RTE News (Colour) Maynooth.'

--Paul Durcan


**************************************

For more on Paul Durcan go to:
http://www.irishwriters-online.com/pauldurcan.html

***************************************

A drunk staggers into a Catholic Church, enters a
confessional booth, sits down but says nothing.The Priest coughs a few times to get his attention but the
drunk continues to sit there.

Finally, the Priest pounds three times on the wall. The drunk mumbles, "ain't no use knockin, there's no paper on this side either."

<dragging my knapsack in, grabbing a quiet booth, and ordering an adult beverage>

ehBeth how are ye?

'Bienvenido!' as we say in the Dublin barrio.

As like as not ye'll have a FEW adult beverages, I wager.

These poetry threads are s -l o -o- w p -a c -e -d ye know!

(Me own output bein' a mere ONE POEM per day)

....but if you keep peepin' in you'll be rewarded.

(I think)

-jjorge

jjorge, it is so good to see my friend back and writing again. You are indeed a dear. I will most definitely join you when I can.

Panz's Irish joke was funny, and ehBeth's adult beverage reminds me of lush Limbaugh..er, make that Rush.

JJorge, here is one of my favorites:

BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS

Author: Thomas Moore

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,
Like fairy-gifts fading away,
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
And they cheeks unprofaned by a tear,
That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear;
No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close,
As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,
The same look which she turned when he rose.

I love this poem, because of the story behind it. When Moore's wife contracted smallpox, she recovered, but her face was badly scarred. She locked herself in her bedroom and would not come out. Moore wrote this poem to her, (later set to music) and slipped it under her door.

Hoping for a bit of Irish cheer and Irish fellowship....

and from James Joyce, referred to as chamber music:

All day I hear the noise of waters
Making moan,
Sad as the sea-bird is when, going
Forth alone,
He hears the winds cry to the water's
Monotone.
The grey winds, the cold winds are blowing
Where I go.
I hear the noise of many waters
Far below.
All day, all night, I hear them flowing
To and fro.

The assonance is captivating

Full disclosure: My grandfather's name was Martin Moynihan, born in Inch in the midst of a force seven gale and blown about by the winds of war and tyranny throughout his youth. I knew him only as an old man, an old man who seemed to know the heartbreak and triumph of being free.

He never spoke of Easter.


Easter 1916 by W.B Yeats

I HAVE met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road.
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.

Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?

I write it out in a verse -
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.

I'm glad you revived the tradition, Jjorge. Good, good, good!! Joe Nation's poem made me think this one might be appropriate here.


THE WAYFARER

The beauty of the world hath made me sad,
This beauty that will pass;
Sometimes my heart hath shaken with great joy
To see a leaping squirrel in a tree
Or a red lady-bird upon a stalk,
Or little rabbits in a field at evening,
Lit by a slanting sun,
Or some green hill where shadows drifted by
Some quiet hill where mountainy man hath sown
And soon would reap; near to the gate of Heaven;
Or children with bare feet upon the sands
Of some ebbed sea, or playing on the streets
Of little towns in Connacht,
Things young and happy.
And then my heart hath told me:
These will pass,
Will pass and change, will die and be no more,
Things bright and green, things young and happy;
And I have gone upon my way
Sorrowful.

-- Patrick H. Pearse
Poet, scholar, teacher, and Irish freedom fighter
Last poem, written on the eve of his execution (May 2, 1916).

Vision of a Fair Woman.

(Aisling air Dhreach Mna.)

Tell us some of the charms of the stars:
Close and well set were her ivory teeth;
White as the canna upon the moor
Was her bosom the tartan bright beneath.

Her well-rounded forehead shone
Soft and fair as the mountain-snow;
Her two breasts were heaving full;
To them did the hearts of heroes flow.

Her lips were ruddier than the rose;
Tender and tunefully sweet her tongue;
White as the foam adown her side
Her delicate fingers extended hung.

Smooth as the dusky down of the elk
Appeared her shady eyebrows to me;
Lovely her cheeks were, like berries red;
From every guile she was wholly free.

Her countenance looked like the gentle buds
Unfolding their beauty in early spring;
Her yellow locks like the gold-browed hills
And her eyes like the radiance the sunbeams bring.

Oh my, oh my,
such GLEE says I,
Friend Edgar's here!
...and LETTY dear!


and BobSmythhawk,
I strain and gawk,
So good to see
this coterie,

...this A2K,
...this family.


From way up North
ehBeth comes forth,
(I raise a glass
to that good lass!)


And lookee mates,
Who brings us Yeats?
... extend your hand
to a Moynihan!


Pan's aide, Pan's aide,
We thought he'd prayed,
but in the booth
a _ _ _ _ he made,


The Noddy lady from shady lane,
she makes me SMILE -need I explain?
and Lady J, a NEW friend's here,
(She's MUCH too refined for greenish beer!)


Friend Piffka-Patty? It's GOOD, GOOD, GOOD
to see HER in the neighborhood!
New friends and old,
it's great to see...

but some are still missing:
...where are you bree?

For Friday March 11, 2005:



'One of The Boys'

Our youth was gay but rough,
much drink and copulation.
If that seems not enough
blame our miseducation.
In shabby boarding houses
lips covered lips,
and in our wild carouses
there were companionships.
Cheap and mundane the setting
of all that we remember:
in August, dance-hall petting,
cinemas in December.
Now middle-aged I know,
and do not hide the truth,
used or misused years go
and take all kinds of youth.
We test the foreign scene
or grow too fat in banks,
salesmen for margarine,
or soldiers in tanks,
the great careers all tricks,
the fine arts all my arse,
business and politics
a cruel farce.
Though fear of getting fired
may ease, and work is hated
less, we are tired, tired
and incapacitated.
On golf courses, in bars,
crutched by the cash we earn,
we think of nights in cars
with energy to burn.
-James Simmons





For more on James Simmons go to:

http://www.pgil-eirdata.org/html/pgil_datasets/authors/s/Simmons,J/notes.htm

Not a poem but a song by my favourite Irish singer - Sinead O'Connor

"Scorn not his simplicity"

See the child
With the golden hair
Yet eyes that show the emptiness inside
Do we know
Can we understand just how he feels
Or have we really tried
See him now
As he stands alone
And watches children play a children's game
Simple child
He looks almost like the others
Yet they know he's not the same
Scorn not his simplicity
But rather try to love him all the more
Scorn not his simplicity
Oh no
Oh no
See him stare
Not recognizing the kind face
That only yesterday he loved
The loving face
Of a mother who can't understand
What she's been guilty of
How she cried, tears of happiness
The day the doctor told her it's a boy
Now she cries tears of helplessness
And thinks of all the things he can't enjoy
Scorn not his simplicity
But rather try to love him all the more
Scorn not his simplicity
Oh no
Oh no
Only he knows how to face the future hopefully
Surrounded by despair
He won't ask for your pity or your sympathy
But surely you should care
Scorn not his simplicity
But rather try to love him all the more
Scorn not his simplicity
Oh no
Oh no
Oh no

jjorge, you're back!

Reading along with pleasure!