Will You Taste Some Irishness? IV (2005)

glitterbag -- last summer I accompanied my wife to her 50th high school class reunion in Texas. For me, it was interesting meeting some of the people she had known as a teenager as I had never met any of them and our courting had all been on the East Coast. After that three-day got-together, she had only one thing to say to me. "It's good to be reminded of why I left Texas when I was young and why I'm so much better off not living anywhere near most of those people."

For Monday March 14, 2005:


Yes

I love the word
And hear its long struggle with no
Even in the bird's throat
And the budging crocus.
Some winter's night
I see it flood the faces
Of my friends, ripen their laughter
And plant early flowers in
Their conversation.

You will understand when I say
It is for me a morning word
Though it is older than the sea
And hisses in a way
That may have given
An example
To the serpent itself.
It is this ageless incipience
Whose influence is found
In the first and last pages of books,
In the grim skin of the affirmative battler
And in the voices of women
That constitutes the morning quality
Of yes.

We have all
Thought what it must be like
Never to grow old,
The dreams of our elders have mythic endurance
Though their hearts are stilled
But the only agelessness
Is yes.
I am always beginning to appreciate
The agony from which it is born.
Clues from here and there
Suggest such agony is hard to bear
But is the shaping God
Of the word that we
Sometimes hear, and struggle to be.
-Brendan Kennelly


For more on Brendan Kennelly go to:

http://www.geocities.com/abbeypress/kennelly.html

http://www.irishwriters-online.com/brendankennelly.html

Thanks for the taste of Irishness jjorge...my Irish eyes are smiling

Well St Patrick's Day is nigh upon us. Time for a little frivolity:

PADDY McGlNTY'S GOAT

Mr. Patrick McGinty, an Irishman of note,
Came into a fortune, so bought himself a goat.
Said he, "Sure, of goat's milk I mean to have my fill!"
But when he got his Nanny home, he found it was a Bill.

And now all the ladies who live in Killaloo
Are all wearing bustles like their mothers used to do.
They each wear a bolster beneath the petticoat,
And leave the rest to Providence and Paddy McGinty's goat!
Missis Burke to her daughter said, "Listen, Mary Jane, .
Now who was the man you were cuddling in the lane?
He'd long wiry whiskers all hanging from his chin."
"Twas only Pat McGinty's goat, " she answer'd with a grin.

Then she went away from the village in disgrace,
She came back with powder and paint upon her face.
She'd rings on her fingers, and she wore a sable coat,
You bet your life they never came from Paddy McGinty's goat.
Little Norah McCarthy the knot was going to tie,
She washed all her trousseau and hung it out to dry.
Then up came the goat and he saw the bits of white:
He chewed up all her falderals, and on her wedding night:

"Oh turn out the gas quick!" she shouted out to Pat,
For though l'm your bride, sure l'm not worth looking at.
I'd got two of ev'rything, I told you when I wrote,
But now I've one of nothing, all thro' Paddy McGinty's goat.'
Mickey Riley he went to the races t'other day.
He won twenty dollars and shouted, "Hip Hooray!!"
He held up the note, shouting "Look what I've got!"
The goat came up and grabbed at it and swallowed all the lot.

"He's eaten my banknote," said Mickey, with the hump.
They ran for the doctor, he brought a stomach pump.
He pumped and he pumped for that twenty dollar note,
But all he got was ninepence out of Paddy McGinty's goat.

Most times a kittycat's eyes are not smilin'
( they're too clever, too wise, and oh so beguilin')

but THIS kkitty's different, she IS smilin' - Look!
she's the cute 2k kitty we call: 'Colorbook'.

And before St. Patrick came calling, Ireland was the Home of Kings and Heroes. Feast your eyes on the Hill of Tara.

http://www.mythicalireland.com/ancientsites/tara/taragallery.html

Thanks Bob

Thanks jjorge


I've posted this before on another thread...I named my daughter after this song:






A wee bit of both Irish and Scottish

Hey Colorbook, I sing that song. My karaoke night is Friday. Memo to Bob from Bob---sing Jean from Oliver. Thank you.

You're welcome, glad I could help

MerryAndrew, Thanks, it's nice to know I'm not alone. I enjoyed much of it (now that I have a couple days to reflect) but it was extremely painful during some of it. It might take 30 years to persuade me to go to another one, but I wouldn't mind seeing a few of the old friends. But the real low point was watching the old boyfriend try to impress my husband with how much he knew about my parents. My parents hated him and were so glad when I finally called it quits. He's yakking away to the man who helped me take care of my parents and his mother all the way to the end. Sometimes taking those little walks down memory lane are exhausting. But it's Monday and I am starting to remember (with an unholy pleasure) some of the things I said to people who crossed the line from "good to see you", "how's the family" to things I wasn't willing to play. So maybe it wasn't so bad after all..............still think that might be the last one I ever attend.

We are proud to present a song we know is Irish.

A NATION ONCE AGAIN

When boyhood's fire was in my blood
I read of ancient freemen,
For Greece and Rome who bravely stood,
Three hundred men and three men;
And then I prayed I yet might see
Our fetters rent in twain,
And Ireland. long a province, be
A Nation once again!

Chorus:
A nation once again,
A nation once again,
And Ireland, long a province, be
A Nation once again!

And from that time, through wildest woe,
That hope has shown a far light,
Nor could love's brightest summer glow
Outshine that solemn starlight;
It seemed to watch above my head
In forum, field and fame,
Its angel voice sang round my bed,
A Nation once again.

Chorus.

It whisper'd too, that freedom's ark,
And service high and holy,
Would be profaned by feeling dark
And passions vain or lowly;
For, Freedom comes from God's right hand,
And needs a godly train;
And righteous men must make our land
A nation once again!

Chorus.

I saw the St Patrick's day parade in Toronto yesterday ! It was great !

Well here we are one day closer to St. Patrick's Day. This is for my son in law Patrick half Swedish/half Irish.

BARD OF ARMAGH

Oh, list to the tale of a poor Irish harper
And scorn not the strings in his old withered hand
But remember these fingers could once move more sharper
To waken the echoes of his dear native land

How I long for to muse on the days of my boyhood
Though four score and three years have fled by since then
Still it gives sweet reflections, as every young joy should
That merry-hearted boys make the best of old men

At wake or at fair I would twirl my shillelagh
And trip through the jigs with my brogues bound with straw
And all the pretty maidens from the village, the valley
Loved the bold Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh

And when sergeant Death's cold arms shall embrace me
Oh lull me to sleep with sweet Erin Go Bragh
By the side of my Kathleen, my own love, then place me
And forget Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh

sung by Tommy Makem and by Clancy Bros on Home Boys Home

For today March 15, 2005:



Deaths and Engines


we came down above the houses
In a stiff curve, and
At the edge of Paris airport
Saw an empty tunnel
- The back half of a plane, black
On the snow, nobody near it,
Tubular, burnt-out and frozen.

When we faced again
The snow-white runways in the dark
No sound came over
The loudspeakers except the sighs
Of the lonely pilot.

The cold of metal wings is contagious:
Soon you will need wings of your own,
Cornered in the angle where
Time and life like a knife and fork
Cross, and the lifeline in your palm
Breaks, and the curve of an aeroplane's track
Meets the straight skyline.

The images of relief:
Hospital pyjamas, screens round a bed
A man with a bloody face
Sitting up in bed, conversing cheerfully
Through cut lips:
These will fail you some time.

You will find yourself alone
Accelerating down a blind
Alley, too late to stop
And know how light your death is;
You will be scattered like wreckage,
The pieces every one a different shape
Will spin and lodge in the hearts
Of all who love you.
-Eilean Ni Chuilleanain


For more on Eilean Ni Chuilleanain go to:
http://www.lectures.org/chuilleanain.html

Agnostic Smoke.....................................................................Where do birds go
nights, or buff-colored heifers up to their bellies in buttercups
as they haul as if nothing the great weight of themselves
to lake edge and back, sinking beyond their bony hocks
in the boggy grass, the brushed green rushes making
a sound like raincoats?

......................................being there, breaking daylight into little brilliant bits
to become itself in every instant: barked, branched, alive
with leaf-light: countless its ways of being, being like that.

Well with all the bad weather we've had, I'm surprised to see buds finally starting on the trees. The last storm had more rain than snow here south of Boston. So let's have a song with rain in it.

A WALK IN THE IRISH RAIN
(S. Spurgin)

When the sun goes down o'er Dublin town
The colors last for hours, oh
The lights come on, the night's a song
And the streets all turn to gold.

A gentle mist all heaven kissed
Like teardrops off an angel's wing
Don't you know you'll cleanse your soul
With a walk in the Irish rain.

Cho: Oh, Katherine, take my hand
I've got three pounds and change
And I'll sing you songs of love again
And when I get too drunk to sing
We'll walk in the Irish rain.

Forever more I've stepped ashore
My sailing days are over, oh
Through time and tide and by your side
Together we'll grow old.

I threw my sea bag in the bin
And brought these pretty flowers home
Kiss me Kate, we'll celebrate
Before the bloom is gone.

A tinker and a tailor and a drunken old sailor
They all get together and they start to play
Time stands still while they sing their fill
They'll shout 'til the break of day.

A sweet little lady with a glass of stout
Sippin' it down 'til the foam runs out
She'll help her old man home again
With a walk in the Irish rain.

Sunlight



There was a sunlit absence.

The helmeted pump in the yard
heated its iron,
water honeyed


in the slung bucket
and the sun stood
like a griddle cooling
against the wall


of each long afternoon.

So, her hands scuffed
over the bakeboard,
the reddening stove


sent its plaque of heat
against her where she stood
in a floury apron
by the window.



Now she dusts the board
with a goose's wing,
now sits, broad-lapped,
with whitened nails,


and measling shins:
here is a space
again, the scone rising
to the tick of two clocks.



And here is love
like a tinsmith's scoop
sunk past its gleam
in the metal - bin.

Seamus Heaney

bobsmythhawk, I hope with YOU, that bad weather is drying up in the sunshine of spring..... (hope, hope, hope, hope....)

Very nice Piff, Jackie, and Bob.

Bob, I'm one of those rainy day people.




P.S.

My hometown is South of Boston (Avon)

I was there today doing a few final chores around my late mother's house. It's now sold and the closing is in 16 days. Mom died in that house last August, at 87.

She and my dad moved there in 1942. Dad was 27, Mom was 25 and I was five months. My siblings were 6, 5, and 2.


'Home Is So Sad'

'Home is so sad. It stays as it was left,
Shaped to the comfort of the last to go
As if to win them back. Instead, bereft
Of anyone to please, it withers so,
Having no heart to put aside the theft

And turn again to what it started as,
A joyous shot at how things ought to be,
Long fallen wide. You can see how it was:
Look at the pictures and the cutlery.
The music in the music stool. That vase.'
( Philip Larkin )


sorry for the digression