'Will You Taste Some Irishness' redux 2006

Hi Noddy! Top of the mornin' to you.



For Wednesday March 15, 2006 a lovely little poem by J.M. Synge:



Prelude

Still south I went and west and south again,
Through Wicklow from the morning till the night,
And far from cities, and the sights of men,
Lived with the sunshine, and the moon's delight.

I knew the stars, the flowers, and the birds,
The grey and wintry sides of many glens,
And did but half remember human words,
In converse with the mountains, moors, and fens.
-J.M.SYNGE



http://www.spartacus.schoolnet.co.uk/Jsynge.htm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Millington_Synge
http://www.bartleby.com/1010/

RAGLAN ROAD
(Patrick Kavanagh)

On Raglan Road of an Autumn day
I saw her first and knew,
That her dark hair would weave a snare
That I might someday rue.
I saw the danger and I passed
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 play.
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts
And I not making hay;
Oh, I loved too much and by such and such
Is happiness thrown away.

I gave her gifts of the mind,
I gave her the secret signs,
That's known to the artists who have known
The true gods of sound and stone.
And her words and tint without stint
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,
And 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'll lose
His wings at the dawn of day.

For Thursday March 16, 2006:



Death of An Irishwoman


Ignorant, in the sense
she ate monotonous food
and thought the world was flat,
and pagan, in the sense
she knew the things that moved
all night were neither dogs nor cats
but pucas* and darkfaced men
she nevertheless had fierce pride.
But sentenced in the end
to eat thin diminished porridge
in a stone-cold kitchen
she clenched her brittle hands
around a world
she could not understand.
I loved her from the day she died.
She was a summer dance at the crossroads.
She was a cardgame where a nose was broken.
She was a song that nobody sings.
She was a house ransacked by soldiers.
She was a language seldom spoken.
She was a child's purse full of useless things.
-Michael Hartnett

http://www.irishwriters-online.com/michaelhartnett.html
http://www.limerick-leader.ie/issues/20000930/news02.html

*Hobgoblin, puck

Well - here we are on Paddy's Day (here).

Wearing green!

I've made green muffins - which have been devoured by assorted leprechauns in the office. Another batch to be made tonight for my tennis group!

Happy St Patricks' Day, all!

green muffins and a pint sound great...

Happy St. Patrick's Day!



CONVERSATION WITH A GARDA* IN
GRAFTON STREET - Pat Ingolsby

A couple of years back I paused in Grafton Street
and leaned against a litter bin to listen to a busker.

A large garda appeared beside me.

"Are you selling anything that you shouldn't be selling?"
he said.

"I'm just enjoying the sunshine and the music"

"Yeah but are you selling anything that you shouldn't
be selling"

"I'm simply enjoying the music."

PAUSE

"You're wearing an awful lot of jewellery all the same."

"That is none of your business" I said.

"I was just making conversation" he said.

* Garda (guard-a) - a policeman

The Venue it is Heaven,

By Cormac MacConnell

The venue it is Heaven,
The time it is eleven,
The Committee of Selection,
Settle gravely in their chairs,
And that sage and aged body
Face the business of the day,
Who next to call to climb the Golden Stairs,
Today's the day for Ireland,
Her delegate is there,
Saint Patrick, leaning forward,
To survey the isle of green,
With her valleys and her rivers,
Her mighty foaming seas,
And the mountain peaks,
Where as a slave he's been.
And through the great domed panels,
Of their Chamber crystal-walled,
The Committee see the Mortals,
The Recording Angel calls,
It's routine, for Lives are merely leased,
To all folk down below,
And when that lease expires then they go.
But under Any Other Business,
There's a rare request this day,
Brawny Peter at the table,
To the delegates does say,
"Brothers, though his term's not done,
I've a favour to ask,
I badly need the service
Of Pat Hynes from Poulnashask.
"I've that bell in the Church of Lucifer,
That still has a pagan throat,
Bellringers the world over,
Have tried to change its note,
I've listened to all the Irish bells,
And one ringer stands alone,
If bellringers were a monarchy,
Hynes would hold the throne.
"He's 59, he has ten years left,
His soul is in no way stained,
He'll leave not chick nor child behind,
For a bachelor he remained,
He is the man to ring my bell,
This is the favour I ask,
I need (and he nodded Earthwards),
Pat Hynes from Poulnashask".
Now there's Politics in Heaven too,
I have to tell you all,
And if Peter is of Fine Gael,
Patrick is Fianna Fail!
He'll never make things easy,
For the Keeper of the Gate,
So he says - "Hynes is Irish,
I bet the bell rings late".
And that leads to long discussion,
The Committee running late,
Till Saint Paul, the Acting Chairman,
Puts an end to the debate,
And says to the patient Angel,
"Please carry out this task:-
Check the Angelus punctuality,
Of Pat Hynes from Poulnashask"………………………
In Ireland the evening mellowed,
In the scent of new-mown hay,
All the meadows filled with haymen,
Dogs barking far away,
Rooks flying home o'er Poulnashask,
Where Pat Hynes is building ricks,
And the minute hand of the porringer clock,
Crawls up to ten to six.
He climbs up on his old Raleigh,
And pedals aisy down the lane,
He shouts at Andy Peterson,
"I'd say twill soon make rain",
He meets old Maggie Waterson,
Walking the other way,
"A mighty evening Paddy", is
what he hears her say.
He looks at the chapel on the hill,
Gilded by evening beams,
The meadows all are golden,
Like Paradise it seems,
Pat thinks he'll have a pint tonight,
In the pub they call The Sticks,
And he leaves the bike at the chapel gate,
At exactly five to six.
And he's gone crunching up the avenue,
He's climbing the creaking stairs,
Where once he took them three-a-time,
He takes them now in pairs,
He looks out the belfry window,
At his whole wide world below,
The river glints like molten silver,
All of Poulnashask aglow.
The knotted bellrope is in his hands,
He checks the watch on wrist,
Takes a firmer hold on the wiry hemp,
Then with a pull and twist,
Articulates the Angelus calling the haymen to prayer,
And they pray, for no man amongst them knows,
Who might next lie prayerless there……………………………
There's a brazen bell in Heaven,
That now rings sweeter than the best,
A goldenly eternal peal,
Of Hope and Peace and Rest,
Old Saints and Angels often smile,
In the evening when it tolls,
And they all know he who rings it,
The merriest of souls.
The Lord himself, last Saint Patrick's Day,
Came out to hear it sing,
And on the patron's feast day,
Never sweeter did it sing,
The Lord said then to Peter,
"Who found you for that task?"
And Peter answered - "Paddy Hynes,
The new Saint from Poulnashask".

and a Happy St. Patrick's day to all, Irish or no. <smile>

Gentle Lady, Do Not Sing


Gentle lady, do not sing
Sad songs about the end of love;
Lay aside sadness and sing
How love that passes is enough.

Sing about the long deep sleep
Of lovers that are dead, and how
In the grave all love shall sleep:
Love is aweary now.



James Joyce

Hello all, and Happy St. Patrick's Day to you!

Thanks so much for your remarks and wonderful contributions.

St. Patrick's Day, as in previous years, is the official* 'last day' of
this thread and I will be posting several times -even a late evening
post, God willing, after I've come home from my celebratin'.

Today's first poem is by one of my favorite Irish poets, Patrick
Kavanagh.

When I started these annual 'WYTSI' threads five years ago, the
only Irish poets I was really familiar with were Seamus Heaney and
W.B. Yeats. So, in order to do the threads, I obligated myself, in
effect, to a self-imposed 'course' on Irish poetry. Now, within my
poetry bookcase, I have a 'mini-library' of anthologies and works by
Irish poets. The best part has been 'discovering' wonderful poets I
hadn't heard of like Patrick Kavanagh.

(BTW if you like this Kavanagh poem, and the ones posted above by
D'artagnon and Mikey, find a copy of his epic poem, 'The Great
Hunger'. You'll love it.)




Stony Grey Soil


O stony grey soil of Monaghan
The laugh from my love you thieved;
You took the the gay child of my passion
And gave me your clod-conceived.

You clogged the feet of my boyhood
And I believed that my stumble
Had the poise and stride of Apollo
And his voice my thick-tongued mumble.

You told me the plough was immortal!
O green-life-conquering plough!
Your mandril strained, your coulter blunted
In the smooth lea-field of my brow.

You sang on steaming dunghills
A song of coward's brood,
You perfumed my clothes with weasel itch,
You fed me on swinish food.

You flung a ditch on my vision
Of beauty, love and truth.
O stony grey soil of Monaghan
You burgled my bank of youth!

Lost the long hours of pleasure
All the women that love young men.
O can I still stroke the monster's back
Or write with unpoisened pen

His name in these lonely verses
Or mention the dark fields where
The first gay flight of my lyric
Got caught in a peasant's prayer.

Mullahinsha, Drummeril, Black Shanco -
Wherever I turn I see
In the stony grey soil of Monaghan
Dead loves that were born for me.
-Patrick Kavanagh




for more on Patrick Kavanagh go to:
http://www.irishlinks.co.uk/pkavanagh.htm
http://homepage.eircom.net/~splash/PatKav.html
http://www.patrickkavanaghcountry.com/


* of course we don't give a d*mn for 'Officials',
....and sins are forgiven anyway...
so-o-o-o..... your addenda, postscripts, and late postings ARE allowed. ;-)

Good grief! What depressing poetry. Anyone unfamiliar with modern Ireland reading this would think we were all still living in thatched cottages, with wailing shawl clad women boiling spuds and cabbage over a peat fire.

phoney,

I'm sorry to disappoint you.

This thread is not intended to be a description of modern Ireland however, which, as many non-irish are aware, is very modern indeed and (its economy) is the envy of the rest of the European Union.
Neither is it meant to showcase the most contemporary of irish poets.

Nevertheless, these are Irish poets after all, and wonderful poets at that, whether writing in 1897 or 1997.

If you are Irish, as I presume you are, I hope you are proud of all of your cultural heritage, not just modern Ireland.

You have much to be proud of.

P.S.
You are also most welcome to post a poem that is more to your liking.

-jjorge

Here is a delightful, fun, poem that we have posted previously on this day:



The Fall

The Garden of Eden (described in the Bible)
Was Guinness's Brewery(mentioned by Joyce),
Where innocent Adam and Eve were created
And dwelt from necessity rather than choice;

For Nothing existed but Guinness's Brewery,
Guinness's Brewery occupied all,
Guinness's Brewery everywhere, anywhere-
Woe that expulsion succeeded the fall!

The ignorant pair were encouraged in drinking
Whatever they fancied whenever they could,
Except for the porter or stout which embodied
Delectable knowledge of evil and good.

In Guinness's Brewery, innocent, happy,
They tended the silos and coppers and vats,
They polished the engines and coopered the
barrels
And even made pets of the Brewery rats.

One morning while Adam was brooding and brewing
It happened that Eve had gone off on her own,
When a serpent like ivy slid up to her softly
And murmured seductively, Are we alone?

O Eve, said the serpent, I beg you to sample
A bottle of Guinness's excellent stout,
Whose nutritive qualities no one can question
And stimulant properties no one can doubt;

It's tonic, enlivening, strengthening,
heartening,
Loaded with vitamins, straight from the wood,
And further enriched with the not undesirable
Lucrative knowledge of Evil and Good.

So Eve was persuaded and Adam was tempted,
They fell and they drank and continued to
drink
(Their singing and dancing and shouting and
prancing
Prevented the serpent from sleeping a wink).

Alas, when the couple had finished a barrel
And swallowed the final informative drops,
They looked at each other and knew they were
naked
And covered their intimate bodies with hops.

The anger and rage of the Lord was appalling,
He wrathfully cursed them for taking to drink
And hounded them out of the Brewery, followed
By beetles (magenta) and elephants (pink).

The crapulous couple emerged to discover
A universe full of diseases and crimes,
Where porter could only be purchased for money
In specified places at specified times.

And now in this world of confusion and error
Our only salvation and hope is to try
To threaten and bargain our way into Heaven
By drinking the heavenly Brewery dry.
-Fergus Allen


http://www.dedaluspress.com/poets/allen.html

Easter 1916
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.

*****************THE END****************
This concludes the planned postings on 'Will You Taste Some Irishness'.
I hope you have enjoyed your 'Taste'
-jjorge


'The Parting Glass'

"Of all the money ere I had, I spent it in good company,
And all the harm I've ever done, alas was done to none but me
and all I've done for want of wit, to memory now I can't recall
so fill me to the parting glass, goodnight and joy be with you
all.

Of all the comrades ere I had, they're sorry for my going away,
and all the sweethearts ere I had , they wish me one more day to
stay,
but since it falls unto my lot that I should go and you should
not,
I'll gently rise and softly call, goodnight and joy be with you
all.

If I had money enough to spend and leisure time to sit awhile
there is a fair maid in this town who sorely has my heart
beguiled
Her rosey cheeks and ruby lips, I alone she has my heart in
thrall
so fill me to the parting glass goodnight and joy be with you
all."

(traditional Irish song. Sung at the end of the night or at the
end of an event)

great tune jjorge

Thanks, jjorge.

Just to make this weekend complete, Ireland beat England on their own patch in rugby today.

C'mon ya boyo.

all right!

PS thanks Imur for your great contributions to this thread, and thanks to you too Mikey and Letty, Margo and all who have posted.

out

Thanks so much for your efforts, jjorge - I look forward to them each year!

Well, thank you, jjorge.