Strange to think that a beautiful woman who seemed like a solid thing, solid as granite, was really no more solid than a flaring match, a burst of flame, darkness before and darkness after....
--The doctor in Troubles, by J.G. Farrell (1935-1979). In a review of J.G. Farrell in His Own Words: Selected Letters and Diaries (2010), ed. by Lavinia Greacen, in the London Review of Books, by Christopher Tayler
Gate to the Land of the Young
...I see yonder the boundary wall
and gate of Tìr nan Og:
behind it an ocean ebbing;
on the floodtide the boat will come--
if my name is on her list,
there will be room on board...
I see yonder the boundary wall
and gate of Tìr nan Og:
I am tired of this long journey,
my vigour not as it was,
my step not so light and quick,
nor my appearance so lively...
I see yonder the boundary wall
and gate of Tìr nan Og:
I await the flooding tide
and the ferry coming for me--
Oh, may eternal light shine
on me beyond life's end.
--Donald John MacDonald (Dòmhnall Iain MacDhòmhnaill) (1919-1986), Gaelic-language poet from South Uist in the Outer Hebrides of Scotland.
From Chì Mi: The Gaelic Poetry of Donald Mac Donald (1998, 2001) ed. and translated by Bill Innes
Geata Tìr nan Og
...Chì mi bhuam an gàrradg-crìche
's geata Tìr nan Og:
air a chùl tha cuan a' tràghadh,
san t-sruth-lìonaidh thig am bàta--
ma bhios m'ainm-sa sgrìobht' air clàr innt',
nìthear àit' air bòrd...
Chì mi bhuam an gàrradg-crìche
's geata Tìr nan Og:
tha mi sgìth san t-slighe bhuan sa
gun mo chlì mar bha i uairean,
gun mo cheum cho ealamh, uallach,
no mo shnuadh cho beò...
Chì mi bhuam an gàrradg-crìche
's geata Tìr nan Og:
tha mi feitheamh sruth an lìonaidh,
's am bàt-aiseig tighinn gam iarraidh--
O, gum boillsgeadh soillse shìorraidh
dhomh thar crìoch nam beò.
Beloved to me-- three sides
I cannot hope to see again:
the side of Tailltiu, the side of Tara,
and the side of Aedh son of Ainmire.
--Lament written in 7th- or 8th-century Ireland, ascribed to the wife of the king of Ireland, Áed mac Ainmirech (reigned ca 571-600). From Annals of the Kingdom of Ireland (a compilation finished ca 1616). My translation owes a debt to Myles Dillon's in An Anthology of Irish Literature (1954), ed. David H. Greene. The Irish is from Chronicon Scotorum (p. 46), [Annals of the Irish], an electronic text published by University College, Cork, Ireland
Báttar inmuini tri toib
frisna freisciu aitherrech--
taeban Taillten, taebh Temra,
taeb Aedha meic Anmirech.
Cold is the wind
through the doorway of the soldiers' house;
beloved the soldiers
who stood between us and the wind.
The stars I gaze upon seem different since that day,
While one shines brighter, another fades away,
You light up the winter sky, the moon at your command,
Convinced you didn't mean it, but your soul had different plans.
This is truth calling, makes its way to me,
And this is love falling, falling at our feet.
She was your sister, your neighbour, she was your daughter, your carer.
She was your mother, your sharer, she was your friend, your lover.
The bowing heads of many hold your image in their minds,
The endless search for answers occupy the time,
Gazing at the pictures, with eyes they fail to see
Why in a moment, robbed of reason, you embraced eternity.
--A song by Capercaillie, the Scottish band.
"(For Sheila, her family and friends)"
Photo by Nedieth at flickr.
The Fort of Rathangan
The fort over against the oak-wood,
Once it was Bruidge's, it was Cathal's,
It was Aed's, it was Ailill's,
It was Conaing's, it was Cuilíne's,
and it was Maeldúin's:
the fort remains after each in his turn
and the kings asleep in the ground.
--Anonymous Irish poet of ca 1100, translated by Kuno Meyer in Ancient Irish Poetry (publ. 1913, London)
Though chiefs vanish, lands do not.
--From the Brehon Laws
Cía báidit cenna ní báidit mbruighe.
I have only to pray heartbroken that he will be with the saints and angels forever.
--Owen Roe O'Sullivan (1748-1782), Irish poet
Níl agam ach guidhe le h-intinn éagnaig comhaingil agus naoimh bheith síor dá aodhaireacht.
Rain on Rahoon falls softly, softly falling,
where my dark lover lies.
Sad is his voice that calls me, sadly calling,
at grey moonrise.
Love, hear thou
how soft, how sad his voice is ever calling,
ever unanswered, and the dark rain falling,
then as now.
Dark to our hearts. O love, shall lie and cold
as his sad heart has lain
under the moongrey nettles, the black mould.
and muttering rain.
--James Joyce (1882-1941). This poem was inspired by the true story of a young man, Michael Bodkin, who courted Joyce's future wife, Nora, before they met. Michael had tuberculosis but "left his house on the rainy night before Nora left Galway to sing beneath her window a song of sorrow and farewell. He died from exposure a short time later and was buried in Rahoon cemetery." [From For the Love of Ireland, ed. Susan Cahill]
Identification in Belfast
IRA bombing
..."When they first showed me the boy, I thought oh good,
it's not him because he is a blonde--
I imagine his hair was singed dark by the bomb.
He had nothing on him to identify him
except this box of joke trick matches;
he liked to have them on him, even at mass.
The police were unhurried and wonderful,
they let me go on trying to strike a match...
I just wouldn't stop-- you cling to anything--
I couldn't believe I couldn't light one match--
only joke-matches...Then I knew he was Richard."
--Robert Lowell (1917-1977)
