Tag: Ireland

0623

0623
We were trippin’

Journey’s End
By J. R. R. Tolkien

In western lands beneath the Sun
The flowers may rise in Spring,
The trees may bud, the waters run,
The merry finches sing.
Or there maybe ’tis cloudless night,
And swaying branches bear
The Elven-stars as jewels white
Amid their branching hair.

Though here at journey’s end I lie
In darkness buried deep,
Beyond all towers strong and high,
Beyond all mountains steep,
Above all shadows rides the Sun
And Stars for ever dwell:
I will not say the Day is done,
Nor bid the Stars farewell.

0617

0617
We had a nice stay-o

There once was a woman from Mayo
She would drink every night and day-o
When she hit the town
She’d drink the boys down
And end with a roll in the hay-o

0615

0615
Congrats L&L!

I have a cousin named Laurence May
He’s getting married near Galway
Leanne is his bride
She won’t be denied
A wedding night as fun as the day

0614

0614
We’re in Ireland!

There once was a man from Ballinrobe
Who traveled half way around the globe
To find a hooker
Who could play snooker
While crudely caressing his earlobe

0612

0612
Vacation’s all I ever wanted

Work is done, I’m on vacation
Off to cousin’s celebration
An Irish Wedding in Galway
Then Czech Republic for short stay
We’ll take a train to Germany
Bavaria is where we’ll be
Back to Prague for a day or three
A long ass flight ends our journey

0501

0501
To Medb and Fergus from Maine

Féile Na Bealtaine
Long ago I was in a
Group with the great Catherine Kay
I thought of her this May Day
We were Queen Medb Encampment
Much fun was had in her tent
We would sing, drink, laugh and rave
Cate was a passionate Medb
QME seems long ago
Much time since the last táin bó
Medb is gone and Fergus too
So we sadly sing Abu!

0331

0331
Póg mo thóin sassenach

Easter, 1916
By William Butler 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 wingèd 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.

0324

0324
I’m wearing me green jacket

The Fairies
by William Allingham

Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We dare n’t go a-hunting,
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather.
Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.
High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and gray
He’s nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music,
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen,
Of the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back
Between the night and morrow;
They thought she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lake,
On a bed of flag leaves,
Watching till she wake.
By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig them up in spite?
He shall find the thornies set
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain
Down the rushy glen,
We dare n’t go a-hunting,
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather.

0320

0320
Get well soon mom!

We booked our tickets to Ireland
Mom called to say she broke her hand
Dentist says still no cavities
Today’s storm is just a light breeze
How will this up and down day end?
Gonna meet up with high school friend

0318

0318
Monday funday

Our St. Pat’s party was great
Bubbles blowing in the sun
Can’t count the bangers I ate
Playing Rock Band was so fun
Ciders and beers, we drank a bunch
Then the day turned into night
Next day’s text – “come home for lunch”
What an afternoon delight!

0317

0317
Happy St. Pat’s!

The Dear Little Shamrock
By Andrew Cherry

There’s a dear little plant that grows in our Isle,
‘Twas St. Patrick himself, sure, that set it;
And the sun on his labour with pleasure did smile,
And with dew from his eye often wet it.
It shines thro’ the bog, thro’ the brake, thro’ the mire-land,
And he called it the dear little Shamrock of Ireland.
The dear little Shamrock, the sweet little Shamrock,
The dear little, sweet little Shamrock of Ireland.

That dear little plant still grows in our land,
Fair and fresh as the daughters of Erin,
Whose smiles can bewitch, and whose eyes can command,
In each climate they ever appear in.
For they shine thro’ the bog, thro’ the mire-land,
Just like their own dear little Shamrock of Ireland.
The dear little Shamrock, the sweet little Shamrock,
The dear little, sweet little Shamrock of Ireland.

That dear little plant that springs from our soil,
When its three little leaves are extended,
Denotes from the stalk, we together should toil,
And ourselves by ourselves be befriended.
And still thro’ the bog, thro’ the brake, and the mire-land,
From one root should branch, like the Shamrock of Ireland.
The dear little Shamrock, the sweet little Shamrock,
The dear little, sweet little Shamrock of Ireland.

0315

0315
Hibernian Haiku

Often too cloudy
When sun shines on Ireland
Green shamrocks abound

0310

0310
Oh to be in Mayo

Going Home to Mayo, Winter, 1949
By Paul Durcan

Leaving behind us the alien, foreign city of Dublin
My father drove through the night in an old Ford Anglia,
His five-year-old son in the seat beside him,
The rexine seat of red leatherette,
And a yellow moon peered in through the windscreen.
‘Daddy, Daddy,’ I cried, ‘Pass out the moon,’
But no matter how hard he drove he could not pass out the moon.
Each town we passed through was another milestone
And their names were magic passwords into eternity:
Kilcock, Kinnegad, Strokestown, Elphin,
Tarmonbarry, Tulsk, Ballaghaderreen, Ballavarry;
Now we were in Mayo and the next stop was Turlough,
The village of Turlough in the heartland of Mayo,
And my father’s mother’s house, all oil-lamps and women,
And my bedroom over the public bar below,
And in the morning cattle-cries and cock-crows:
Life’s seemingly seamless garment gorgeously rent
By their screeches and bellowings. And in the evenings
I walked with my father in the high grass down by the river
Talking with him – an unheard-of thing in the city.
But home was not home and the moon could be no more outflanked
Than the daylight nightmare of Dublin city:
Back down along the canal we chugged into the city
And each lock-gate tolled our mutual doom;
And railings and palings and asphalt and traffic-lights,
And blocks after blocks of so-called ‘new’ tenements –
Thousands of crosses of loneliness planted
In the narrowing grave of the life of the father;
In the wide, wide cemetery of the boy’s childhood.