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Song

by Thomas Moore
the greatest Irish lyrist
born Dublin, 1779 - died 1852
Have you not seen the timid tear
Steal trembling from mine eye?
Have you not mark'd the flush of fear,
Or caught the murmur'd sigh?
And can you think my love is chill,
Nor fix'd on you alone?
And can you rend, by doubting still,
A heart so much your own?

To you my soul's affections move
Devoutly, warmly, true:
My life has been a task of love,
One long, long thought of you.
If all your tender faith is o'er,
If still my truth you'll try;
Alas! I know but one proof more -
I'll bless your name, and die!

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'Dearest Katty & BELONGING'

Pierre,

You are becoming prolific in your poetry writing. Something deep in your Irish heart is stirring. Lucky are we the benefactors of such heartfelt expression. The Poetry Forum continues to benefit from each verse you add. ‘Tis ‘great stuff' my good friend.

Walter . . .
Such a beautiful poem! Thanks for sharing!
pierre,
my friend David wrote this poem yesterday, and it reminded me of "Dearest Katty."

As I walk into this desperate night,
I see nothing but the eternal light;
For it is her that I try to walk towards,
But never can make it.

I've always wondered what it would be like,
To hold her hand, or kiss her lightly,
Making her smile forever there,
And all the sadness disappear.

Whether it be bad or good,
I can't help but think this way;
Am I crazy, am I mad,
Or is this just that kind of day?

I guess there is no answer,
No reasoning behind how I feel,
But what I do know, and shall forever know,
Is how just talking to her can impact me so.

Even if I see her some,
But only times few and far between,
I still can't help but talk to her,
For her voice, that song, sings to me eternally in my dreams.
-David C. Stautberg
Such a beautiful poem! It reminds me of the love a father has for his daughter. Being Daddy's girls, my friends and I love to share songs and poems like this! Thank you for sharing!
thank you, lady dianne! your kind words certainly can make me smile!
Wonderful poem! Thanks so much for sharing!
You guys are great! Anyone who doesn't read the back and forth and the sharing in between have only themselves to blame. I was going to do my taxes this weekend but this came up and once again I have to read this journal from Genesis to pause. I can't thank you all enough for this enlightenment and the many enlightenment moments to come. God never said what the acute observer's inherit who are the poets and those who analyze them-- I think they get the balance of the universe that the meek do not get. God bless you all in these tough times.
A wise man once told me that ‘this is not a dress rehearsal – we have one life to live – and, we don’t get the opportunity to come back and do it all over again.’ In keeping with your poem – ‘How can’t we cherish? – Life’ Awakening’ – let all our hearts be ‘wide open’ as you advocate – and to savour life as you so aptly demonstrate in this poem and other comments in LI.

Walter . . .
After listening to some beautiful songs sung in Gaelic at the International Festival recently, I wrote the following in my English notebook for school. It is not about love for any one person in particular, but for the loved ones in all our lives- whether or not the love is the romantic sort.

Love you forever, everlasting love-
that's what the song promised,
that beautiful Irish song.
Words that hold no meaning
hold even less in a language I understand,
still they hold more magic
than I can comprehend.
He sings them in a language
I know little of;
in Gaelic or in English,
he sings a song of love.
Ihere's something in this Irish heart
that loves that Irish song-
and I daresay it says it best,
forgive me if I'm wrong.
It seems to sing my love for you-
your light, your life, your laugh-
and though the song is over, love,
my love for you won't pass.
Pierre,

‘Oh how sweet it is to hear one's own convictions from another's lips.‘
(Goethe, Johann Wolfgang Von). For those of us that live in Eastern Canada the ‘smell of spring rain mist’ is indeed a welcome sign given the long duration of our harsh winters. Your poetic observation captures the ‘feeling’ of seasonal transition and the sense of ‘awakening’ when our dreams again become alive. I for one relish the advent of spring and the promise of the impending summer knowing all too well the dread of our inevitable winter.
‘Summer fields and warm soft air’ – Ah! I am alive again – thanks Pierre! Now, if you could just extend this feeling for an extra few months I would be so happy. Again, you have provided another nice and timely contribution to the Poetry Forum. Bravo!

Walter . . .
I was born & reared on Sandy Row, a loyal Orange Prod;
I stood for good King William, that noble man of God!
My motto - No Surrender! My flag - The Union Jack!
And every Twelfth, I proudly march to Finaghy, and back.

A loyal son of Ulster, a true blue, that was me,
Prepared to fight, prepared to die for faith & liberty.
As well as that, a Linfield man as long as I could mind,
And I had no time for Catholics, or any of that kind.

And then one night in Bangor I met wee Rosie Green.
The minute I laid eyes on her, I knew she was my queen;
And when I saw she fancied me, my mind was all a-buzz,
And I clean forgot to ask her what her religion was.

Next time we met I told her, "I'm a Proddie, staunch & true!"
And she said, "I'm a Catholic, and just as staunch as you".
The words were harsh & bitter, but suddenly like this:
Centuries of conflict and hatred were forgotten with a kiss.

I knew our love would bring us only trouble & distress.
But nothing in this world would make me love wee Rosie less.
I saved a bit of money, as quickly as I could,
And asked her if she'd marry me - and dear God, she said she would.

Then the troubles REALLY started! Her folks went ravin' mad,
And then, when mine heard the news, they were twice as bad.
My father said from that day on, he'd hang his head in shame;
And by a strange coincidence, HER father said the same!

My mother cried her eyes out & said I'd rue the day
That I let a Papish hussy steal my loyal heart away.
And Rosie's mother said, when she'd recovered from the blow,
That she'd rather have the divil than a man from Sandy Row!

We were married in a Papish church, the other side of town,
That's how Rosie wanted it and I couldn't let her down.
But the priest was very nice to me & made me feel at home -
I think he pitied both of us - our families didn't come.

The rooms we went to live in had nothin' but the walls,
It was far away from Sandy Row & further from the Falls.
But that's the way we wanted it, for both of us knew well
That back among the crowd our lives would be living hell.

But life out there for Rosie was so lonely, of this I so well knew,
And, of course, we also had our religious differences too:
At dinner time on Friday, when Rosie gave me fish,
I looked at it and then at her, and said, "Thon's not my dish."

I mind well what she said to me-- You've got to pay some price,
"And to eat no meat on Friday is a poor wee sacrifice
To make for Christ who died for us one Friday long ago,"
Anyway, I ate the fish-- and it wasn't bad, you know.

Then Sunday came and I lay on when she got up at eight.
But Rosie turned to me and said, "Get up or you'll be late.
You've got a church to go to and there's where you should be,
So up you get this minute - you'll be part o' the road with me."

We left the house together, but we parted down the line,
And she went off to her church and I went off to mine.
But all throughout the service, although we were apart,
I felt we prayed together, united heart to heart.

The weeks & months went quickly by and then there came the day
When Rosie upped & told me that a child was on the way.
We both went down on our knees that day and asked the Lord above
To give our child two special gifts alone-- tolerance & love.

We wrote and told our families--they never used to call -
And we thought the news might soften them, and so it did and all.
My mother, and then Rosie's, said they'd visit us in turn,
And we marvelled at the power of a wee child not yet born.

But we were quickly disillusioned when we found out why they came;
It wasn't to be friendly or to make up with us again.
Rosie's mother came to say the child must be R.C.
And mine said it would have to be a Protestant like me.

The rows before the wedding were surely meek & mild
Compared with all the rumpus that was raised about the child.
From both sides of the family, insults and threats were hurled -
Oh, what a way to welcome a wee angel to the world!

The child must be Catholic! The child must be a Prod!
But the last and loudest voice I heard was the mighty voice of God.
And to his awful wisdom I had to bow my head -
Just one hour after he was born, our poor wee child was dead.

That night I sat by Rosie's side and just before the dawn
I kissed her as she left me to join our angel son.
And my loyal heart was broken within thon lonely walls -
Where the hell's Shankhill! Where the hell's The Falls!

But that was many years ago, long years o' grief and pain
When I'd have given all I had to see Rosie's face again.
But my loneliness is waning now; I'll see her soon I know;
The doctor told me yesterday I haven't long to go.

And when I go up thonder they'll let me in, I hope,
But if they ask me who I'm for, King Billy or the Pope,
I'm goin' to take no chances - I'll tell them straight & fair,
I'm a Loyal Ulster Protestant - who loved a Papisher.

And one way or another, I know they'll let me through,
And Rosie will be waitin' there, and our little angel too.
Then the child will lead the two of us, the Papisher and the Prod,
Up the steps together - into the arms of Almighty God.
Pierre,

'Somewhere between Space' . . .

You honour me with your dedication. Your contribution to the Poetry Forum has become an inspiration to all that read. Your candid reflections of ‘all that is within’ are honesty in the raw. We all take sustenance from your words . . . ‘poetry from the inner soul!’

Walter . . .

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