Beautiful Irish Poem

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Permalink Reply by Walter on April 3, 2009 at 20:04

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 . . .

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Permalink Reply by kubana on May 6, 2009 at 0:37

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.

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Permalink Reply by Walter on May 10, 2009 at 0:22

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 . . .

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Permalink Reply by kubana on May 17, 2009 at 19:23

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.

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Permalink Reply by Walter on June 6, 2009 at 2:03

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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Permalink Reply by Frank Daub on June 11, 2009 at 18:25

Hello to all my poetical friends
Who keep this forum alive.
To Lisa and Walter and Lady Diane
and Pierre whose creative drive
Makes reading poems a life-tasting joy.

Below are lyrics from a grand song by Mary Black.
About food, life and love. It so reminds me of all
of you.

Frank in St. Louis


Well did you ever make colcannon,
Made with lovely pickled cream
With the greens & scallions mingled
Like a pitcher in a dream
Did you ever make a hole on top
To hold the meltin flake
Or the creamy flavoured butter
That our mothers used to make

Chorus

Oh you did, so you did
So did he and so did i
And the more I think about it
Sure the nearer Im to cry
Oh werent them the happy days
When troubles we knew not
And or mother made colcannon
In the little skillet pot

Well, did you ever take potatoe cake
And boxty to the school
Tucked underneath your oxter with
Your books, your slate and rule
And when teacher wasnt looking
Sure a great big bite youd take
Of the creamy flavoured soft and meltin
Sweet potatoe cake

Chorus

Well did you ever go a courtin boys
When the evenin sun went down
And the moon began a peepin
From behind the hill o down
And you wandered down the boreen
Where the clrachn was seen
And you whispered lovin praises to
Your own dear sweet ciln

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Permalink Reply by kubana on June 17, 2009 at 17:31

Mr. Daub,
A wonderful song! I once tried to sing that at the Pop Show in 7th grade. "Colcannon" is one of the first, and best, Irish songs I've ever heard.

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Permalink Reply by Walter on June 18, 2009 at 19:26

Pierre,

You are fast becoming the ‘poet laureate’ of Live Ireland. One gets a nice sense of nostalgia in reading your poem. The image of the ‘small thatch cottage’ and the ‘half-door’ offer a comforting reminder of the ‘way things were.’ For an instance, we can ‘dwell near the river’ lost in our ‘small thoughts’ and ‘cherished moments.’ Oh to be in Dunfanaghy!

Walter . . .

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Permalink Reply by C. Ford on July 5, 2009 at 5:04

Ouch. They say all Irish songs are about loving, longing or losing; I think the last one is definitely this song's topic. Very well written and quite beautiful, but the ending is very saddening.

Thanks for posting!

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Permalink Reply by Conor Hegarty on July 19, 2009 at 20:51

Hey,
Im new to live ireland and I'd thought i'd add a little poem that i wrote. please dont kill me in the world of forums. im only a kid like. i just write poems because i enjoy it, not because i want to be the best. :)

My Rusty Old Car [By Conor Hegarty]

My rusty car,
i've had it for years
its my pride and joy
nothing comes near

I look down on my car
i see whats on display
plants grow off the window
nothing special i say

but with a bit of love
and elbow grease too
i think i can turn my car
back to brand new

so i get a bit of practice
i want everything to be right
blood sweat and tears
of working throught he night

but like any old car,
It'll take some time
so ill be patient
and not step out of line...

...A few months later
of working everyday
i've turned my car around
and did it the right way

the time that i've spent
must be put to the test
so my car my be known as one of its best

Im proud of my car,
im proud of what i've done
for my talents just grew
from 0 to 1.

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Permalink Reply by Conor Hegarty on July 20, 2009 at 8:00

hey!
thanks for the comment
i know im not a star at writing so my writing may become difficult to understnad but what i hoped for people to understand on this one is that my car is a talent i used to have, it got worn out and it wasnt special but i worked on it again everyday and it back around to top class. it dosent give many hints though

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Permalink Reply by Conor Hegarty on July 20, 2009 at 16:30

Thanks pierre for the lovely comment the last post i just did dont make much sense when i read it because i was in a rush not too be late for school! Well the poem is about a talent i had, I didnt use it much so i lost it, hence the car turned rusty... I worked on it for a few months and my talent grew and grew, so did my car :)

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