Irish Internet Radio and TV from Dublin, Ireland.


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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i do a lot of walking going home from school, and as i walk i think and i listen to music- mostly irish. the other day i tried to explain to one of the many voices in my head what attracts me so to the irish music. the following is approximately what i came up with, though that wasn't in poetic form.

I am a Texas girl,
have been all my life,
but look a little closer at my family tree.

Long before they came to Texas,
Long before they fought that war,
Something sent an Irishman
From the land he loved so dear.

He wrote down his memories,
And sang them as a song,
So that one day his children
May return to his home.

And little did he know, that a Texas girl like me
Would one day hear his song,
And feel his tears and pain,
As she listened to his plea.

And she would hear of the pain of war,
And the happiness of love,
And her feet would tap the rythm
Of that age old reel.

But I listen to his song
For indeed, I have returned
To his land of war, love, pain, and beauty
And I was captured like he by its magic.

Who would have thought a Texas girl like me,
Who says words like, "afixinto" and, "y'all,"
Would listen to this music
And be enraptured in such a mystery?

(please critique if you want, but keep in mind this is hardly fcq!)

You have no idea how much it means for me to hear (or rather read) that! I have long been a fan of poetry, and have thought of it as a therapy. In class today, I wrote a page about poetry itself- I thought of this forum, with it's discussions about great poets and the importance of rhyme scheme. And as I wrote I realized that poetry is more than a hidden meaning behind words on a paper or T.P.C.A.S.T.T.-ing some lines of thought. Poetry is what the writer has in his or her heart.

Many thanks,

P.S.- The online translators don't have Gaelic, so I'm afraid I'm a little clueless as to what that part of the message said.
Having finally read this forum all the way through, I must say I have learned a lot about poetry. I've also been thinking lately, and I remembered something of the lullaby my dad used to sing to my sister and I. I asked him about it, and he doesn't remember the words or the name of the song, but it was Irish I know. Here's what I remember:
-He would put our names, Shannon and Kathleen, into the song. He told me once that the song actually uses one of those names.
-It was about going to war
-I believe part of the chorus involved the singer telling someone not to cry, because he'd be back.
Does anyone have any idea what song this might be?

I had been meaning to look that song up for a while, as I have only ever heard the instrumental version. Thanks for your help!
My Dear LiveIreland Family, especially the singers of poems, during a brief illness I spent some time working on poetry AND listening to LIL (specially our Klara).

Yesterday, in the quiet of a little retreat, I put a poem together about Ireland.

Just wanted to share, since I have been so long away. This is especially for Walter, Pierre, Felicia and Lisa, the hearts and souls of this particular group.

Here is the poem.


A poem by Frank Daub
January 31, 2008

I’m for stopping; Brendan’s not.
The sea is just down there.
I am anxious for the sight
of stone turned to bread by the wash
of foam and the jetting of the salt water.

I’m for stopping; Brendan’s not.
The spiraling gulls
are sunlighted bright in their play
above the sand,
their startling dive
toward the sea is brief
in time and sight.

I’m for stopping; Brendan’s not.
The freedom of the coast
was eight hundred years
at taking.
One bold county man’s toast
to the awakening water
baptizes the youth
who have forgotten Eire for other lovers.

I’m for stopping; Brendan’s not.
I haven’t heard the all
of every song
or the rise and fall
and rise of every story
that set a mother’s son
free to calculate a career.

I stand for stopping; Brendan says, “too late.”
I want to stay
where the past has gone,
old rebel cries and songs.

it’s Brendan through the gate,
and gone
and done
and through with old.
Good to hear from you, too, Pierre. I am deeply honored, always, by your kindness and the generosity of your comments.

I deeply love Ireland, and poetry and cannot see one ever without the other.

May spring come soon to all of us and may we always be together on Live Ireland.

Your Lower Forty Eight friend,

Lady Dianne

What a treat and a pleasure to receive a message from so gracious a Lady! yes, Ireland is like this. I have been twice. Have a cousin in Dublin. The poem is meant to display the loss og Irish culture and tradition by today's young people. This, I am afraid, is happening in Ireland. And slo we have the pleasure and joy of

I am honored.

May the peace of God be yours.

Frank in St. louis
Frank, my dear friend! I am so thrilled to see oyu back; I so feared you had taken to travel or abandoned us for awhile, but I am enormously gratified to see you back, and very appreciative of oyur kind words--thank oyu so much. I absolutely love your poem; it is enormous in the very moost special of places. I will read it again and again in the coming days, as it has touched me very deeply and I want to savor it fully, think a little and savor some more! Welcome back! My sincerest heartfelt hope that oyu are truly feeling better these days. You have ben missed!
And there I sat, day after day, in quiet repose watching the bereft pages of LI for the return of the one we call ‘The Master’. ‘Twas neither duty nor compliance that bade me watch but the anticipation of words yet unspoken. Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows – mine was in the ‘not knowing’. Where is Frank?

Hi Frank . . . all this to say a big ‘Welcome Back’! You can see from the comments of your friends that your absence was lamented. And what a comeback – your poem is as usual poignant, well versed and reflective of Ireland’s youth – perhaps in a greater sense all youth. It is the age we live in – instant this and instant that. The days of yesterday are just that – passé. Whoops! Got to run – I have to Google something right now!

Continued ‘Good Health’ . . . Walter
nothing to say other than it touches the soul
I can't wait--I am going back on the 5th of MArch--I will have this poem in my head!

A beautifully crafted poem! Very intense and clear.
Imagery is like an impressionist's brushwork -- loaded
with texture and very, very concise.

A mix of old and new poetic style.

Behold the poets who enhance this discussion. Souls of passion, hearts of warmth.
To all of you, I am proud to be a part of this living dialogue!!!!

Frank Daub


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