"Top o' the morning"

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Permalink Reply by Robert Brady on March 7, 2008 at 3:51am

Tá sé go hálainn! T'anam chun Dia! Your soul towards God! What a lovely poem. I look at Gods beauty in much the same way and I too get choked up.
We Irish are just sentimental fools, aren't we!

Slán agus beannacht leat,
Robert

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Permalink Reply by Deragon Pierre on March 7, 2008 at 2:44pm

Hy Lisa

To approve of what Robert just said,
I say people without emotions are people without colors....!!!!and vision
So we are the lucky ones...( personnal opinions )
What a wonderfull poem Lisa,Appreciation is the word.
Thank you for sharing,Lisa and Robert
Pierre D.le gach dea beannacht

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Permalink Reply by Dabhoch on March 7, 2008 at 3:50pm

Whenever I get too full of myself,
And all puffed up with pride,
I go outside of a clear, cold night
And contemplate the stars.

Faced with the vastness
Of God's creation,
All I have accomplish'd
Seems petty and mean.

Once again I return to myself,
Wondering at man's presumption.
How can any one man
Set himself above another?

Eternal questions like this
Serve to feed the soul.

(Wow..!! Did I just compose this myself..??)

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Permalink Reply by Deragon Pierre on March 7, 2008 at 6:50pm

I am Ireland
I am older than the Old Woman of Beare

Great my glory:
I that bore Cuchulainn the valiant.

Great my shame:
My own children that sold their mother.

I am Ireland:
I am lonelier than the Old Woman of Beare

I`m not good enought to compose,but Patrick Pearse did.....!!!

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Permalink Reply by Deragon Pierre on March 8, 2008 at 3:22pm

REQUIEM FOR THE CROPPIES

The pockets of our coats full of barley_
No kitchens on the run,no striking camp_
We move quick and sudden in our own country.
The priest lay behind ditches with the tramp.
A people, hardly marching_on the hike_
We found new tactics happening each day:
We`d cut through reins and rider with the pike
And stampede cattle into infantry,
Then retreat trough hedges where cavalry must be thrown.
Until,on Vinegar Hill, the fatal conclave.
Terraced thousands died, shaking scythes at cannon.
The hillside blushed,soaked in our broken wave.
They buried us without shroud or coffin
And in August the barley grew up out of the grave

Meanning....Nature`s cycles are eternal...From SEAMUS HEANEY
What`s your comments on this.....???? Frank,Walter,Dabhoch,Lisa,and Robert
Pierre D. le gach dea beannacht

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Permalink Reply by Walter on March 9, 2008 at 1:48am

Pierre,

I am more comfortable writing poetry (however good or bad) than reviewing it. (This is Frank’s domain and what a tremendous job he does). Notwithstanding this . . . wonderful poem by Seamus Heaney. Powerful imagery. I love the way he ties together the last line with the first using ‘barley’. One, to let the reader know that these were Irish country people, peasants, armed mostly with pikes (more adept at planting crops than fighting the professional armies of the English Crown). And two, even in death, when cut down on the battlefield (perhaps in their very own fields) - buried without humanity - their rebellious spirit was regenerated and ‘grew out of the grave’. The poem relates to the Irish rebellion of 1798 and more particular the Battle of Vinegar Hill (Co. Wexford). Check out ‘Google’ for more on this fascinating period of Irish history.

Walter . . .

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Permalink Reply by Walter on March 9, 2008 at 1:42am

Dabhoch,

What is it about the pages of LI that brings out the poet in us? I thoroughly enjoyed your poem. Think of a title . . . it’s a keeper. And yes, we are all susceptible to being ‘puffed up with pride’. Perhaps too often! Keep taking those walks in the ‘clear, cold night’, you’re not alone . . . I’m right behind you.

Walter . . .

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Permalink Reply by Deragon Pierre on March 9, 2008 at 12:25pm

Super good description of the poem Walter,thank you for sharing your point of view,greatly appreciated.And like you`ve said to Dabhoch taking those walks in the clair cold night,let me be part of your amazement in front of the vastenest of the sky and nature.

( Co.Wexford).Whent to visit over there a few years ago,and I saw that they where making
A lot of farm equipement over there,and Wexford was the point of departure for Irishman
to go to foreign country...again Walter thank`s for your point of view,and everybody is welcome
Pierre D.go raibh maithagat,Slan le gach dea beannacht

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Permalink Reply by Lisa on March 9, 2008 at 4:35pm

WOW Dabh! I am so impressed with your vision of God's great vastness of creation. It is beautiful isn't it. How we are so small in the vastly great world. I am truly enjoying that so many of you are getting so involved in the poetry forum. I am learning much from it myself. Take care my friend.
Lisa

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Permalink Reply by Deragon Pierre on March 12, 2008 at 7:43pm

To share
THE LAMENT FOR ART O`LEARY

Could my calls but wake my kindred
In Derrynane behond the mountains,
Or Capling of the yellow apples,
Many a proud and stately rider,
Many a girl with spotless kerchief,
Would be here before tomorrow,
Shedding tears about your body,
Art O`Leary,once so merry.

My love and my secret,
Your corn is stacked,
Your cows are milking;
On me is the grief
There`s no cure for in Munster.
Till Art O`Leary rise
This grief will never yield
That`s bruising all my heart

Yet shut up fast in it,
As`twere in a locked trunk
With the key gone astray,
And rust grown on the wards.

My love and my calf,
Noble Art O`Leary,
Son of Conor,son of Cady,
Son of Lewis O`Leary,
West of the Valley
And east of Greenane
Where berries grow thickly
And nuts crowd on branches
and apples in heaps fall
In their own season;

What wonder to any
If Iveleary lighted
And Ballingeary
And Gougane of the saints
For the smooth-palmed rider,
The unwearying huntsman
That I would see spurring
From Grenagh without halting
When quick hounds had flatered?
My rider of the bright eyes,
What happened you yesterday?
I thought you in my heart,
When I bought you your fine clothes,
A man the world could not slay.

Pierre D.Slan le gach dea beannacht

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