The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry

by Patrick Crotty (ed)

  but choose a juicy branch, though poor.

  Woe to him who slanders women!

  Thomas F. O’Rahilly

  Prayer for His Dead Wife

  I, who saw a vision

  in broken sleep,

  have known no rest

  since soul was ripped

  from body by Christ

  the peerless one

  who took her and left me

  to live on alone.

  Cruel it was to sunder

  two bedfellows pure

  in the love and devotion

  His sacrament calls for.

  Our parting was unwilling

  as the King of Heaven knows;

  the author of all that is

  is author of our woes.

  The Trinity placed earth’s women

  in care of the Virgin’s Son;

  He had His pick of any

  but chose my chosen one.

  I beseech Great Mary’s Son

  who tore her from my arms

  let my dear departed soul

  meet no eternal harm.

  I would shape her elegy

  though passion makes me rave

  if it would help her more

  than this prayer that she be saved.

  PC

  GOFRAIDH FIONN Ó DÁLAIGH

  (d.1387)

  from Praise of Maurice Fitz Maurice, Earl of Desmond

  The Earl Compared to Lugh

  Just like Maurice, friend to the bard,

  was Lugh Longhand:

  as great in knowledge, quick with sword,

  and as renowned.

  When young like Maurice, he gave

  battle and won;

  Bladhma’s mighty tree, who drove

  the Fomorians down.

  At Eamhain in the east he spied

  Tara’s ramparts,

  who’d scoured the world for such a sight:

  home at last.

  But, champion elect, he fails

  to pass: the door is barred.

  Striding up to the bare walls

  he raps hard,

  and the porter, dander up, asks

  the bright young warrior:

  ‘Who are you and your rosy cheeks

  to pass this barrier?’

  No coward soul, Lugh replies:

  ‘Poet of swan,

  of appletree and yewtree I.

  I am of Eamhain.’

  ‘Then there’s no welcome here for you,’

  the shout comes back.

  ‘We have a poet and don’t need two,

  my bright young buck.

  ‘The house of Miodhchuairt is the fort

  of Ethliu’s boys.

  Let me tell you a custom honoured

  in this fair house.

  ‘The custom that we keep is, like

  our walls, unbroken:

  just one man of each craft we take –

  no second’s taken.

  ‘So many skills are practised by

  the Tuatha Dé Danann,

  the cloak-weavers, you must supply

  one yet unknown.’

  ‘Among my skills, let word go out,

  is to leap on a bubble

  and perch there. Go broadcast that

  around your table.

  ‘To swim beyond all human power,

  to carry a vat

  on my elbow. Who has a pair

  of skills like that?

  ‘If my exploits are surpassed

  by a man of yours,

  I’ll race and best him over grass

  on any horse.

  ‘I trump your men one and all,

  and not in their arts only.

  I am master of all arts – my tale

  I tell you calmly.’

  Once the youth had had his say

  the porter scurried

  off to tell the Tuatha Dé

  every word.

  ‘Matchless is the man at your door,’

  he began,

  ‘Master of every art, the fair

  young red-faced one.’

  ‘If he has come, Ireland’s dearest,’

  said Danu’s tribe,

  ‘Lugh who gives the rivers rest,

  the hour is ripe.

  ‘Who would not know better than

  to challenge such beauty?

  Neither earth nor water’s ever seen

  so brave a body.

  ‘Choice are his side, face, and hair:

  like bronze, blood

  and lime in colour are

  that triad.

  ‘Sweeter his tongue than lute-strings

  tautened

  for the gentle sleep they bring

  at a master’s hand.’

  ‘He is come,’ the host announced,

  ‘our love’s treasure,

  Eithne’s son, noble prince,

  never a loser.’

  And Danu’s tribe: ‘Let Tara’s porter

  make all haste

  and bid the fragrant branch enter,

  Eamhain’s guest.’

  ‘If you are Ioldánach of

  the sharp blue skean,’

  the porter said, ‘greetings, my soft

  young man of the plain.

  ‘Step inside the gates and welcome!’

  ‘That I won’t,’

  answered the youth for whom

  all spoils were meant.

  ‘When Art’s fort at Tara shuts

  it is forbidden

  that you should open up the gates

  til the sun has risen.’

  He did not break bloody-weaponed

  Tara’s rule,

  but stood back, leaped, and hit the ground

  inside the wall.

  David Wheatley

  Under Sorrow’s Sign

  A pregnant girl, under sorrow’s sign,

  Condemned to a cell of pain,

  Bore, by leave of Creation’s Lord,

  Her small child in prison.

  Swiftly the young lad flourished,

  Eager as a bardic novice,

  For those first years in prison,

  Clear as if we were looking on.

  Who would not be moved, alas,

  As he darts playful little runs

  Within the limit of his walls

  While his mother falls into sadness!

  For all daylight brought to them –

  O sharp plight – was the glimpse

  A single augurhole might yield

  Of the bright backbone of a field.

  Seeing one day on her pale face

  A shining tear, the child cried:

  ‘Unfold to me your sorrow

  Since I follow its trace.

  Does there exist another world

  Brighter than where we are:

  A home lovelier than this

  Source of your heavy weariness?’

  ‘Seeing the narrow track we tread

  Between the living and the dead

  It would be small wonder if I

  Were not sad, heedless boy.

  But had you shared my life

  Before joining this dark tribe

  Then on the tender hobbyhorse

  Of your soul, sorrow would ride.

  The flame of the wide world

  Warmed my days at first;

  To be closed in a dark cell

  Afterwards: that’s the curse.’

  Realizing this life’s distress

  Beyond all balm or sweetness,

  The boy’s brow did not darken

  Before his cold and lonely prison.

  This image – this poem’s dungeon:

  Of those closed in a stern prison

  These two stand for the host of living,

  Their sentence, life imprisonment.

  Against the gaiety of God’s son,

  Whose kingdom holds eternal sway

  Sad every dungeon where earth’s hosts

  Lie hidden from the light of day.
>
  John Montague

  CEARBHALL Ó DÁLAIGH

  (late 14th century?)

  Lover and Echo

  Tell me, Echo fair!

  From the air above

  Since thou knowest, why

  I to sorrow clove?

  Echo: Love.

  Love! – O no, of course,

  That source ceased to flow;

  That I knew of yore

  Now no more I know.

  Echo: No?

  Lo, if Fortune hard

  Will thy bard oppress,

  Is there – tell me sure

  Cure for my distress?

  Echo: Yes.

  Sage and witty Sprite

  Rightly now reply,

  Since there’s healing calm

  Choose what balm should I?

  Echo: Die.

  Die! – if so ’tis so,

  Death puts woe away;

  Since ’twill cure my ail

  Then all hail I say.

  Echo: Icy.

  I say thrice all hail

  None will wail my fate;

  But tell none my tale,

  This I supplicate.

  Echo: Like Kate.

  Kate! the devil flee

  With thee, mocking Sprite!

  Kate’s unkind, and care

  Beareth no respite.

  Echo: Spite!

  If Narcissus such

  Jealous touch did wake,

  ’Tis not strange that he

  Left thee for a lake.

  Echo: Ache!

  Aching sobbing sighs

  Still I daily hear;

  What can cause thy cries,

  Is not comfort near.

  Echo: Ne’er.

  Shall Narcissus hold

  Old Love against the new?

  Other fate may fall –

  Always needst not rue.

  Echo: True!

  Blessings on thy Voice,

  I rejoice anew!

  Since thou far wilt fare,

  Farewell and adieu.

  Echo: Adieu!

  George Sigerson

  Dánta Grá (Love Poems)

  ANONYMOUS

  A History of Love

  This is Love’s history

  And how it all began:

  As an authority

  I am your foremost man.

  Diarmuid the bold and gay,

  Chief of the warrior bands,

  With Grania one day

  Invented holding hands.

  While Ulster’s Hound as well,

  When a Greek girl went by,

  Falling beneath her spell,

  Was first with the glad eye.

  Naisi, home from the chase,

  Weary, inspired with bliss,

  Seeing Deirdre don her trews,

  Endowed us with the kiss.

  The son of Conall met

  Their challenges with grace

  And left us in his debt

  By figuring the long embrace.

  Avartach, king of the fairies,

  Following in their track,

  With his arbutus berries

  Put a girl upon her back.

  Ceadach, master of trades,

  Seeing them still unversed –

  Those white-skinned Irish maids –

  Made women of them first.

  And Angus as they say –

  Lord of the Sacred Hill –

  First took their clothes away,

  And gave them perfect skill.

  Learning that hearts can break

  Under Love’s miseries

  Beside a Munster lake

  Glas filled the air with sighs.

  Lamenting to soft strings

  And moans upon the pipe

  Were Mongan’s offerings

  To woo some timid wife.

  But I, for my own grief,

  First opened Jealousy’s door –

  This is my tale in brief –

  And now it shuts no more.

  Frank O’Connor

  Women

  Every man in Ireland caught

  By some girl with eyes of blue

  Dolefully laments his lot

  Unless her hair be golden too.

  What has this to do with me?

  No fanaticism I share

  For blue or black in someone’s eye

  Or the colour of her hair.

  Golden mane or rosy grace

  Can never be my whole delight.

  Dusky be the woman’s face

  And her hair as black as night.

  Black was the dam of her who brought

  Troy into the dust of old,

  And the girl for whom they fought,

  Helen, was all white and gold.

  Beautiful surely were the two

  Though one was dark and one was fair.

  No one who ever saw them knew

  Which was the lovelier of the pair.

  In little shells it may befall

  The loveliest of pearls is found,

  And God created three things small –

  The horse, the woman and the hound.

  Public confession suits my case,

  And all may hear what I would say –

  In women, such is my disgrace,

  I never found a thing astray.

  Though some are small I like them neat

  And some are tall of them I sing;

  Two long legs to grace the sheet

  Are satisfaction for a king.

  Foam may be brighter than her skin

  Or snow upon the mountain cold,

  I’ll take what pack I find her in

  And think her sweeter for being old.

  Nor should I slight a relative

  For someone from outside the state;

  Though novelty keep love alive

  Kinsmen love at double rate.

  Nor do I ask for intellect:

  A little scholarship will pass;

  All that of women I expect

  Is to know water-cress from grass.

  I don’t require them cold or warm;

  Widows have knowledge and good sense

  But there is still a certain charm

  In a young girl’s inexperience.

  I like them in church, demure and slow,

  Solemn without, relaxed at home;

  I like them full of push and go

  When love has left me overcome.

  I find no fault in them, by God,

  But being old and gone to waste

  Who still are girls at forty odd –

  And every man may suit his taste.

  Frank O’Connor

  Aoibhinn, a leabhráin, do thriall

  Delightful, book, your trip

  to her of the ringlet head,

  a pity it’s not you

  that’s pining, I that sped.

  To go, book, where she is

  delightful trip in sooth!

  the bright mouth red as blood

  you’ll see, and the white tooth.

  You’ll see that eye that’s grey

  the docile palm as well,

  with all that beauty you

  (not I, alas) will dwell.

  You’ll see the eyebrow fine

  the perfect throat’s smooth gleam,

  and the sparkling cheek I saw

  latterly in a dream.

  The lithe good snow-white waist

  that won mad love from me –

  the handwhite swift neat foot –

  these in their grace you’ll see.

  The soft enchanting voice

  that made me each day pine

  you’ll hear, and well for you –

  would that your lot were mine.

  Flann O’Brien

  The Dispraise of Absalom

  Veiled in that light amazing,

  Lady, your hair soft wavèd

  Has cast into dispraising

  Absalom son of David.

  Your golden locks close clin
ging,

  Like birdflocks of strange seeming,

  Silent with no sweet singing

  Draw all men into dreaming.

  That bright hair idly flowing

  Over the keen eyes’ brightness,

  Like gold rings set with glowing

  Jewels of crystal lightness.

  Strange loveliness that lingers

  From lands that hear the Siren:

  No ring enclasps your fingers,

  Gold rings your neck environ,

  Gold chains of hair that cluster

  Round the neck straight and slender,

  Which to that shining muster

  Yields in a sweet surrender.

  Robin Flower

  ‘O woman, shapely as the swan’

  O woman, shapely as the swan,

  On your account I shall not die:

  The men you’ve slain – a trivial clan –

  Were less than I.

  I ask me shall I die for these –

  For blossom teeth and scarlet lips –

  And shall that delicate swan-shape

  Bring me eclipse?

  Well-shaped the breasts and smooth the skin,

  The cheeks are fair, the tresses free –

  And yet I shall not suffer death,

  God over me!

  Those even brows, that hair like gold,

  Those languorous tones, that virgin way,

  The flowing limbs, the rounded heel

  Slight men betray!

  Thy spirit keen through radiant mien,

  Thy shining throat and smiling eye,

  Thy little palm, thy side like foam –

  I cannot die!

  O woman, shapely as the swan,

  In a cunning house hard-reared was I:

  O bosom white, O well-shaped palm,

  I shall not die!

  Padraic Colum

  Swift Love

  Swifter than greyhound that none e’er outran

  Is the will of my mistress to bed with a man.

  Swifter than starling her heart is afire

  With inconstant desire.

  Swifter than gales in the cold time of spring,

  Around the hard crags ceaselessly ravaging,

  Is the lust of a heart that is empty and dry,

  And a hungry green eye.

  By the Lord of Hard Judgment that lives evermore!

  By the High King of Heaven, there never before

  Was her like among women, for who was afire

  With so swift a desire?

  Edward, Lord Longford

  Piece Making

  Slaney, daughter of Flanagan

  let’s make a piece right well,

  not the slack work of an innocent

  to barter or to sell.

  I have a tawny spindle

  for a twistless piece is no good

  and you have the needed colours,

  a skein of black and red.