| Last night you passed by As slow as the shadows, And your thoughts were all drenched With dreams of her promise. But my window was laced with tears At your passing And you never came in And my heart on you fasting. And you never came in |
A wee tale, I found this poem in a small book of Irish Writing got yesterday in Howth; and edited indeed by the Late David Marcus. I will add in David’s Obit at the base of this piece. The volume number is 13 and the cost is 6/6.
for C.M
What would they have said
had you heard the whisper
slip ravenous up the avenue
on fat and awkward dialect
towards the parlour comfort
of an army of the wizened
faces of their mother, who
settled in her embroideries
internalising the potential
of an inclusive act, to fuse
the eschatological omission,
confined in insurrection
to the vortices of daylight,
silently, symbolically laced?
Forms; A Sampler is © Chris Allen
Eurydice Series by Anastasia Kashian.With thanks to Anastasia Kashian for the artwork, from her Eurydice Series. Anastasia’s portfolio is linked at Saatchi online and on her website. |
Caoineadh, Le Máire Nic Mhaoláin
Ní ceist orm gur éagais
Ach gur céasadh dom
Cumhracht mormónta
Féileacán bán ar phraiseach
Féileacán breac ar marigolds
Agus do lamha a bheith fuar.
‘Gus Haiku
sean-neadacha
i ngéaga ardchrainn giúise-
lámh fhuar um an tua.
as Haikúnna, le Máire Nic Mhaoláin, ‘gus Caoineadh, le Nic Mhaoláin :
Fíliocht Uladh 1960-1985, Gréagóir ó Dúill, a chuir in eagar. Coiscéim 1986
Beautiful exhibition of Quilting in the National Botanic Gardens, Dublin today and running until March the 15th : Hands Across the Border, the image I would have selected is not available at the Irish Patchwork Society Webpage, but I am including a link to both the Society and to the National Botanic Gardens at end of this post.
The Northern Irish Patchwork Guild and The Irish patchwork Society are a friendly crew who like small kids and were able to tell the stories of whichever quilt was asked about. The work varied from the hand-dyed artistic to the tale of a life in quilt and embroidery, with a stunning example telling of the Shackleton Antarctic Expedition. There was a small patchwork christening robe adorned with the names of babies in gold simple lettering, by Breege Watson and Elizabeth Mc Cartney’s Hand Dyed Picnics in Ravensdale Woods.
Best of all was the raffle for a hamper of Patchwork doings, and the visitor’s book adorned with the scrawls of kids and the very intelligent writing of grown-ups. Sadly we did not win that. The Herbarium space in the rejuvenated National Botanic Gardens is a wonderful lit space for exhibitions. I am adding in here a short piece that I wrote on the NBG restoration project , entitled The Brightest Jewel , by E Charles Nelson and Dr Eileen Mc Cracken.
A Saturday Woman Poet Amy Lowell used the Pomegranate Embroidery as Illustration.
A Pair of bockety
legs went up
the street below county
tweed and haystack
hat, the waddling brains
inside.
‘Aren’t they most awfully
rich?’ the shaky Anglo
voice inquired.
‘O no,’ he said,
straight leg and cavalry
crease
suffering her infirmity,
slow pace
for pace.
‘Her father was
but she, she
lost it all.’
“Sarah passed
ingesting scene and situation;
imagining , assimilating;
seeing much she did
not see,
interpreting what she did
not hear: “
( Short Excerpted piece from what Sarah saw or did not see)
“Like some god
too dark to live
upon the earth.
All beautiful , all evil,
all powerful over
me. No rest nor sever
from the dark hard tie”.
a) You need a notebook or set thereof.
b) A room of one’s own is not too much to ask.
c) A goodish pen, this is problematic if the only and best pen you have possessed for many years has been stolen/lost/misplaced. Ensuring an adequate replacement of the implement means a ready supply of good accessible Cartridge refills.
d) On the subject of typewriters (as opposed to easy keyboards), It’s nigh impossible to get ribbon and correction tape replacements in shops. There is one supplier of these articles in Dublin and he’s not always in his shop.
e)Read a lot on your subject, it helps if you are a bibliophile.
f) Be always aware that the visibility of women writers in any language is part of a huge struggle in multimedia and News Media.
| Odysseus rested on his oar, and saw The ruffled foreheads of the waves Crocodiling and mincing past; he rammed The oar between their jaws, and looked down In the simmering sea, where scribbles of weeds defined Uncertain depth, and the slim fishes progressed In fatal formation, and thought If there was a single Streak of decency in those waves now, they’d be ridged, Pocked and dented with the battering they’d had And we could name them as Adam named the beasts Saluting a fresh one with dismay, or a notorious one With admiration; they’d notice us passing And rejoice at our destruction, but these Have less Character than sheep and need more patience. I know what I’ll do he said, But the profound by Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin. This poem is culled from The Penguin Book of Irish Verse. It was edited by Poet Brendan Kennelly and published in 1970. Both poets have collections, translations and ongoing works. |
O well, I lost my avatar so have included an image of guimel, after attempting a braille V, and a semaphore download.
Today I went to the National library and got maybe five minutes of quiet time in a Christmas rush that involves me doing all the cooking. (Thus ingredient buying). The Yeats exhibit is still there and will be showing during the Christmas period on the 29th of the month until 4.45pm. The National library is having a facelift at the moment, so people should follow the scaffolds and signs.
The last twice I saw the Yeats were excellent, at this point I just decide what room to enter before I go in and try to ignore the rest,tantalising as it is. Today I went into the little darkened office-space, wherein two fake candles (insurance reasons). The last time I was in there the angel of the Apocalypse fell off the stand and I banged my head. This is not the thing to do in the hushed rooms of the National Library Collection. Anyway, I highly recommend the exhibition to those who are familiar with Yeats; and to those who might get a kick out of the Metaphysics and occult aspect of the exhibition.
There’s also a book-sale ongoing in the shop (which is why I had gone in to be honest). The weather is glowy yellow and town (Dublin City Centre) is buzzing beautifully. My shoes were too loud and I did not have enough time to really enjoy; but the exhibition is excellently curated , and a break from the glitzy tinsel so beloved of our shops. Merry Christmas to all whom read Poethead.
The Irish Arts Council is struggling with the yearly budget arrangements; and well the mainstay of support for Writers has been cut out of the Budget. This small preoccupation has many (many) reasons for me; but I shall refer in brief to two:
1.In 2003 , the Then Minister for Arts and Tourism decided to commit a major error and introduce legislation (for the second time only in the history of the Irish State) that ties artistic funding quite closely to the organs and instruments of government. An extremely bad and idiotic idea; but we have been struggling with a Government for ten years that thinks Art is a business, thus removing the Arts portfolio from it’s natural place with Heritage/The Islands to a profit-creating sector.
2. The man who has been appointed to the Arts Portfolio has been directly responsible (also in 2003) for abolishing the Heritage Agency (Dúchas). So it all fits together with inevitable alacrity. We have no legislative provisions nor Statutory Implements for the preservation of our heritage. Thus Tara. The links to the ongoing Tara campaign, which discuss more fully this remiss are on the right side-bar.
Thats my protest registered. I am disgusted at how our state maintains both interference in our expression; and has no functional application in protections -go figure!
A Saturday Woman Poet
The Soul’s Expression by EBB
With Stammering lips and insufficent sound
I strive and struggle to deliver right
That music of my nature, day and night
With dream and thought and feeling interwound,
and inly answering all the senses round
with octaves of a mysitc depth and height
which step out grandly to the infinite
From the dark edges of the sensual ground!
This song of soul I struggle to outbear
Through portals of the sense, sublime and whole,
and utter all myself into the air.
But If I did it,- as the thunder-roll
Breaks its own cloud, my flesh would perish there,
Before that dread apocalypse of soul.
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
Love the usage of the words ‘inly’ and ‘outbear’; but then I adore the work of Ms Browning anyway
Chris Murray 