And beat bad manners out of her skin for a year.
That parboiled imp, with the hardest jaw you will ever see
On virtue’s path, and a voice that would rasp the dead,
Came roaring and raging the minute she looked at me,
And threw me out of the house on the back of my head!
If I asked her master he’d give me a cask a day;
But she, with the beer at hand, not a gill would arrange!
May she marry a ghost and bear him a kitten, and may
The High King of Glory permit her to get the mange.
James Stephens
Adoramus Te, Christe
I adore you, spirit of our blood,
Knight of heaven’s fortress,
who for sheer love left your mighty Father,
through sweet Mary’s right, to help us.
As a bolt of sun through glass you came
to burn through Adam’s sins,
and delivered Man and all his hell-bent
kind, at Easter, with a cross.
Harbour-lamp to calm
the mortal storms bedevilling
a poor man’s soul, I beg you –
save us, and halt Satan’s harm.
For I alone shattered your side;
with all three nails I tore your skin.
But do not close your lucid eye
against me. Gather me in.
We cherish all the more, God’s own
– for she was born of David’s line –
your maiden nurse: a proof of law,
with all a mother’s graceful bloom
and pride, milk-skinned to cosset you,
child, in a holy nest.
No womb ever cradled one as pure
as she, nor will, until time ends.
Tiffany Atkinson
Éire
Lady of the bright coils and curlings,
Intricate turns of your body
Have pleased the foreign churls
Who kept a bodyguard.
Though middle-aged and long a matron,
The wife of Nial, the fearless,
You played the harlot with men you hated
And those who loved you dearly.
You smiled at them, calm stately woman,
Unsmocked your noble limbs,
Conferred with the Saxon, old in statecraft.
The wife of Eiver – robed as
A young queen in lime-white mansions –
Cast modesty in a corner,
Betraying the heroes who were vanquished
By clatter of hide, war-horn.
You were the wife of Lewy the courageous,
And never lacked a husband.
Cairbre, Cuchullin, the sage Fionn,
Felim, no bagman in lust,
Had known the bride of Laery the King,
And Con the Hundred Fighter.
Too late the gleam of coil and of ringlet,
Is changed into a sigh.
The Normans went under your mantle,
Whenever a stronghold burned,
And you pushed back their basinets,
Cathedral mail, spurning
The meadows inching with dew, the thickets
At dawn, the river harbours,
Hill-bounding of the hunted prickets,
For wanton snirt and farding.
The Binding
God soon will humble your pride, pucker your cheeks,
And bring the wife of Fintan and Diarmuid – flaxed
With hair-dye – to the church door, ragged, meekly,
Her placket no longer open to the Saxon.
Austin Clarke
‘To them the state …’
To them the state has doled out nothing –
not a foot of land or a scrap of clothing:
but it will grant them a graceful favour –
let them safe to Spain by proclamations!
And then will come the fat-arsed slaggers
after trampling our culture and our manors,
pewtered, plated, brassy, baggaged,
the crop-head English with their pleasant accents.
All their hags will have beaver-fur mantles
and a dress of silk from head to ankles:
our castles will pass to upstart foragers –
old hands at swallowing cheese and porridge.
This is the gang, though I hate to name them,
who will live in bright motte and bailey:
Goody Hook and Mother Hammer,
Robin Saul and Father Psalm –
selling salt and wearing britches:
Gammer Ruth and Goodman Cabbage,
Mistress Capon, Kate and Anna,
Russell Rake and Master Gaffer!
Where once lived Déirdre the bright-born daughter,
long-haired Eimhear and the Grey of Macha,
where Aoibheall lived in her rocky mansion,
and the elegant ladies of Dé Danann,
there were schools of poets and story-tellers,
intricate dances, gastronomic pleasures,
arm-wrestling and restless soldiers waiting
to pierce with spears the target’s framework.
O the going of those soldiers into graveyards
has split the hills of this old nation:
there is no music now but millstones grinding
and fog on the churches of this wife crying.
Humble loving Lamb, who had to carry
that black burden on your back to Calvary,
swiftly send us your help and blessing
and turn to us your bright face henceforth.
O Secret Love, no longer scold it,
the pride of these exhausted soldiers:
give back again the spark of courage
so they can repay their enemies’ insults.
Obey the Lord who purchased sorely
peace for you, a heavenly omen:
come with spears and eager standard-bearers
and drive to doom these new-come aliens!
Michael Hartnett
‘To see the art of poetry lost …’
To see the art of poetry lost
with those who honoured it with thought –
its true form lowered to a silly chant,
sought after by the dilettante.
Those who write the Gaelic tongue
just mumble – when they should stay dumb –
the flaw’s admired, the lack of passion –
now that doggerel is in fashion.
If one now writes to the proper rule
in the way demanded by the schools,
then some smart-alec Paddy or such
will say that it is obscure as Dutch.
God of Heaven, preserve and keep
the one man who protects from need
the climbers who scale true poetry
and avoid the lovers of English and ease.
Ámen.
Michael Hartnett
WENTWORTH DILLON, EARL OF ROSCOMMON
(1637–85)
from An Essay on Translated Verse
Words in One Language Elegantly used,
Will hardly in another be excused.
And some that Rome admired in Caesar’s Time,
May neither suit Our Genius nor our Clime.
The Genuine Sense, intelligibly Told,
Shows a Translator both Discreet, and Bold.
Excursions are inexpiably Bad,
For ’tis much safer to leave out, than Add.
Be not too fond of a Sonorous Line;
Good Sense will through a plain expression shine.
Few Painters can such Master strokes command,
As are the noblest in a skilful Hand.
In This, your Author will the best advise,
Fall when He falls, and when He Rises, Rise.
Affected Noise is the most wretched Thing,
That to Contempt can Empty Scribblers bring.
Vowels and Accent
s, Regularly placed
On even Syllables (and still the Last)
Though all imaginable Faults abound,
Will never want the Pageantry of Sound.
Whatever Sister of the learned Nine
Does to your Suit a willing Ear incline,
Urge your success deserve a lasting Name,
She’ll Crown a Grateful and a Constant Flame.
But if a wild Uncertainty prevail,
And turn your Veering heart with every Gale,
You lose the Fruits of all your former care,
For the sad Prospect of a Just Despair.
TADHG Ó RUAIRC
(fl. 1684)
A Game of Cards and Dice
I ‘take’ you, gorgeous adversary,
you of the wavy gold chevelure,
each curl long and provocative
reaching down to the forest floor.
Crazy about you, as you know,
your grey eyes and lingering looks,
your bright cheeks where roses glow,
the eyebrows like twin pen-strokes,
I watch your lips, so rowan-red,
the neat nose, the rounded chin,
your fine teeth as white as chalk,
the swan-white neck that shames the swan.
I listen to the languorous voice
where your superior nature sings,
a finer sound than organ-pipe
or lute, sweeter than harp-strings,
and gaze at your clean limbs, shy hands,
the soft fingers and pink nails
designed to pluck a tremulous note
or draw ink from quivering quills;
the perfect, opalescent breast
no knight or rook has made his own,
the slim body, slender waist:
I yield my heart to you alone.
High time you cornered me, admired
woman of the skilful palms,
in glistening-sided ‘Port of Thighs’
or ‘Groin Fort’ of the quiet streams.
I’ve had my chips if I should glimpse
a flash of knee or naked side,
the noble ankle, pale instep,
foot creamy as the incoming tide.
You penetrate my weak defence,
teasing me with anxious love.
I know the score; my turn to play,
against your side I make my move.
So put your cards on the table now –
shuffle the deck, ingenuous face,
and let the dice fall as they will;
I sacrifice both deuce and ace.
It beats me you can leave erect
a knight so stricken by desire
unless you’re going to let him through:
it’s high stakes we play for here.
Be it tic-tac crooked or tic-tac straight,
backgammon, checkers, chess, bezique,
strip poker, scrabble, bingo, snap,
high time you had my man in check.
Above board or in a secret slot,
sister, quickly make a space
for the poor pawn with whom you toy:
relieve my vulnerable piece.
Importunately, my darling girl,
I’m flinging down my double dice
before your beauty, heart and soul,
aiming at you both ace and deuce.
Blánaid, my dear, my favourite one,
gentle, fragrant, guileless love,
it’s time for you to trump my man
and ‘take’ me with a daring move.
Come sit beside me, woman of the wavy hair;
embrace me, bright branch of the cool grey eyes;
resolve my torment, generous-gentle woman,
and ‘take’ me quickly to your merciful bed.
Derek Mahon
AINDRIAS MAC CRUITÍN
(c.1650–c.1738)
Praise of the Quim
A covert there is that won’t break you or bruise you,
Where each man in the world wants to hide;
He tenderly shields it before pouring his blessing –
It’s as cherished inside as outside.
Like Tuireann’s fat porker, in the famous old story,
It can cure any sorrow whatever;
And I firmly believe, if you learn how to score there,
Neither death will get you nor fever.
Its depths and its sides are supple and precious
Its mouth is as soft as a flower;
Its only response, when you try to oppress it,
Is slyly to smile and endure.
Where is the sage who could tally the measure
Of its welcome, its warmth or its worth?
The quickness and glicness of that rich treasure!
(There’s no equal of either on earth.)
Ardent, alert, courageous and noble,
Generous, tender and taut:
The power of the kist that engendered all people
Dumbfounds professor and poet.
And even the king who wants to engage it
Must genuflect at its door;
No man alive is higher in station
Than the miner who digs for its ore.
Tunefully, sweetly, those darling new babies,
Hardy, unhurried, refined,
Emerge one by one, bare and unscathed,
From that source of even Caesar’s great line.
A clodhopper only, a genuine plonker,
Could fail to come to its call;
So cosy on up and present your endorsement
To the lips that make lords of us all.
PC
SÉAMAS DALL MAC CUARTA
(c.1650–1733)
The Drowned Blackbird
Lovely daughter of Conn O’Neill,
You are in shock. Sleep a long sleep.
After the loss of what was dearest,
Don’t let your people hear you weep.
The song of the quick-quick flitting bird
Has fled, sweet girl, left you forlorn.
Always what’s dearest is endangered
So bear up now, no beating of hands.
Instead of keens and beating hands
Be silent, girl, as dew in air.
Lovely daughter of Conn O’Neill,
The bird is dead, don’t shed a tear.
Child of that high-born kingly Ulster line,
Show what you’re made of, don’t let yourself go wild
Even though the loveliest bird in the leaf-and-branch scrim
Is drowned, washed white in whitewash: water and lime.
Seamus Heaney
NAHUM TATE
(1652–1715)
Upon the Sight of an Anatomy
Nay, start not at that Skeleton,
’Tis your own Picture which you shun;
Alive it did resemble Thee,
And thou, when dead, like that shalt be:
Converse with it, and you will say,
You cannot better spend the Day;
You little think how you’ll admire
The Language of those Bones and Wire.
The Tongue is gone, but yet each Joint
Reads Lectures, and can speak to th’ Point.
When all your Moralists are read,
You’ll find no Tutors like the Dead.
If in Truth’s Paths those Feet have trod,
’Tis all one whether bare, or shod:
If used to travel to the Door
Of the Afflicted Sick and Poor,
Though to the Dance they were estranged,
And ne’er their own rude Motion changed;
Those Feet, now winged, may upwards fly,
And tread the Palace of the Sky.
Those Hands, if ne’er with Murder stained,
Nor filled with Wealth unjustly gained,
Nor greedily at Honours grasped,
But to the Poor-Man’s Cry unclasped;
It matters not, if in the Mine
&
nbsp; They delved, or did with Rubies shine.
Here grew the Lips, and in that Place,
Where now appears a vacant space,
Was fixed the Tongue, an Organ, still
Employed extremely well or ill;
I know not if it could retort,
If versed i’ th’ Language of the Court;
But this I safely can aver,
That if it was no Flatterer;
If it traduced no Man’s Repute,
But, where it could not Praise, was Mute:
If no false Promises it made,
If it sung Anthems, if it Prayed,
’Twas a blest Tongue, and will prevail
When Wit and Eloquence shall fail.
If Wise as Socrates, that Skull,
Had ever been ’tis now as dull
As Midas’s, or if its Wit
To that of Midas did submit,
’Tis now as full of Plot and Skill,
As is the Head of Machiavel:
Proud Laurels once might shade that Brow,
Where not so much as Hair grows now.
Prime Instances of Nature’s Skill,
The Eyes, did once those Hollows fill:
Were they quick-sighted, sparkling, clear,
(As those of Hawks and Eagles are.)
Or say they did with Moisture swim,
And were distorted, bleared, and dim;
Yet if they were from Envy free,
Nor loved to gaze on Vanity;
If none with scorn they did behold,
With no lascivious Glances rolled:
Those Eyes, more bright and piercing grown,
Shall view the Great Creator’s Throne;
They shall behold th’ Invisible,
And on Eternal Glories dwell.
See! not the least Remains appear
To show where Nature placed the Ear!
Who knows if it were Musical,
Or could not judge of Sounds at all?
Yet if it were to Counsel bent,
To Caution and Reproof attent,
When the shrill Trump shall rouse the Dead,
And others hear their Sentence read;
That Ear shall with these Sounds be blest,
Well done, and, Enter into Rest.
JONATHAN SWIFT
(1667–1745)
Verses Said to be Written on the Union
The Queen has lately lost a part
Of her entirely English heart,
For want of which by way of botch,
She pieced it up again with Scotch.
Blessed revolution, which creates
The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry Page 25
