Carelessness with Personal data on Politics.ie

It's like a really bad Bullock movie

Everyone on the Politics site has to login in freshly due to a
technical change or glitch But my access refuses to recognise
my Dot account and instead provides me with a username that I
never used.

Effectively due to technical problems I have lost access to
my blog, my social groups, my account and my writing.

I don’t think this is either responsible or fair.

Thus I am adding in here my blog links (that I cannot access)
and my data page too, I love living in Ireland sometimes where
everything is so conveniently lackadaisical. I expect that the
situation is not irretrievable; but it’s wrong and frankly quite
upsetting:

Dot’s Spot Blog on P.ie

Anne Bronte (with Umlaut apologies)

It’s Monday and it’s cold in Dublin, am so glad I got a new all-weather
but mostly Mountain-climbing Jacket on the Mayo Sojourn (Post-flu
and dental recovery). Since I am unpacked and having done the school
run where the little one was welcomed back with much happiness, I
thought to publish some Bronte (Brunty) poems and whilst adoring
Emily’s amazing poetry , I think Anne mostly neglected. Poethead
is about women writers , the whole idea of the blog was sited in the
Penelopiad , the woman in exile and the community of women who are
sometimes nodded to in serious writer’s chorus’, choruslines or indeed
hymn sheets, though most of the time critique is poetry and
weekend supplements tends to the male voice and academic fields.
I still have not learnt how to do an Umlaut,{ apologies}:

The North Wind

That wind is from the North: I know it well;
No other breeze could have so wild a swell.
Now deep and loud it thunders round my cell,
The faintly dies, and softly sighs,
And moans and murmurs mournfully.
I know it’s language: thus it speaks to me:

‘I have passed over thy own mountains dear,
Thy northern mountains, and they still are free;
still lonely, wild, majestic,bleak and drear,
And stern, and lovely , as they used to be

‘When thou a young enthusiast,
As wild and free as they,
O’er rocks and glens, and snowy heights,
Didst thou love to stray.

‘I’ve blown the pure, untrodden snows
in whirling eddies from their brows;
And I have howled in cavern’s wild,
Where thou, a joyous mountain-child,
didst dearly love to be.
The sweet world is not changed, but thou
art pining in a dungeon now,
Where thou must ever be.

‘No voice but mine can reach thy ear,
And heaven has kindly sent me here
to mourn and sigh with thee,
And tell thee of the cherished land
of thy nativity.’

Blow on wild wind; thy solemn voice,
However sad and drear,
is nothing to the gloomy silence
I have had to bear.

Hot tears are streaming from my eyes,
But these are better far
Than that dull, gnawing , tearless time,
The stupor of despair.

Confined and hopeless as I am,
Oh, speak of liberty!
Oh, tell me of my mountain home,
And I will welcome thee!

The edition the Poem was taken from is an Everyman: Everyman : Selected Poems, The Brontes, Ed, Juliet RV Barker, 1993 .

Margaret Atwood list.
25 Pins in a Packet
Julian of Norwich

Thinking these last few days about Yeats’ Poems.

I shall be linking to an internet link to this poem at the end of the piece:

Verse the second: “A prayer for My daughter”.

“I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour

And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower,

And under the arches of the bridge, and scream

In the elms above the flooded stream;

Imagining in excited reverie

That the future years had come,

dancing to a frenzied drum,

Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.”

~

There really is nowhere in Ireland for a storm to Play better than the
exposed North-Western sea-board. Down here in Dublin we experience
storms as bad weather and if we are lucky enough to live near a
park or field then we can see the patterns of crazy that the rain makes.

There are times when I do not appreciate Yeats’ power and again
there are times that I do; and find myself going back into the books
to read him again. Last week this poem had the most powerful
significance for me as we lay battered by high winds and incessant
rain. I could not leave the house because of a very ill child who
is now mostly recovered. Nature seemed to reflect the helpless.
Thanks to my pals who wrote and sent wishes. I found myself saying
the poem (with gaps) , I never learned the whole thing by heart.

I am looking forward to the weather up in the North-West over the
next few days: When it’s dark , it is completely wildly dark and when
it storms…. it’s good to have the house round you as you listen to
the wild and fraught winds wreaking their havoc outside.

A Prayer for My daughter. WB Yeats.

‘San Aer’ , by Poethead.

small blue flowers.

San Aer

Amuigh,
d’fhán mé noiméad ar na gaoithe
’s í ag teacht tirim ón bhfarraige
ós chionn an locha, an tsrutháin.

’s í ag séid, gus ag feitheamnh,
ag sugradh, ’s á mhuirnigh
’s í á chaoineadh’gus ag caint im chlusa.

‘gus an cheoil i a d’impríodh
thar no mblaithí goirme
iad ag fás ar thaobh thiar no locha.

’s í ag séid, gus ag feitheamh
ag sugradh, ’s á mhuirnigh
ag chaoineadh ’s ag caint im chlusa.

D’fhag me an chathair tamallín
an rhaic gus an fhuaim
d’fhág mé na cathrach tamallín
chun í á fheitheamh:
’s a cheoil bhuí á thógáil í scornach éin.

I don’t feel like adding a translation, the poem is about the wind
playing in Barcelona whilst I sat on the steps of a wee atico and listened
to the sounds of the city. The playfulness of the breeze reminded me of
how it used shiver over small forget- me- nots on the edges of a southern
lake in Ireland:

Colours in the poem:

mblathaí goirme = blue flowers,
Cheoil buí = yellow music.

Unearthing things : The Archivum.

Panorama of BCN via Wiki .

I spent this early morning at the funeral mass of a neighbour
and have not had time to think about what poem I would like
to publish today. Yesterday, whilst looking for some paperwork
and files I found a small handbound book of poems that I had made
in Barcelona last year. It’s provisionally titled The Archivum,
partly because I found myself at least twice in the Cathedral of Pi
(Gothic quarter) and therein is a small courtyard with railed in trees,
the paving slabs are endowed with varieties of images and symbols,
mostly skull and X-bones. Before one gets to the courtyard, there
are two coffins on a shelf bearing crosses, that, my friend assures me
quivered and rocked about during the Cathedral occupation;
and then a sign Archivum. For some reason the little book
contains two finished poems and voulmes of notes/drafts , all
foreworded by a quote from The Unnameable by JP Lovecraft
I have said it here before, Lovecraft is creepy; but not really scary.
The poems are in Irish and describe Loch Lein and Catalunya breezes.

I am unsure whether to publish them in full or excerpt , as they are
more draft than poems. I thought I had lost them in my endless
files and am glad they are recovered. I also came across a blue
Craftsman’s Notebook , which is chockfull of images (they all start as image)
that never quite made it into poems but does show my intense
preoccupations at that time. It’s blue bound with a small elastic
holding it together. I did not study it too closely but intend to later
on today.

There is a poem on Poethead entitled Santa Maria del Mar
which I am adding in at the base of the piece. I am interested in
conservation and apocrypha, thus can only assume that the two
small books were filed together in an odd place for later
finding.

The exterior of PI.
Santa Maria del Mar