Eithne Strong’s ‘Sarah in Passing’

This wee poem (one of 17 from Eithne Strong’s book, Sarah in Passing)
is one of my favourites, thus I am publishing it today in my Book of Days. The
book is published via Dolmen Press 1974, I found it on a book stall in George’s
Street Arcade some few years ago; and along with Mark My Words,by Eilís
Ní Dhuibhne (Illustrated by Alice Maher), it’s one of my favourite poetic
and illustrative collaborations:

Regeneration

“Let me out. I’m rising out of death’s skull.
Aha, old devil’s dower I have victoried.
I leave you in the morning: it deals
with every death and spring defeats the catafalque.

You see I must believe in resurrection.
This is it. Now. I was dead and am alive.
Hello eternity. I can die no more horrific
death than I have died. No hell beyond

the horrors of myself that murdered
every life; saw death in every pregnancy
of dog and nut and man. Found death
the ever death. Come bomb,come

my most killing hate, life lives outside
the blasting skull. Computer is not final.
I cannot give you proof of course,
I merely have arisen.”

Regeneration, from Sarah in Passing, by Eithne Strong, Dolmen Press 1974, illustrated by John Hodge.

The Hare Arch by Ní Dhuibhne

Muireann Ní Bhrolcháin’s Book on Early Irish Literature.

Early Irish Literature by Muireann Ní Bhrolcháin

This is a wee link to Dr Ní Bhrolcháin’s book on early Irish literature
which I shall go to the trouble of buying before I review it, rather than
begging for a free copy (which isn’t a nice thing to do).

As the blurb says this book is suited to both the serious student and
to the general reader with an interest in the area. I shall put a link
in here at the base of the small piece and a huge congragulation
to Muireann on the publication in what have been incredibly difficult
times. The latter part of the statement alludes to her years of
commitment to the Tara campaign and unlike ex-Taoiseach Bertie
Ahern she really is well worth the read. She wrote it herself…

Put it on the Christmas stocking list:

An Introduction to Early Irish Literature , Muireann Ni Bhrolcháin,
Four Courts Press 2009.

Save Tara Campaign.

Lightplay in Irish Landscape: Hyde and O Driscoll.

The Mystery, by Douglas Hyde*

I am the wind which breathes upon the sea,
I am the wave of the ocean,
I am the murmur of the billows,
I am the ox of the seven combats,
I am the vulture upon the rocks,
I am the beam of the sun,
I am the fairest of the plants,
I am the wild boar in valour,
I am the salmon in the water,
I am a lake in the plain,
I am a word of science,
I am the point of the lance in battle,
I am the god who created in the head, the fire,
Who is it who throws light into the meeting on the mountain ?
Who announces the ages of the moon?
Who touches the place where couches the sun
(if not I)

* I do not have a book for this one, it’s transcribed from a bilingual
Spanish edition in the keeping of my wonderful friend, I will of course
ask him to send me the details so i can publish it here. it’s a beautiful
poem by Douglas Hyde.

From Skywriting, by Dennis O Driscoll

On midwinter day, sun excavates
the entrances of passage tombs,
surveys their corbelled vaults, revives
their spirits with light touch.
And slabs of weather-beaten stone-
wedged on heathery mountain tops
that offer panoramas of five fertile counties-
carry boulders like the weight
of the world on granite shoulders
receive a warm overspill of light,
as do these giant incisors- a ring of
standing stones- which form a sun trap.

I highly recommend ‘Skywriting’ by the way, it is taken from Reality Check
by Dennis O Driscoll, publ. Anvil 2007, sure I know – was at the launch
in RCSI on the Green.

‘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.

Across the Sound, Daragh Breen.

Paul Henry : The Blasket Island.

This small book was a gift, I am excerpting two wee pieces from
it because Autumn is coming in, thus my trips to my Place
in the west will be not as frequent. The words contain almost a hunger
to describe the island, the sea and the west of Ireland in it’s storm
damaged reality. Some of the images remind me of a view from Roman
Island in Mayo and some indeed remind me of the Arnold Bax
Composition The Island of the Fand

Across the Sound

The horizon is a mess of mizzle
Like gathered stage-curtains
Behind which the world is
Constantly trying to slip.

Across the Sound

Seven-night gales had been
Known to rip sheer rocks
From these bird-shocked cliffs.

As if the island had been
Offered up by the mainland,
An inhabited storm-wall

As if the island had been
Jettisoned, a large block of
Night heaved into the sea.

Across the Sound, Shards from the history of an island , Daragh Breen, November Press. 2003

Paul Henry
The Island of the Fand