The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry Page 14

  respected Christ, it has perished me.

  The thorntop that is not gentle

  has reduced me, has pierced me,

  it has brought me near death

  the brown thorn-bush.

  Once free, once gentle,

  I am banished for ever,

  wretch-wretched I have been

  a year to last night.

  Flann O’Brien

  ‘Lynchseachan, you are a bother …’

  Lynchseachan, you are a bother.

  Leave me alone, give me peace.

  Is it not enough that Ronan doomed me

  to live furtive and suspicious?

  When I let fly that fatal spear

  at Ronan in the heat of battle

  it split his holy breastplate open,

  it dented his cleric’s bell.

  When I nailed him in the battle

  with one magnificent spear-cast,

  – Let the freedom of the birds be yours!

  was how he prayed, Ronan the priest.

  And I rebounded off his prayer

  up, up and up, flying through air

  lighter and nimbler and far higher

  than I would ever fly again.

  To see me in my morning glory

  that Tuesday morning, turn time back;

  still in my mind’s eye I march out

  in rank, in step with my own folk.

  But now with my own eyes I see

  something more miraculous even:

  under the hood of a woman’s shawl,

  the shifty eyes of Lynchseachan.

  Seamus Heaney

  Suibne in the Trees

  When I hear the belling

  of the stag in the glen

  my heart begins

  to pine and keen.

  Acorns taste

  as sweet as ever

  and I still savour

  the hazel’s coffer,

  but unmet lust

  and unseasoned grief

  mar a man’s life

  when his home is lost.

  Silver birch, waltz

  in the wind that scatters

  aspen leaves

  like staves in a battle.

  Apple tree, apt

  to be looted by boys,

  weather the storm

  with the rowan blossom.

  Alder, shield me

  with your pallid branches.

  Blackthorn, bless me

  with blood-dark sloes.

  Ivy, hold yourself

  close as a halter.

  Yew, stand to,

  at odds with the world.

  Holly, be a shelter

  from the wind, a barrier.

  Ash, be a spear-shaft

  hurled by a warrior.

  Dearly it cost me

  to cross you, briar:

  a scald of blood money,

  my palm in bloom.

  Hateful to me

  as an evil word:

  a rootless tree

  holding sway in the wood.

  Paul Batchelor

  ‘I once thought that the quiet speech …’

  I once thought that the quiet speech

  of people held less melody

  than the low throating of doves

  that flutter above a pool.

  I thought the bell

  by my elbow not so sweet

  as the fluting of the blackbird to the mountain

  or the bellow of a hart in the storm.

  I thought the voice

  of a lovely woman less melodious

  than the dawn-cry

  of the mountain grouse.

  I thought the yowling

  of the wolves more beautiful

  than the baa and bleat

  of a preaching priest.

  Though in your chapel you find melody

  in the quiet speech of students,

  I prefer the awesome chant

  of Glen Bolcain’s hounds.

  Though you relish salted hams

  and the fresh meat of ale-houses,

  I would rather taste a spray of cress

  in some zone exempt from grief.

  I am transfixed; the iron

  intrudes on shattered bone.

  Tell me, God who sanctions all,

  why did I survive Magh Rath?

  Though each bed I made

  without duplicity was good

  I would rather inhabit familiar stone

  above Glen Bolcain’s wood.

  I give thanks to you, Christ,

  for partaking of your body;

  in my death I truly repent

  all my evil deeds.

  Trevor Joyce

  from Njal’s Saga

  A Vision of the Battle of Clontarf, 1014

  On Good-Friday … Daurrud … went to that bower and looked in through a window … and saw that there were women inside, and they had set up a loom. Men’s heads were the weights, but men’s entrails were the warp and weft, a sword was the shuttle, and the reels were arrows. They sang these songs, and he learnt them by heart:

  See how our warp is stretched

  for warriors’ fall,

  how wet in the loom

  our weft is with blood;

  foreboding the fight,

  beneath friends’ swift fingers,

  our grey woof waxes

  with war’s alarms,

  our warp blood-red,

  our weft corpse-blue.

  This woof is woven

  with men’s entrails,

  this warp hard-weighted

  with heads of the slain,

  blood-sprinkled spears

  are the spindles we use,

  our iron-armoured loom

  has arrows for reels;

  with swords for shuttles

  this war-woof we work;

  so we weave, weird sisters,

  our war-winning woof.

  Now Warwinner walks

  to weave in her turn,

  Swordswinger steps up,

  now Swiftstroke, now Storm;

  when they speed up the shuttle

  how spear-heads shall flash,

  shields crash and helm-gnawer

  on harness bite hard!

  Wind, we wind swiftly

  our war-winning woof,

  woof once for a young king

  foredoomed like his folk;

  forth we will ride,

  and rushing through ranks

  be busy where friends

  exchange their blithe blows.

  Wind, we wind swiftly

  our war-winning woof,

  and after stand steadfast

  by the bravest of kings;

  then mournful men mark

  over gore-spattered shields

  how Swordstroke and Spearthrust

  stood stout by the prince.

  Wind, we wind swiftly

  our war-winning woof;

  when sword-bearing rangers

  rush on to the banners

  then, maidens, we spare

  no favourite from death,

  we corpse-choosing sisters

  with charge of the slain.

  Now new-coming peoples

  that island shall rule,

  who on outlying headlands

  hid out before battle;

  I declare the great King

  is now done to death,

  and that low beneath spear-point

  the Earl bows his head.

  Soon over the Irish

  sharp sorrow shall fall,

  and woe to those warriors

  shall nevermore wane;

  our woof now is woven,

  the battlefield wasted,

  over land and wide water

  war’s tidings will leap.

  There is nothing so gruesome

  as to gaze all around

  when overhead cloud-rack

  drives heaven blood-red;

  air soon shall be raddled

&n
bsp; with dying men’s gore

  as this spinning forecast

  comes swiftly to pass.

  So we cheerfully chant

  for the young king our charms,

  come sisters sing loudly

  his war-winning lay;

  let him who now listens

  believe what his ears tell,

  come gladden brave swordsmen

  with wild-bursts of war-song.

  Now we mount our horses,

  and now bare our brands,

  and now haste, hard sisters,

  to other lands.

  PC, after George W. DaSent (Old Norse)

  Hostfinn’s News to Earl Gilli

  I have been where warriors wrestled,

  High in Erin sang the sword,

  Boss to boss met many bucklers,

  Steel rung sharp on rattling helm;

  I can tell of all their struggle;

  Sigurd fell in flight of spears;

  Brian fell, but kept his kingdom

  Ere he lost one drop of blood.

  George W. DaSent (Old Norse)

  Wisdom

  ANONYMOUS

  from The Instructions of King Cormac mac Airt

  ‘O Cormac, grandson of Conn,’ said Carbery, ‘what are the dues of a chief and of an ale-house?’

  ‘Not hard to tell,’ said Cormac.

  ‘Good behaviour around a good chief,

  Lights to lamps,

  Exerting oneself for the company,

  A proper settlement of seats,

  Liberality of dispensers,

  A nimble hand at distributing,

  Attentive service,

  Music in moderation,

  Short story-telling,

  A joyous countenance,

  Welcome to guests,

  Silence during recitals,

  Harmonious choruses.’

  ‘O Cormac, grandson of Conn,’ said Carbery, ‘what were your habits when you were a lad?’

  ‘Not hard to tell,’ said Cormac.

  ‘I was a listener in woods,

  I was a gazer at stars,

  I was blind where secrets were concerned,

  I was silent in a wilderness,

  I was talkative among many,

  I was mild in the mead-hall,

  I was stern in battle,

  I was gentle towards allies,

  I was a physician of the sick,

  I was weak towards the feeble,

  I was strong towards the powerful,

  I was not close lest I should be burdensome,

  I was not arrogant though I was wise,

  I was not given to promising though I was strong,

  I was not venturesome though I was swift,

  I did not deride the old though I was young,

  I was not boastful though I was a good fighter,

  I would not speak about anyone in his absence,

  I would not reproach, but I would praise,

  I would not ask, but I would give, –

  for it is through these habits that the young become old and kingly warriors.’

  ‘O Cormac, grandson of Conn,’ said Carbery, ‘what is the worst thing you have seen?’

  ‘Not hard to tell,’ said Cormac. ‘Faces of foes in the rout of battle.’

  ‘O Cormac, grandson of Conn,’ said Carbery, ‘what is the sweetest thing you have heard?’

  ‘Not hard to tell,’ said Cormac.

  ‘The shout of triumph after victory,

  Praise after wages,

  A lady’s invitation to her pillow.’

  ‘O Cormac, grandson of Conn,’ said Carbery, ‘how do you distinguish women?’

  ‘Not hard to tell,’ said Cormac. ‘I distinguish them, but I make no difference among them.

  ‘They are crabbed as constant companions,

  haughty when visited,

  lewd when neglected,

  silly counsellors,

  greedy of increase;

  they have tell-tale faces,

  they are quarrelsome in company,

  steadfast in hate,

  forgetful of love,

  anxious for alliance,

  accustomed to slander,

  stubborn in a quarrel,

  not to be trusted with a secret,

  ever intent on pilfering,

  boisterous in their jealousy,

  ever ready for an excuse,

  on the pursuit of folly,

  slanderers of worth,

  scamping their work,

  stiff when paying a visit,

  disdainful of good men,

  gloomy and stubborn

  viragoes in strife,

  sorrowful in an ale-house,

  tearful during music,

  lustful in bed,

  arrogant and disingenuous,

  abettors of strife,

  niggardly with food,

  rejecting wisdom,

  eager to make appointments,

  sulky on a journey,

  troublesome bedfellows,

  deaf to instruction,

  blind to good advice,

  fatuous in society,

  craving for delicacies,

  chary in their presents,

  languid when solicited,

  exceeding all bounds in keeping others waiting,

  tedious talkers,

  close practitioners,

  dumb on useful matters,

  eloquent on trifles.

  Happy he who does not yield to them!

  They should be dreaded like fire,

  they should be feared like wild beasts.

  Woe to him who humours them!

  Better to beware of them than to trust them,

  better to trample upon them than to fondle them,

  better to crush them than to cherish them.

  They are waves that drown you,

  they are fire that burns you,

  they are two-edged weapons that cut you,

  they are moths for tenacity,

  they are serpents for cunning,

  they are darkness in light,

  they are bad among the good,

  they are worse among the bad.’

  ‘O Cormac, grandson of Conn,’ said Carbery, ‘what is the worst for the body of man?’

  ‘Not hard to tell,’ said Cormac. ‘Sitting too long, lying too long, long standing, lifting heavy things, exerting oneself beyond one’s strength, running too much, leaping too much, frequent falls, sleeping with one’s leg over the bed-rail, gazing at glowing embers, wax, biestings, new ale, bull-flesh, curdles, dry food, bog-water, rising too early, cold, sun, hunger, drinking too much, eating too much, sleeping too much, sinning too much, grief, running up a height, shouting against the wind, drying oneself by a fire, summer-dew, winter-dew, beating ashes, swimming on a full stomach, sleeping on one’s back, foolish romping.’

  ‘O Cormac, grandson of Conn,’ said Carbery, ‘what is the worst pleading and arguing?’

  ‘Not hard to tell,’ said Cormac.

  ‘Contending against knowledge,

  contending without proofs,

  taking refuge in bad language,

  a stiff delivery,

  a muttering speech,

  hair-splitting,

  uncertain proofs,

  despising books,

  turning against custom,

  shifting one’s pleading,

  inciting the mob,

  blowing one’s own trumpet,

  shouting at the top of one’s voice.’

  ‘O Cormac, grandson of Conn,’ said Carbery, ‘who are the worst for whom you have a comparison?’

  ‘Not hard to tell,’ said Cormac.

  ‘A man with the impudence of a satirist,

  with the pugnacity of a slave-woman,

  with the carelessness of a dog,

  with the conscience of a hound,

  with a robber’s hand,

  with a bull’s strength,

  with the dignity of a judge,


  with keen ingenious wisdom,

  with the speech of a stately man,

  with the memory of an historian,

  with the behaviour of an abbot,

  with the swearing of a horse-thief,

  and he wise, lying, grey-haired, violent, swearing, garrulous, when he says “the matter is settled, I swear, you shall swear.” ’

  ‘O Cormac, grandson of Conn,’ said Carbery, ‘I desire to know how I shall behave among the wise and the foolish, among friends and strangers, among the old and the young, among the innocent and the wicked.’

  ‘Not hard to tell,’ said Cormac.

  ‘Be not too wise, nor too foolish,

  be not too conceited, nor too diffident,

  be not too haughty, nor too humble,

  be not too talkative, nor too silent,

  be not too hard, nor too feeble.

  If you be too wise, one will expect too much of you;

  if you be too foolish, you will be deceived;

  if you be too conceited, you will be thought vexatious;

  if you be too humble, you will be without honour;

  if you be too talkative, you will not be heeded;

  if you be too silent, you will not be regarded;

  if you be too hard, you will be broken;

  if you be too feeble, you will be crushed.’

  Kuno Meyer

  from The Triads of Ireland

  Three slender things that best support the world: the slender stream of milk from the cow’s dug into the pail; the slender blade of green corn upon the ground; the slender thread over the hand of a skilled woman.

  The three worst welcomes: a handicraft in the same house with the inmates; scalding water upon your feet; salt food without a drink.

  Three rejoicings followed by sorrow: a wooer’s, a thief’s, a talebearer’s.

  Three rude ones of the world: a youngster mocking an old man; a robust person mocking an invalid; a wise man mocking a fool.

  Three fair things that hide ugliness: good manners in the ill-favoured; skill in a serf; wisdom in the misshapen.

  Three sparks that kindle love: a face, demeanour, speech.

  Three glories of a gathering: a beautiful wife, a good horse, a swift hound.

  Three fewnesses that are better than plenty: a fewness of fine words; a fewness of cows in grass; a fewness of friends around good ale.

  Three ruins of a tribe: a lying chief, a false judge, a lustful priest.

  Three laughing-stocks of the world: an angry man, a jealous man, a niggard.

  Three signs of ill-breeding: a long visit, staring, constant questioning.

  Three signs of a fop: the track of his comb in his hair; the track of his teeth in his food; the track of his stick behind him.

  Three idiots of a bad guest-house: an old hag with a chronic cough; a brainless tartar of a girl; a hobgoblin of a gillie.