The Penguin Book of Irish Poetry Page 15
Three things that constitute a physician: a complete cure; leaving no blemish behind; a painless examination.
Three things betokening trouble: holding plough-land in common; performing feats together; alliance in marriage.
Three nurses of theft: a wood, a cloak, night.
Three false sisters: ‘perhaps’, ‘maybe’, ‘I dare say.’
Three timid brothers: ‘hush!’ ‘stop!’ ‘listen!’
Three sounds of increase: the lowing of a cow in milk; the din of a smithy; the swish of a plough.
Three steadinesses of good womanhood: keeping a steady tongue; a steady chastity; a steady housewifery.
Three excellences of dress: elegance, comfort, lastingness.
Three candles that illume every darkness: truth, nature, knowledge.
Three keys that unlock thoughts: drunkenness, trustfulness, love.
Three youthful sisters: desire, beauty, generosity.
Three aged sisters: groaning, chastity, ugliness.
Three nurses of high spirits: pride, wooing, drunkenness.
Three coffers whose depth is not known: the coffers of a chieftain, of the Church, of a privileged poet.
Three things that ruin wisdom: ignorance, inaccurate knowledge, forgetfulness.
Three things that are best for a chief: justice, peace, an army. Three things that are worst for a chief: sloth, treachery, evil counsel.
Three services, the worst that a man can serve: serving a bad woman, a bad lord, and bad land.
Three lawful handbreadths: a handbreadth between shoes and hose, between ear and hair, and between the fringe of the tunic and the knee.
Three angry sisters: blasphemy, strife, foul-mouthedness.
Three disrespectful sisters: importunity, frivolity, flightiness.
Three signs of a bad man: bitterness, hatred, cowardice.
Kuno Meyer
Negative Capability
When I find myself with the elders
I lay down the law against fun;
when I wind up with the clubbers
I go-go like the youngest one.
PC
Latin Poems by Clerics
‘HIBERNICUS EXUL’
(fl. late 8th century)
from Poet and Muse
POET
But tell me, great nurse of the venerable bards,
will my praise songs last to the end of time?
MUSE
While the spangled arc of the sky wheels on its hub
and the darkness of night flees before uprising planets
and the day-star surges out of shadows to shine
and strong winds batter the waves of the ocean
and rivers run foaming on towards the sea
and mountaintops threaten to brush against clouds
and valleys lie humble in their dirt tracks
and high hills flaunt their manly prows
and the splendour of kings flares burnished in gold
so long will the gift of the muses remain:
for here become lasting the great deeds of kings
and the things of today are made song for tomorrow
and by the muses’ gift is praised the Creator,
radiant with goodness in His heavenly home
and pleased by our ceaseless, well-fitted verses;
so remember to venerate the King with your gift
while I on my pipe add music to your song.
PC
Teaching Methods
(1) THE CARROT
Now is the time for learning, boys; the right age doesn’t last
But flees with the days rotated by the stars.
As the swift stallion gallops reckless across the plain
So youth speeds by without pausing for breath.
Supple twigs will bend under the gentlest of pressure
But stout branches snap if they are leaned on.
So while your minds are still responsive, lads,
Apply them to learning the high ways of God;
Do not waste this lavish gift of childhood,
For life without learning is not worth living.
(2) THE STICK
The lazy among you will be punished for their messing;
No boy is safe, whatever his age:
The older will suffer withdrawal of wine
And the younger wince at the lash’s crack.
I’d prefer, though, you all just did what you’re told,
For those obedient to me have nothing to fear.
PC
COLMAN
(fl. 9th century)
St Brigit and the Sunbeam
One day as rain pelted from the heavens
thunder-clouds gathered out of nowhere in the sky,
water streamed down in rich floods and a girl,
in drenched clothes and as fast as her feet
could carry her, hurried across plains
and saturated pastures to her home, a girl
long since by her old parents christened Brigit.
Going to change her dripping dress she
could find nowhere to hang the blessed thing
when, from the little window as if by chance
into the room glided a sunbright ray
lighting the whole place and settling on her gown.
Then someone there tried to trick
the innocent girl and, nodding towards the ray
as if it were oak, persuaded her
to hang the dress from the tremulous beam.
Though deceit was his aim the tender lass
obeyed and, fitting it along the vibrant ray,
spread the wet dress across the middle of the room;
propped in vacant air by God’s will it hung
suspended from the ray, wonderful to see, never
breaking the golden-glowing light
as it stood dripping, airing there
as if stretched on a stout rope. All
were astonished and spread the story round
repeating the girl’s name and invoking Christ
who not only held the dress aloft on lightest motes
but by his majesty holds up the heavy world,
who in the beginning of his Father’s power
conjured the Earth out of nothing, to whom
the stars submit, who is God’s
eternal goodness, who at the Father’s right hand
sits, light begotten of unbegotten light.
These few of the many deeds that girl did
through the wonderful gift of Christ
learn from me, readers – the rest
I leave to others after me to write down.
PC
JOHANNES SCOTTUS ÉRIUGENA
(c. 815–c. 877)
from ‘Homer sang once of his Greeks and his Trojans’
Homer sang once of his Greeks and his Trojans
and Virgil made poems about the people of Rome:
the deeds sung here were done by the king
to whom earth itself hums endless praise.
Of the flames that levelled high Illium
and boastful champions they loved to speak
but world-vanquishing Christ, the bloodied martyr,
is sole subject of our prayerful epic.
They were skilled in making the false look true
and knew how to delude in Arcadian verse
but candid hymns are what we raise in tribute
to the wisdom and excellence of the father.
The blathering little playlets of the muses
were all folk in the past got to applaud,
but the acts of the prophets come artfully formed now
harmonious out of our hearts, our mouths and our faith.
Therefore let us fix the victories of Christ
as the highest, brightest stars in our minds.
See how the four corners of this earth
are held together by the wood of the cross
where the lord hung of his own a
ccord
once the word of the father had taken on flesh
and become our fitting sacrificial victim.
Consider his pierced palms and feet, his shoulders,
his temples crowned with spiteful thorns;
from his side opens the spring of salvation
and his blood, life’s balm, issues in a wave
that cleanses the whole world of its ancient sin,
making even us ungodly mortals godly.
PC
SEDULIUS SCOTTUS
(fl. 840–60)
Safe Arrival
Shrinking from the blasts of scowling Boreas,
we shiver under his stinging icy lash:
the ground itself shakes, white-faced & afraid,
ocean moans and hard rocks whimper.
He threatens now the great spaces of the air
with terrifying voice & thunderous roar;
he hides milk-fleeced sky in menacing dark
as earth stands speechless in her gown of snow;
suddenly the hair is whipped from the forests
and stout oaks tremble like things afraid;
the sun, that once shone bright & resplendent,
withdraws his rays and hides his face
and terrible it is to see how Boreas
humbles us scholars and pious priests:
no respecter of rank or station, that wind-eagle
picks and sorts us with his beak.
Please Hartgar, great prelate, assist the afflicted,
shine your heart on the scholarly Gael
that blessèd you may stroll in heaven’s holy temples,
Jerusalem the fair and eternal Sion.
The mercy & serenity of that high prelate
defied Boreas’s boasts and beat back his blasts;
opening doors to the drenched & exhausted
he plucked three scholars from the roaring wind
and clothed and received all three with honour
making us his grateful, his sheltered sheep.
PC
He Complains to Bishop Hartgar of Thirst
The standing corn is green, the wild in flower,
The vines are swelling, ’tis the sweet o’ the year,
Bright-winged the birds, and heaven shrill with song,
And laughing sea and earth and every star.
But with it all, there’s never a drink for me,
No wine, nor mead, nor even a drop of beer.
Ah, how hath failed that substance manifold,
Born of the kind earth and the dewy air!
I am a writer, I, a musician, Orpheus the second,
And the ox that treads out the corn, and your well-wisher I,
I am your champion armed with the weapons of wisdom and logic,
Muse, tell my lord bishop and father his servant is dry.
Helen Waddell
The Hospital
If you want the gift of health you’d better run
quick as a buck to this stately building;
point your feet towards the hall of healing
& discover secrets hidden from the Greeks.
Once you’ve knocked back those life-saving draughts
you’ll leave in a one-man victory parade.
MOTHER MEDICINE
This great queen comes down from stylish Olympus
& dispenses her gifts to everyone;
three lights shine on her well-bred face,
victorious in battle over armies of pains.
The milk from her breasts is soothing nectar
to nurse to health innumerable crowds.
Receive these gifts from Mother Medicine,
souvenirs of her stay in Paradise:
first, ointments that release incense more
precious than fabled gold or myrrh;
second, antidotes that glitter in rows,
poised to expel injurious spirits
(I hear that Medicine found them years ago
in the gorgeous gardens of the Hesperides);
and third, powders from Mount Olivet,
that, mixed with potions, glow honey-golden.
I bless you, great house, Medicine’s ward,
everyone’s hope, mankind’s gift-hoard.
PC
BISHOP PATRICK
(d.1084)
Prologue to the Book of Saintly Patrick the Bishop
THE INVOCATION OF THE SAINTLY BISHOP PATRICK
Omnipotent God, who fills the recesses of Heaven, restrain with your oar the hoary waves of the deep.
THE PROLOGUE TO THE BOOK OF THE SAINTLY BISHOP PATRICK BEGINS
Fare forward, boat,
over the wide sea;
Christ on the waves
be your guide,
with his skilful oar,
his blue sky.
Sail swiftly, boat,
through the empty sea,
cut through the wan
& churning flow,
expertly steered
by friendly winds.
Fare forward, little book,
an angel beside you,
through the spreading sea:
visit the kind place
of bishop Wulstan,
find him well who
is worthy of honour
& sweetness in love;
banish his sorrow,
peal out in joy
night & day,
your song lifted
to the sun &
highest stars.
Fare forward, page,
in the sacred strength
of the high cross;
may the sails swell
through clear straits;
learn, boat,
to safely run
across plains
of sea; be like
the deep’s monsters
& swim in
bitter waters.
Fare forward, little book:
joyful in wave
& wind will you go,
the scaly hosts
your company;
the helmsman’s shout
for you shall sound
from the depths of the sea
with a sweet ring.
Sail swiftly, boat,
in joy through the waves;
may the tops of your sail
be strained full
by wind from the east;
may breezes
cloudlessly
minister to you
& may no
error destroy you
until you are
carried straight
to English fields.
Fare forward, page:
following in thought
I’ll be your comrade,
led by love
to visit peace’s
dear fosterlings;
to the Christians
of kindly Wulstan
to all of them equally
bring, as is meet,
thrice ten greetings
in lovely sequence.
Fare forward, little book,
with this limping verse,
and from Patrick
of faithful mind,
request, as is right,
for my colleague Aldwin
a thousand crowns
of wholesome life.
THE PROLOGUE ENDS
PC
II
* * *
THERE IS NO LAND ON EARTH ITS PEER: 1201–1600
Þer nis lond on erþe is pere
‘The Land of Cockayne’
ANONYMOUS
from The Song of Dermot and the Earl (early 13th century)
Dermot and the Wife of O’Rourke
In Ireland at the time
No king was more worthy:
Generous and wealthy,
He hated meanness.
Through rude power
He had fought and conquered
O’Neill and Meath,
Bringing into Leinster
Hostages like O’Carroll,
Son of Oriel’s king.
In Leath-Chuinn a king,
Called O’Rourke in Irish,
Lived in drab Tirbrun,
A wild, wooded place.
O’Rourke was wealthy,
With a beautiful wife,
Daughter of Melaghlin,
Sprung from the line
Of Melaghlin Boldheart,
Son of Colman, the courteous
And noble king.
But enough about Melaghlin,
I speak of King Dermot.
Dermot, king of Leinster,
Whom this lady loved,
Pretended he loved her,
While not loving her at all,
But wishing, if he could,
To avenge the great shame
Men from Leath-Chuinn brought
On his lands long ago.
King Dermot sent word
To the lady he so loved –
By messenger and letter
He often sent word
That she was without doubt
The love of his life;
Thus he all the time sought
Her true love in secret.
And the lady sent word
Through a private envoy
That she soon would be his:
To the respected king
She sent answer again,
By word of mouth and in writing
That he should come for her
With the army of Leinster
And by violent force
Take her back with him;
She would let him know
Where he would find her
Waiting in hiding
To be carried away …
The Complaint of O’Rourke
O’Rourke was bitter
Over the wife he had lost,
And he offered fierce battle
To Leinster’s men.
But Dermot, my lords,
Took the lady away
And never ceased marching
Til he reached Kinsellagh.
And the lady a long time
Stayed there, people say:
At Ferns she was placed
As people say, thus.
O’Rourke, much grieving,