W.B. Yeats, "Carolan, the last of the Irish bards, slept on a rath, and ever after the fairy tunes ran in his head, and made him the great man he was."
where the wild wind comes from
and the fiery sun sets
where we were last
where we have been
where we love much of the time
where the kestrel
deep swoops to kill
amidst the emergent corn of maytime
and farmhouse stores of chopped wood
fair stand the ravages
of winters cold and long
to pierce the hands
with crystals sharp
of my beloved
weaving weft
in mountain cleft
the deer seek shelter
even now from hunter
not from famine
this is a land
not mine of birth
yet still
when called to own it
I cannot disavow
the wisdom of mine heart
strings sharp and clear
the blind harper
O'Carolan
walks the ways of Mayo
sweet and deep
harsh and fond
its people forced here
by sword and cudgel past
but live not there
thy blessed land
where hawks to fly
upon the wind
and though we scattered be
to live across this earth
the call is deep primal
in our bones to return
that wayward shore
and in the bosom deep
of lover land and fold
I am complete
I am a man
magician
peasant
prodigal
son
of Éire's
willowed
hand
Poetry by Peter Humphreys
Read 888 times
Editors' choice
Written on 2010-05-24 at 16:42
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O'Carolan
we are going nowwhere the wild wind comes from
and the fiery sun sets
where we were last
where we have been
where we love much of the time
where the kestrel
deep swoops to kill
amidst the emergent corn of maytime
and farmhouse stores of chopped wood
fair stand the ravages
of winters cold and long
to pierce the hands
with crystals sharp
of my beloved
weaving weft
in mountain cleft
the deer seek shelter
even now from hunter
not from famine
this is a land
not mine of birth
yet still
when called to own it
I cannot disavow
the wisdom of mine heart
strings sharp and clear
the blind harper
O'Carolan
walks the ways of Mayo
sweet and deep
harsh and fond
its people forced here
by sword and cudgel past
but live not there
thy blessed land
where hawks to fly
upon the wind
and though we scattered be
to live across this earth
the call is deep primal
in our bones to return
that wayward shore
and in the bosom deep
of lover land and fold
I am complete
I am a man
magician
peasant
prodigal
son
of Éire's
willowed
hand
Poetry by Peter Humphreys
Read 888 times
Editors' choiceWritten on 2010-05-24 at 16:42
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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 by Peter Humphreys Latest textslifethe grey green sea emboldened beyond beyond we knelt |
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