NATIONAL POETRY DAY 2014

On October 2nd I gave an hour long poetry reading to a group of sixteen year old students from St Brendan's Community School in the library at Birr in celebration of the National Poetry Day. 

So to get them in the mood I asked them to close their eyes as I read 

"A dream is an early morning tide

softly gentle waves caress, 

the slopes of a slumbering mind. 

As rolling pebbles 

call memories ashore." 

A discussion followed about the images which the words evoked and in such a way the rest of the session was conducted.  

As a preparation for the occasion I had asked them to translate the first verse of the poem by Dónall Ó Conchúir, (Donal O'Connor 1847-1930), 'Dhá Chích Danann', in order for them to understand the background to my own poem.

'Dhá Chích Danann' -

"Maidin bhreá Fhómair dom cops mórshruth na méithbhreac

I gcoill chluthair cheolmhair is gan leoithne sna spéarthaibh,

An lon dubh is an smóilin go beolbhinn ar séideah,

Gach fás crainn go leor ann cnó buí in a slaodaibh.

Ag dearcadh whom tharam be thaitneamhach limo

Ar Dhá Chích Danann ag amharc anon

Is síbhrat na maidne leabhar leata os a gcionn,

Chomh bleachmhar buan bláfar, chomh hálainn óghchruth."

Translation 'The Breasts of Danu' -

"One beautiful morning beside the great stream of the fertile plain

In a cosy musical wood not a breeze in the sky

The blackbird and the thrush piping sweetly,

Every growing tree there hanging ripe with nuts.

Looking around me it delighted me

The two breasts of Danann

The mysterious fairy mist over them,

As beautiful as the top of the milk that nurtures the child

(As if they were created by God ?)"

Their translation was as perfect as the one that a friendly monk had done for me as he pored over each word and phrase using Dineen's dictionary. That particular dictionary, which covers the nuances of every Irish word, would make a blog post all of it's own - we shall see!

My own poem below describes my experience of hearing the monk's translation:

At a monastery kitchen table I sat

Listening to old Irish being translated

Clear distinct verse with hidden meanings

Spoken in soft tone like a blended prayer

Lulled, my mind by rhythm travelled

As this other language unravelled

So leaving a rich cream behind I flew

To a land where dreams weave anew

To sit with my back against She - Rowan

Who was clothed in milky lace so delicate

I inhaled deeply her fragrant blossom

A vapour that transmuted me to spirit

A wave that kisses the shores of Erin

The song of Amergin

A breath of hot air that ripens corn

Dew on Bealtaine's morn

A mist that caressed Anu's Paps

©MRL 05 - 03 - 2013

As we are approaching Winter I closed the session with "An Ode to Winter Gales". 

ref:http://wordsofaramblingmind.blogspot.ie/2014/01/an-ode-to-winter-gales.html

Bitter and Red Tea

A dimpled pint of bitter

Rooibosh

Friday morning saw me sitting in a comfortable chair in the library, the sunshine was streaming down and warming me, over my forehead came a slight, cool waft of air and in the quietness of that cosy corner memories started to flood into my mind, as I drifted back in time, revisiting places and tastes.

The flavour of a pint bitter filled my senses and in half closing my eyes I was sitting in the bar of a small pub in Builth Wells, Wales where the dark wood wall panels and cushioned benches provided me with an inner warmth. I muse on how the dimpled glass is held not by it's handle but with one's hand placed around the glass with the underside of the top the part of the handle resting on the the right index finger, as I sup to swallow a goodly draught of the nectar.

April does this to me, it draws in the memories more than any other month. I was reflecting on this earlier, when I recalled visiting another pub on the outskirts of Combe Down, Bath. I think it was called The Pack Horse, an old establishment that sold a delicious cider that oft tempted me as a refreshing lunchtime drink. It was there on the radio that I heard the news of John Lennon's untimely demise and where I immediately wrote the following piece

John born Liverpool 1940

ex Beatle and M.B.E.

Departed New York 1980

Cupro-nickle six

Impales vital flesh

Discord rhythm slips

Lennon into death

Amplified sound loses

Earth’s mystic beat

Playing Yoko’s love

with substituted pain.

Songs of love and peace

Will flower forever on

Echoing thro’ the world

In green growing harmony.

©MRL 1980

I don't want you to think that I spent all of my time in pubs. I did tho' frequent many an establishment in my younger days and they provided me with insights of human characteristics and some of them quite pitiable as:

Bristol 6

My favourite Pub

My favourite pub stands

gaunt to the street.

Yet alive with vitality

It’s balance of humour

A serious intent.

Not in this pub stand

the pretentious and proudly sober

they drink not at this bar.

They exist stoned, cold

Beyond their fronts

With hand held can

and

Hypocrisy for company

In this bar

Faded winter flowers

Open deep their centres

Bright blemishes lie honest

naked, bare to the sky

Avoiding not the quick glances

Nor to ask for dispensation

For here drink labourers, pimps

lags and tired working girls.

©MRL 1982

I was aroused from my reveries in the library by the arrival of Mrs H, who dragged me off to the health shop to purchase our weekly supply of Red Tea (Rooibosh).Which is now our favourite tipple, with it's versatile and restorative powers; and the person to who we have to thank for bringing it to our attention is the author Alexander McCall Smith and his series of books on Botswana - 'The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency', where the main character Precious Ramotswe indulges herself by making pots & pots of red tea. For it was in this library that we borrowed his books.

ref www.alexandermccallsmith.co.uk