THE AIRS OF WALES AND EIRE
Medieval Welsh and Irish Poems in Modern English
by Wesli Court
Copyright © Lewis Turco 1981, 2004, 2010.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The Airs of Wales was originally published as No. 53 of the Poetry Newsletter of Temple University, Fall, 1981, Richard O'Connell, editor. Copyrights reverted to the author on publication; all rights reserved.
Most
of the poems may be found in The New Book of Forms and The Book of Forms, Third Edition, both published by the University Press of New
England © Lewis Turco 1986 & 2000 respectively. All the poems may be found in The Collected
Lyrics of Lewis Turco / Wesli Court 1953-2004, Scottsdale: Star Cloud Press, © Lewis Turco 2004.
By permission of the author.
The Book
of Forms: A Handbook of Poetics, Third edition, www.UPNE.com, 2000. ISBN 1584650222, trade
paperback, $24.95, 337 pages. “The Poet’s Bible," A companion volume to The
Book of Dialogue and The
Book of Literary Terms.
ORDER FROM AMAZON
THE AIRS OF WALES
FOREWORD
The order of these poems is roughly chronological. I have cast these modern versions into the verse forms of the Welsh bards. This does not mean that I have duplicated the bardic form in which each poem was originally written; rather, I have chosen that form which, it seemed to me, suited the sense and aura of the medieval period at the same time that English might best be served.
I have used only the first half of "The Battle of Llongborth," which rose to its own climax before the second half began to wander, it seemed to me, into a rather dull consideration of horses that ate grain. The form in which it appears here is englyn penfyr.
The form of "The Head of Urien" is englyn milwr; of "The Corpse of Urien," englyn penfyr; "Lament for Owain ab Urien," cywydd deuair hyrion. The longer stanzas of "Huntsong for a Small Son" are hyr a thoddaid, but the final couplet is cyhydedd fer. "Elegy for Urien Rheged" is englyn penfyr.
The form of "Ailment and Age, Grief, Catarrh" is an imitation of Welsh form, not a specific bardic meter. The lines are heptasyllabic, as in a number of Welsh patterns, but instead of rhyme and/or consonance, I used analyzed rhyme and repetition for the most part.
"Spring Song" is cast into awdyl gywydd; "A Riddle," rhupunt; "The Grave," englyn proest dalgron, and "Winter" is an imitation, as in "Ailment and Age, Grief, Catarrh."
The original of "Love in Exile" had each line beginning with the letter H. I kept the aitches and cast the poem into the form of a variant of cywydd deuair hyrion.
"My Choice" is written in the form known as cywydd deuair fyrion; "In Summer," clogyrnach; "In Praise of Owain Gwynedd, cyhydedd naw ban, and "To a Girl" in cyhydedd hir.
In The Airs of Eire "The Mystery" is attributed to Amergin (ca. 6th century), reputedly the eldest Irish poet, if one excludes St. Patrick, who has been credited with poems as well as other sorts of writing. In An Introduction to Irish Poetry Hoagland (see bibliography) says, "The earliest form [of Irish-Gaelic poetry] was rhymeless, based upon alliteration." This modern version, therefore, has been cast in the form of Anglo-Saxon prosody. This form is actually a line or stich of accentual verse consisting of four overstressed or sprung syllables and any number of unstressed syllables. Generally, the overstressing is accomplished by means of alliteration, but other sonic devices such as assonance, rhyme, and vocalic or consonantal echo are also used. The stich is broken into hemistichs or half-lines by a caesura (pause) in the center of the line; in each hemistich there will be two of the four stressed syllables. "The Mystery" also exhibits parallel construction, for each line is an independent clause beginning with either "I am the" or "Who." Grammatic parallelism, whether used in verse or in prose composition, is the oldest prosody in the world, antedating accentual verse by many centuries, but used as often today as in ancient Chaldea.
Another feature of the earliest Irish verse is chain verse or linked rhyme: the last syllable or syllables of a line are rhymed with the first syllable or syllables of the following line as in "The Charm of Eire" which is also attributed to Amergin.
Explanations and diagrams of all these forms may be found in Lewis Turco's The Book of Forms, Third Edition, University Press of New England, 2000.
W. C.
THE
BATTLE OF LLONGBORTH
Before
Gereint the foe-scourge, the axer,
Were
white stallions with red legs —
After
the war-cry, cromlechs.
Before
Gereint, the foeman's bescyther,
Were
mounts red-shinned from the fight;
After
the war-cry, dark thought.
Before
Gereint, the avenger, fighter,
Were
stallions saddled in white;
After
the war-cry, gall and blight.
At
Longberth I saw the vultures
Circling
over many a bier,
And
men by Gereint's charge gored.
At
Longberth I witnessed the great slaughter
Of
men fearful for their blood
Before
Gereint, his sire's pride.
At
Longberth I witnessed spurs being won,
Men
who did not flinch from spears,
Wine
drunk from crystal ewers.
At
Longberth I saw the armor gleaming;
From
the helms I saw blood pour,
And
I watched the burier.
At
Longberth I saw a mailed King Arthur
Where
men fell, struck down with steel:
It
was he who led the toil.
At
Longberth Gereint was slain in the field
By
knights from lowland Devon:
They
slew before they were slain.
—
Anonymous
THE HEAD OF URIEN
I
carry a severed head.
Cynfarch's
son, its owner, would
Charge
two warbands without heed.
I
bear a great warrior's skull.
Many
did good Urien rule;
On
his bright breast, a grey gull.
I
bear a head at my heart,
Urien's
head, who ruled a court;
On
his bright breast the crows dart.
I
bear a head in my hand.
A
shepherd in Yrechwydd-land,
Spear-breaker,
kingly and grand.
I
bear a head at my thigh,
Shield
of the land, battle-scythe,
Column
of war, falcon-cry.
I
bear a head sinister.
His
life great, his grave bitter,
The
old warrior's savior.
I
bear a head from the hills.
His
hosts are lost in the vales.
Lavish
it with cries and hails.
I
bear a head on my shield.
I
stood my ground in the field,
Near
at hand — he would not yield.
I
bear a head on my greaves.
After
battlecry he gives
Brennych's
land its laden graves.
I
bear a head in my hand,
Gripped
hard. Well he ruled the land
In
peace or in war's command.
I
cut and carried this head
That
kept me fearless of dread —
Sever
my quick hand instead!
I
bear a head from the wood,
Upon
its mouth frothing blood
And,
hereafter, on Rheged!
My
breast quaked and my arm shook;
My
heart was stone, and it broke.
I
bear the head that I took.
—
Llywarch Hen
THE CORPSE OF URIEN
The
handsome corpse is laid down today,
Laid
under this earth and stone —
Curse
my fist! Owain's sire slain!
The
handsome corpse is now broken
In
the earth, under the oak —
Curse
my fist! My kinsman struck!
The
handsome corpse is bereft at last,
Fast
in the stone he is left —
Curse
my fist! My fate is cleft!
The
handsome corpse is rewarded thus,
In
the dust, under greensward —
Curse
my fist! Cynfarch's son gored!
The
handsome corpse is abandoned here
Under
this sod, this gravestone —
Curse
my fist! My liegelord gone!
The
handsome corpse is here locked away,
Made
to rest beneath the rock —
Curse
my fist! How the weirds knock!
The
handsome corpse is settled in earth
Beneath
vervain and nettle —
Curse
my fist! Hear fate rattle!
The
handsome corpse is laid down today,
Laid
under this earth and stone —
Curse
my fist! This fate was mine!
—
Llywarch Hen
LAMENT FOR OWAIN AB URIEN
Owain
ab Urien's soul
May
the Lord keep immortal.
Lordly
to praise Rheged's lord,
Greatly
burdened by greensward,
Laid
low, this far-bruited king,
His
lances wings of dawning.
To
none other was he thrall,
No
other was his equal,
Reaper
of foes, ravener,
Son,
father, and grandfather.
When
Owain scythed down Fflamddwyn
It
was no more than nodding.
Sleeping
are the Anglemen,
Light
in their sockets open,
And
those who but shortly fled
Were
bolder than they needed —
Owain
put them to the sack:
Sheep
before the wolf-pack.
Grand
in colored armament,
Well
he horsed the suppliant:
For
his soul's sake Owain shared
The
treasure that he hoarded.
Owain
ab Urien's soul
May
the Lord keep immortal.
— Taliesin
HUNTSONG FOR A SMALL SON
Dinogad's
coat is specked with spots —
I
made it out of pelts of stoats.
Flingabout,
fling! Flingabout, flingabout!
Eight
times the song we'll sing.
When
your daddy went to the hunt,
Shouldered
his spear, his staff in hand,
He
called to the hounds that were hale and fleet,
"Fido,
fetch! Bowser, trail!"
He
caught fish in his little boat
Like
a dragon after a shoat.
When
your daddy climbed up the craggy rock
He
brought back boar, buck, stag,
A
stippled game-hen from the hills
And
a trout from Oak Fountain Falls.
At
whatever your Daddy cocks his spear,
There
he strikes bear, lynx, fox.
This
is no boast, this is no lie —
If
it escapes, then it can fly.
— Anonymous
ELEGY FOR URIEN RHEGED
This
ingle has lost its voice — on its floor,
Once
common, there were hearth-noise,
Mead,
the talk of men and boys.
This
ingle — will it not be benettled?
While
its protector could breathe,
Familiar
was the stranger.
This
ingle — will not the sod cover it?
When
Owain and Elphin prayed,
God
put prey into the pot.
This
ingle — will it not sprout hoar toadstools?
There
used to gather about
Its
food the dauntless, the stout.
This
ingle — will it not spread with brambles?
Logs
blazed on it, burning red;
Nearby,
the gifts of Rheged.
This
ingle — won't it be cumbered with thorns?
Customary
were the theigns
And
the henchmen of Owain.
This
ingle — won't the ants crawl over it?
Customary
was torch-pall
Over
the gathering of all.
This
ingle — will not the boars root in it?
Here
once met the folk's clamors
And
the banquet's circling horns.
This
long-abandoned pillar — that one, too:
They
once echoed those clamors
And
the music of armors.
— Llywarch Hen
AILMENT AND AGE, GRIEF, CATARRH
Before
I was a crook-back
I
was honored for word-craft,
Feasted
— till I was bereft.
Before
I was a crook-back
I
was hailed in the meadhalls
Of
Wales, toasted in crystal.
Before
I was a crook-back
The
first to pierce was my spear;
I
blazed! — now I creep hunchback.
Oaken
crook, come harvest-time:
Ocher
bracken, saffron grass —
Fond
things are gone in a trice.
Oaken
crook, come hoar-frost time:
Men
bawling over liquor —
My
bed cheerless by the fire.
Oaken
crook, come cuckoo-time:
Women
flirting at the feasts —
Done
are the days of my trysts.
Oaken
crook, come heather-time:
Bright
weather, green-tendril nights —
I
loathe the sight of your knots.
Oaken
crook, you good old stave,
Prop
the elder and heartsick —
Llywarch
the long-tongued, the stiff.
Oaken
crook, unbending stick,
Lead
me to God's waiting flock —
That's
it, my steady fellow!
Oaken
crook, do as you're bid:
be
proper, make me proper,
I,
Llywarch the long-winded.
Age
has made me a scarecrow,
Hoar-haired
and long in the tooth,
Lance
forsworn for the crook's oath.
Age
has whispered a poor jest
In
my ear through my hoar-hair,
Withered
the lance women joust.
White
wind frets the foot-hill trees,
The
stag stands on the bare hill,
My
stick stutters on the trail.
The
wind bears away the leaf
Over
the hill — God knows where.
It
was a new leaf this year.
The
lad's love is my loathing:
Lass,
stranger, unbroken roan —
These
are no longer fitting.
This
is the loathsome foursome
Come
upon in a corpus:
Ailment
and age, grief, catarrh.
Old,
alone, misshapen, cold,
Once
I had a famous bed;
Grief-bent,
I go three-folded.
Old,
thrice folded, witless, weak,
Given
to the sudden rage —
Those
I loved pay no love-wage.
No
lasses love me, none come
Nigh
me, I may not come near —
Not
even death will appear!
Joy
shuns me, sleep keeps away
Since
kinsman and friend were slain —
My
cross carcass and I wane.
Curse
the night Llywarch was born
To
work this row with his crook,
Walk
the road no man may brook!
—
Llywarch Hen
SPRING SONG
Earthspring,
the sweetest season,
Loud
the birdsong, sprouts ripple,
Plough
in furrow, ox in yoke,
Sea
like smoke, fields in stipple.
Yet
when cuckoos call from trees
I
drink the lees of sorrow;
Tongue
bitter, I sleep with pain —
My
kinsmen come not again.
On
mountain, mead, seaborne land,
Wherever
man wends his way,
What
path he take boots not,
He
shall not keep from Christ's eye.
—
Anonymous
A RIDDLE
Riddle
me this —
Knew
the Flood's kiss,
Has
a snake's hiss,
This
great creature,
Fleshless,
boneless,
Senseless,
bloodless,
Headless,
footless,
Older
nor younger
Than
he started,
Never
daunted,
Not
live nor dead,
Ever
useful —
God
in Heaven,
What
origin?
Great
wonders Thine
Who
made this bull.
In
woods, in leas,
Ageless,
griefless,
Ever
hurtless,
Of
equal age
With
the Eras,
Older
than hours
From
Time's ewers;
Broad
as the gauge
Of
all the Earth.
He
had no birth,
Nor
has he girth
On
land or sea.
Trust
him to hum —
He
will lie dumb
And
will not come
If
it need be.
Bull
of the air
Beyond
compare,
None
may ensnare
Him
in his den
On
the sea-cliff.
He'll
roar, he'll cough,
Mannerless
oaf —
Savage
again
Crossing
the land
Roaring
and grand,
Then
hushed and bland,
Fey
as a boy,
then
with a shout
Lashing
about
Earth
in a rout.
Wickedness,
joy,
Hidden,
yet seen
In
his careen,
Heard
in his whine
First
here, then there,
Hurling,
twirling,
Ever
breaking,
Never
paying
Bull
of the air.
Blameless
as sky,
He
is wet, dry,
Often
comes by.
Old
Man-fashioned,
Like
everything
From
beginning
Unto
ending —
He
is the wind.
—
Anonymous
MY CHOICE
I
choose a fair
Maid
so slender,
Tall
and silver,
Her
gown of heather
Hue
— I choose her,
Nature's
daughter,
For
the kind word
Dropped,
scarcely heard,
And
for my part
Take
her to heart
For
gift, for grace,
For
her embrace.
I
choose the wave,
The
water's shade;
Witch
of the shire,
Your
Welsh tongue pure,
My choice you are,
And
am I yours?
Why
be silent
(Sweet
your silence)?
I
choose my course
Without
remorse,
With
a clear voice —
So
clear a choice.
—
Hywel ab Owain Gwynedd
IN SUMMER
Summer
I love, stallions abroad,
Knights
courageous before their lord;
The
comber booming,
Apple
tree blooming,
Shield
shining, war-shouldered.
Longing,
I went craving, alack —
The
bowing of the slim hemlock,
In
bright noon, dawn's sleight;
Fair
frail form smooth, white,
Her
step light on the stalk.
Silent
is the small deer's footfall,
Scarcely
older than she is tall.
Comely,
beautiful,
Bred
bountiful,
Passion
will heed her call,
But
no vile word will pass her lips.
I
pace, I plead — when shall we tryst?
When
will you meet me?
Love
drowns me deeply —
Christ
keep me! He knows best.
—
Cynddelw Brydedd Mawr
IN PRAISE OF OWAIN GWYNEDD
I
hail a boonsman hearty in war,
Battlewolf,
boastful, first to the fore —
I
sing of serving him with fervor,
Sing
his mead-fed and worthy power,
Sing
his ardor, this wind-winged falcon,
Sing
his thoughts, lofty as the welkin,
Sing
his dauntless deeds, lord of frayhounds,
Sing
his praises — they may know no bounds,
Sing
odes for my magnanimous thane;
I
sing paeans of praise for Owain.
Armed
for Angles in Tegeingl's realms,
Blood's
spouting streams, our blades' spating storms,
We
met dragons, the warriors of Rome,
A
prince's son — costly their winestream.
Striving
with the Dragon of the East
The
western Dragon showed which was best.
Lusty
our lord, his bright blade unsheathed —
The
sword poured forth, the spear was strife-bathed,
Blade
in hand and all hands hewing heads,
Hand
on hilt and edge on Norman hordes —
At
the sight of death, constant wailing
And
swashbuckling and loud reveling,
Blood
flowing from brave men's riven skulls —
I
heard flesh pledged to the birds' bowels
In
the fierce thrust of the sharp ash-haft,
In
the raven-beckoning blood-path.
On
corpses to feed a thousand shrikes
Brynnich's
riders rode, Owain's war kites.
Carcasses,
carrion by the bushels,
The
taste of battle, killed men's entrails!
For
his prize we fought, and for his praise,
Hosts
and bards, for Owain's bounteous ways,
To
Cadell Hiriell Hiriein's scion
For
reward, guardian of Coel's line,
Battlefield's
lance-thrust, praise-lavishing,
Shield-carrying,
eagle onrushing
Court's
stalwart, vigilant defender —
Beware
his thrusting, three-colored spear!
They
harvested Aberteifi's spears
With
battlecries, as at Badon Fawr.
I
saw war-stags, corpses stiff and red —
We
let the fierce wolf put them to bed;
They
ran without arms — some without hands,
Mighty
warriors under talons;
I
saw their rout — three hundred were slain;
I
saw bowels on thorns, the war won.
I
saw the strife, heard the battleshout,
Saw
knights belaboring troops in flight.
I
saw men falling from the chalk heights,
The
foe slaughtered among their redoubts;
I
saw pikes blooming about a wall
And
lances rushing at Owain's call —
I
saw the charge make Saxon carnage
And
princes reaping the day's courage.
Prince
of princes! His battle is won,
Bought
dearly — he is pursued by none.
I
saw at Rhuddlan a ruddy tide,
A
hero's host heroic in pride —
I
saw in Penfro a prince peerless;
I
saw in Penardd a lord fearless;
I
saw their slaughter of the doughty
Borne
by a brave land, the fern's bounty.
I
saw men thronging and scurrying,
Heard
alarums, saw troops hurrying,
Saw
them taken, saw comrades in pain,
Saw
strife near Caer and Coen Llywyfain.
Gwynedd's
valor was proven again —
You
were dauntless, shepherd of Britain!
—
Cynddelw Brydedd Mawr
TO A GIRL
I
saw on the face
Of
a haughty lass
A
look with no trace
Of
love — cold, still:
The
cresting spume-glow
Upon
the billow
Of
the sea's face, flow
And
ebb of chill.
She
sends her respects
To
me, harshly, vexed —
The
candle rejects,
Cuts
shadow dead,
And
now I must hoard
Disgrace's
great hurt —
She's
trod on my heart,
Sought
Greeneye's bed!
—
Cynddelw Brydedd Mawr
THE GRAVE
Everyman
comes to the dank earth.
Folk,
forlorn and small, perish.
What
wealth rears is wracked by death.
In
an hour dirt devoureth.
Great
maw, end of what I clutch,
What
I loved you turn to filth.
Mine
will be a chill stone hearth —
Life
was not meant for a youth.
Each
man's cold estate is death;
He
walks alone on the heath
That
will take him in its clinch,
Come
at last to the cromlech.
—
Dafydd Benfras
WINTER
The
wind keens on the bare hill;
The
ford is froar, and the lake
Is
hoar-crusted. A man's ilk
Might
stand on a single stalk.
Comber
after comber comes
To
cover the shore. The gale
Hovers
over the hill: owls
Crying. One cannot stand tall.
The
bed of the fish is cold
In
the ice where they shelter.
Reeds
are bearded; the stag, starved.
Trees
bow in the early dusk.
Snow
falls, and the earth is pale.
Warriors
sit near their fires.
The
lake is a dim defile:
No
warmth is in its color.
Snow
falls; the hoarfrost is white;
The
shield is idle upon
The
old man's shoulder. The wind
Freezes
the grass with its whine.
Snow
falls on top of the ice.
Wind
sweeps the crest of the trees
Standing
close. On his shoulder
The
brave fighter's fine shield shines.
—
Anonymous
LOVE IN EXILE
Her
grace has charmed away my
Heart
— Morfudd, godchild of May.
Hail
her, give her good morrow:
Hapless
I lie the night through.
Here
the wild sower has sown
Her
seed to break my breastbone.
Hurt
will bloom and heartwail blame
Hours
trystless, bleak as henbane.
Heavenly
being of grace,
Haunting
voice, face, enchantress —
How
I plead, without avail,
Hunger
inconsolable.
Haply,
lore might find a way
Hope
can win my fair lady;
However,
into exile
Hurled,
I shun her domicile
Heaped
within my breast, yearning
Hurkles
and writhes the night long:
Higher
than waves on the shore
Hurtles
the lust I bear her
Heart
to beauty has been chained,
Haft
to fettering fastened.
Hard
and bright as gold is she —
Hushed
love creeps slow toward me.
Hale,
long life is my wandream:
How
can water flow upstream?
Hearthchild
of Ynr — life were
Harder
than death without her!
—
Dafydd ap Gwilym
THE
AIRS OF EIRE
THE MYSTERY
I am the breeze breathed at sea,
I am the wave woven of ocean,
I am the soft sound of spume,
I am the bull of the seven battles,
I am the cormorant upon the cliff,
I am the spear of the sun striking,
I am the rose of the fairest rose.
I am the wild bull of war,
I am the salmon stroking the flood,
I am the mere upon the moor,
I am the rune of rare lore,
I am the tooth of the long lance,
I am He who fired the head.
Who emblazons the mountain-meeting?
Who heralds the moon's marches?
Who leads the sun to its lair?
I am the Word, I am the Eye.
-- Amergin
THE CHARM OF EIRE
Charmed be this, the land of Eire,
Fair isle of the fruitful sea;
Trees be laden on the green hill,
Filled with fruit be the rainy wood;
Moody with rain be the cascade,
Made of falls be the lake of tarns,
Tarn-deep be the tor-top well.
Well-met be the moot of clans,
Plain-spoken be the chiefs of Tara.
Temair shall be a mount of folk,
Yolked among the scions of Mil,
Mil of the coracles, Mil of the barks.
Harken!
Let the lofty isle
Sail the ocean; let it be
Sea-born on the dark wave's song,
Tongue of craft, charm of cunning,
Canny and wise as the wives of Bres,
Brazen as Bres, the women of Buaigne.
A woman of might be the isle of Erin;
Eremon hath enthralled her,
Ir and Eber enchanted her.
Hear my charm for Erin the charmed!
-- Amergin
EVIL IT IS
Evil
It is to shun
The King of Righteousness
And to make a compact with the
Devil.
-- Anonymous
A BLESSING ON MUNSTER
God's blessing be invoked upon Muster now,
Upon its men and boys, its womenfolk;
Blessings be upon the land, peak and down,
That boons the flock fruit, root, stem and stalk.
A blessing upon all kinds of fruitfulness
That shall be borne upon this meadowland,
No neighbor going in want of helpfulness.
God place over Munster his healing hand!
A blessing be upon the high ridge,
Upon their cottages' bare flagstones;
A blessing upon heather, sedge, the sheer cliff
edge;
A blessing upon lea and ledge, their gloaming
glens!
Like sands of ocean under vessels
Be the numbers of their dwellings' hearthstones
Upon their downlands and their sloping hills,
Upon their crags and fells, their misty mountains!
-- Attr. St. Patrick
GAELIC STANZAS I
What, my Lord, shall I do with
Work enough to fill a cart?
How build from a thousand boards
A tight little house of art?
The wind is dark, howling hard,
Tossing Ocean's hoary hair.
Tonight the dragon-boats' horde
Will not char my white bones bare.
If the sere leaves were golden
In the forest in the fall,
And the sea's whitecaps silver,
Finn would have bestowed them all --
My patron gives no horses
For the poems I write now.
He grants beasts as best he can:
For an elegy, a cow.
The famished winter wind keens,
The lakes glitter, the brooks flash,
The hoarfrost chimbles the leaves,
The white combers froth and clash.
I can't tell with whom she'll sleep,
But I'm certain to the bone
That blonde, beauteous Etan
Will not go to bed alone.
Bell of chiming cold and clear
On a night of hurtling wind,
Much better to tryst with you
Than to tumble, hag-entwined.
-- Various Anonymous Gaelic authors
THE BARD'S LAMENT
Woodland's green wall is wilding,
Mild with the blackbird's preachment;
Cock and hen hover, a-wing,
Where I bring pen and parchment --
But the grey-hooded cuckoo
From his fastness mocks my mood.
Good grief!
May God save those who
Would write well in the wildwood!
-- Anonymous
GAELIC STANZAS II
Blackbird, for you how simple --
Where you light you take your rest,
No hermit chained to matins,
But a morningsong confessed.
If poetry were buried,
"History" would be a sound
Empty as an open grave
Where no forefathers are found.
When I indite in English
[write]
I tear out the shamrock leaves,
But when I write in the Erse
The English get the heaves.
I aim this, my mocking song,
But at ladies nobly born.
Let your dame go rest in peace,
For she lies beyond my scorn.
Not spoken about in Eire
And among the Scots unmissed,
If I'd not here dropped his name
The O'Flynn would not exist.
I would never be amazed
If in Crundmail's tawdry hut
They used the salt for butter,
And the butter for biscuit.
Small fly upon the cottage eave,
Take air and sun ere you dance,
For you'll dine on little else
At this penurious manse.
-- Various Authors
TWO EPIGRAMS
When I stand with the young bloods,
Then my fierce red blood is up;
When I sit with the greybeards,
I nod sagely in my cup.
Sad to see the sons of lore
Damned to the eternal fire
While these pigs, illiterate,
In God's glory corruscate.
--Anonymous
GAELIC STANZAS III
There's a man I can think of
For whom I'd give the gold earth
And welkin with its bright pearls,
Though the bargain have small worth.
And I would give my kingship,
The splendor of name and crown
To the last hour of Doomsday,
If I could keep you, Marvaun.
Eire grieves cold alone tonight
For all of her exiled ones.
Odd it is these shores be home
To everyone but her sons
Joyful in a long vessel
With their loves and a helping wind,
Voyaging to otherwhere,
Their bitter home left behind.
But there will be a blue eye
Look back that will never more
See Ireland's women or men,
Nor the green and fragrant shore.
My crane, my true feathered pet,
Takes its food from out my hand.
Among the men of Ireland
I've found no such faithful friend.
The night is cold in the bog --
Knife of lightning, hammer hail;
Windstorm whistling through the wood
Slivering in the darkling gale.
--Anonymous
THE DEATH OF CONAIN
The shining tides rise and swell,
Swing him in his coracle,
[small boat]
Break across the sandy strand:
Conain looks out at the land,
Then she whose white hair he grips --
Hair of spindrift, frigid lips --
Fleers and turns her phlegm to foam
On the tomb that was his home.
--Anonymous
BIBLIOGRAPHY
CARNEY, James, ed., Medieval Irish Lyrics, Berkeley: University of California, 1967.
GREENE, David H., ed., Anthology
of Irish Literature, New York: New
York University, 1971.
HOAGLAND, Kathleen, ed.,
1000 Years of Irish Poetry, Old
Greenwich: Devin-Adair, 1947.
HUMPHRIES, Rolfe, Green Armor on Green Ground, New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1956
KNOTT, Eleanor, Irish
Classical Poetry, Dublin: Colm O
Lochlainn, 1960.
——, Irish Syllabic
Poetry 1200-1600, Dublin and Cork:
Cork University, 1935.
O'CONNELL, Richard, ed.,
Irish Monastic Poems,
Philadelphia: Atlantis Editions, 1975.
——, More Irish Poems, Philadelphia: Atlantis Editions, 1976.
TURCO, Lewis, The
Book of Forms, New York: E. P.
Dutton, 1968; The New Book of Forms,
Hanover: University Press of New England, 1986, and The Book of Forms, Third
Edition, Hanover: University Press
of New England, 2000.
WELCH, Robert, A
History of Verse Translation from the Irish 1789 1897, New York: Barnes & Noble, 1988.
WILLIAMS, Gwyn, An Introduction to Welsh Poetry, London: Faber and Faber, 1953.
WIMSATT, W. K., ed., Versification:
Major Language Types, New York:
Modern Language Association, 1972.
REMARKS
Lewis,
What a remarkable work! I am about to print it out so I can have it as a Real Book, though of course for classroom use the e-form is far more useful. It is OK to use it in the classroom, yes? Do let me know before I link it up to my online courses.
I miss my Scots/journalist/writer father all the time, but at moments like this most poignantly. He named me for Robert Burn's girlfriend Agnes (Burns called her and several lesser girlfriends Clarinda for poetry purposes, but I'm sure you knew that), and he sang Scots/Appalachian versions of all the old ballads to me when I was a kid. Of course I knew Barbara Allen's erring boyfriend as Sweet William, not Sir John Greene. My father'd have known — or made up — tunes for all these airs.
Thank you for this. Thank you.
Clarinda Harriss
Sure, Clarinda, go ahead.
Lew
Thank you much for the compilation of The Airs of Wales and Eire. It's just the ticket for looking at workings out of the techniques. Many thanks-- it was the inclusion of these forms that first made the old Book of Forms my appendage as I went about my work.
Ruth Harrison
Lew,
Was just looking over your Facebook album listing your books, but I don't see The Book of Forms. Is it out of print? Hard to believe it's not a standard in all creative writing classes!
Best,
Frank Judge
No, Frank, it's not out of print. The publisher is still the University Press of New England. I don't know why you couldn't find it among my books. I'll check up on it. Thanks for asking.
Lew
The Book
of Forms: A Handbook of Poetics, Third edition, www.UPNE.com, 2000. ISBN 1584650222, trade
paperback, $24.95, 337 pages. “The Poet’s Bible," A companion volume to The
Book of Dialogue and The
Book of Literary Terms.
ORDER FROM AMAZON
Anerchiadau a bendithion
Thank you for posting, much appreciated information for a Celtic verse student.
Posted by: Jem | 03/21/2010 at 06:06 AM