Poetics and Ruminations

A Blessing on Munster

God's blessing be invoked upon Munster 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

from The Collected Lyrics of Lewis Turco / Wesli Court 1953-2004, www.StarCloudPress.com, copyright 2004 by Lewis Turco, all rights reserved. www.starcloudpress.com/CollectedLyrics.html  

 

 

REMARKS

 

Lovely poem, Lew,

such good use of repetition! It feels like a ritual chant. That Wesli's not half bad, you know.

Rhina Espaillat

Lovely.

Miriam Kotzin 

 

And a blessing upon you, O'Court.  That's a truly warm-hearted and lovely poem.

Ruth Harrison

 

I loved your lovely Irish poem ... while it was in recognition of today's celebration, it certainly would be wonderful to read any time of the year.

Ann Badach

Wicked!

This review / interview by Deirdre Fleming appeared in the Portland, Maine, Sunday Telegram on Sunday, March 15th, 2009, in the Audience Section C on pages 6-5 (in that order). For a larger version, please click on the images below:

www.starcloudpress.com/SatansScourge.html,  6137 East Mescal Street, Scottsdale, AZ; 85254-5418, ISBN 978-1-932827, jacketed cloth, $54.95; ISBN 978-1-932842-26-5; trade paperback, $39.95, 808 pages.

 

Birthday of Richard Wilbur

Oh, if your name were only “Wilver,”

With a v instead of b,

There would be a lot less silver

On this head of mine. You’d see

Brown again — some gray, at least.

For sure, perhaps, I’d be well fleeced

 

The way I was when we were younger...,

But you seem not to have grown old.

What’s going on, you ballad-monger?

Who is this fellow I behold

Now and again and here and there,

This tall, good-looking guy with hair?

 

If my old cat saw Richard Wilbur

I know exactly what she’d do

If she were young, too, and could still purr:

She’d climb up in your lap and mew,

And then she’d settle down and choose

To await the arrival of your Muse

(Although she’d probably spell it Mews).

 

Copyright 2009 Wesli Court