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I have no interest in poetry at all but this one by W B Yeats has always stayed with me. Even though its almost 100 years old it sums up Celtic Tiger Ireland of the last 15 years perfectly imo. Its called The Fisherman…..
Although I can see him still.
The freckled man who goes
To a grey place on a hill
In grey Connemara clothes
At dawn to cast his flies,
It’s long since I began
To call up to the eyes
This wise and simple man.
All day I’d looked in the face
What I had hoped ‘twould be
To write for my own race
And the reality;
The living men that I hate,
The dead man that I loved,
The craven man in his seat,
The insolent unreproved,
And no knave brought to book
Who has won a drunken cheer,
The witty man and his joke
Aimed at the commonest ear,
The clever man who cries
The catch-cries of the clown,
The beating down of the wise
And great Art beaten down.Maybe a twelvemonth since
Suddenly I began,
In scorn of this audience,
Imagining a man,
And his sun-freckled face,
And grey Connemara cloth,
Climbing up to a place
Where stone is dark under froth,
And the down-turn of his wrist
When the flies drop in the stream;
A man who does not exist,
A man who is but a dream;
And cried, ‘Before I am old
I shall have written him one
poem maybe as cold
And passionate as the dawn.’I am the daughter of earth and water and the nursling of the sky, I pass throught he pores of the ocean and shores, I change but I cannot die, For after the rain when with never a stain the pavilion of heaven is bare, and the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph and out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb I arise and unbuild it again…
…I liked that one,
however,I love the fact that some English philistines just can’t comprehend it or don’t get it – yet the Russians love the poems of Robert Burns.
I take exception to that. So there are no Irish, Scottish or Welsh philistines…lol? and just who are these little English you refer to? We are a multi ethnic people with origins from all over the globe.
I do find all this English v Irish v Scottish nonsense getting very tiresome and it seems perpetuated by people who live in the most enclosed environments. Most of the world has moved on, fortunately.
As for Burns – if one or two of the offerings quoted above are typical, then I’d rather read ‘gamble’
philistinely yours,
Maggie RoskovskayaNo, they are not typical UM and I reference them here in fun rather than to make fun.
Burn’s poems and songs on the subject of love are peerlessin my view and ‘Afton Water (flow gently sweet Afton)’ is a particular favourite. The equally peerless Nickel Creek do a great version of that song which is well worth seeking out.
…I liked that one,
however,I love the fact that some English philistines just can’t comprehend it or don’t get it – yet the Russians love the poems of Robert Burns.
I take exception to that. So there are no Irish, Scottish or Welsh philistines…lol? and just who are these little English you refer to? We are a multi ethnic people with origins from all over the globe.
I do find all this English v Irish v Scottish nonsense getting very tiresome and it seems perpetuated by people who live in the most enclosed environments. Most of the world has moved on, fortunately.
As for Burns – if one or two of the offerings quoted above are typical, then I’d rather read ‘gamble’
philistinely yours,
Maggie RoskovskayaOch, haud yer weesht wummin. Where did I make reference to "little English"? Where, where ?
My comments were tongue in cheek. Oh and if you prefer amateurish doggerel to the great bard’s offerings, then there is certainly no hope for you.
O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us,
An’ foolish notion:
What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e us
and e’en devotion.and the English translation for the "philistines" among you
;O would some Power the gift to give us
To see ourselves as others see us!
It would from many a blunder free us,
And foolish notion:
What airs in dress and gait would leave us,
And even devotion!Gambling Only Pays When You're Winning
Can’t say Burns does much for me, but the aforementioned Yeats is a favourite.
When on a trip to the Auld Sod I make a point of taking a volume of his collected works with me. Whiling away an afternoon languishing in the pavement cafes and bars of Sligo, Killarney, Cork, Waterford… people-watching and reading verse is an ostentatious pleasure that never stales.
real men attend string quartets and read poetry
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