The Kiltartan Poetry Book | Page 9

the Wood
My hope and my love, we will go for a while into the wood, scattering the dew, where we will see the trout, we will see the blackbird on its nest; the deer and the buck calling, the little bird that is sweetest singing on the branches; the cuckoo on the top of the fresh green; and death will never come near us for ever in the sweet wood.
An Craoibhin Complains Because He Is a Poet
It's my grief that I am not a little white duck,?And I'd swim over the sea to France or to Spain;?I would not stay in Ireland for one week only,?To be without eating, without drinking, without a full jug.
Without a full jug, without eating, without drinking,?Without a feast to get, without wine, without meat,?Without high dances, without a big name, without music;?There is hunger on me, and I astray this long time.
It's my grief that I am not an old crow,?I would sit for awhile up on the old branch,?I could satisfy my hunger, and I not as I am?With a grain of oats or a white potato
It's my grief that I am not a red fox,?Leaping strong and swift on the mountains,?Eating cocks and hens without pity,?Taking ducks and geese as a conquerer.
It's my grief that I am not a bright salmon,?Going through the strong full water,?Catching the mayflies by my craft,?Swimming at my choice, and swimming with?the stream
It's my grief that I am of the race of the poets;?It would be better for me to be a high rock,?Or a stone or a tree or an herb or a flower?Or anything at all but the thing that I am!
He Cries Out Against Love
There are three fine devils eating my heart--?They left me, my grief! without a thing;?Sickness wrought, and Love wrought,?And an empty pocket, my ruin and my woe.?Poverty left me without a shirt,?Barefooted, barelegged, without any covering;?Sickness left me with my head weak?And my body miserable, an ugly thing.?Love left me like a coal upon the floor,?Like a half-burned sod that is never put out.?Worse than the cough, worse than the fever itself,?Worse than any curse at all under the sun,?Worse than the great poverty?Is the devil that is called "Love" by the people.?And if I were in my young youth again?I would not take, or give, or ask for a kiss!
He Meditates on the Life of a Rich Man
A golden cradle under you, and you young;?A right mother and a strong kiss.
A lively horse, and you a boy;?A school and learning and close companions.
A beautiful wife, and you a man;?A wide house and everything that is good.
A fine wife, children, substance;?Cattle, means, herds and flocks.
A place to sit, a place to lie down;?Plenty of food and plenty of drink.?After that, an old man among old men;?Respect on you and honour on you.
Head of the court, of the jury, of the meeting,?And the counsellors not the worse for having you.
At the end of your days death, and then?Hiding away; the boards and the church.
What are you better after to-night?Than Ned the beggar or Seaghan the fool?
Forgaill's Praise of Columcille
This now is the poem of praise and of lamentation that was made for Columcille, Speckled Salmon of the Boyne, High Saint of the Gael, by Forgaill that was afterwards called Blind Forgaill, Chief Poet of Ireland:
It is not a little story this is; it is not a story about a fool it is; it is not one district that is keening but every district, with a great sound that is not to be borne, hearing the story of Columcille, without life, without a church.
It is not the trouble of one house, or the grief of one harp-string; all the plains are heavy, hearing the word that is a wound.
What way will a simple man tell of him? Even Nera from the Sidhe could not do it; he is not made much of now; our learned one is not the light of our life, now he is hidden away from us.
He that used to keep us living is dead; he that was our rightful head has died from us; he has died from us that was God's messenger.
The knowledgeable man that used to put fear from us is not here; the teller of words does not return to us; the teacher is gone from us that taught silence to the people.
The whole world was his; it is a harp without its strings; it is a church without its abbot.
Colum rose very high the time God's companies rose to meet him; it is bright the angels were, attending on him.
It is short his life was, it is little used to satisfy him; when the wind blew the sheet against him on the sand, the shape of his ribs could be seen through it. He