Favorite Poems

[Ulf]

The Mystery
I am the wind which breathes upon the sea,
I am the wave of the ocean,
I am the murmur of the billows,
I am the ox of the seven combats,
I am the vulture upon the rocks,
I am the beam of the sun,
I am the fairest of plants,
I am the wild boar in valour,
I am a salmon in the water,
I am a lake in the plain,
I am a word of science,
I am the point of the lance of battle,
I am the God who created in the head the fire.
Who is it who throws light into the meeting on the mountain?
Who announces the ages of the moon?
Who teaches the place where couches the sun?
(If not I)

[YOUTUBE]F74sVVZxm0k[/YOUTUBE]


The Rosc of Amergin
I’m a gust on the sea,
I'm a footfall of a wave,
I’m a roar of the sea,
I’m a stag of seven tines,
I’m a hawk on a cliff,
I’m a tear of sunlight,
I’m a cry of love,
I’m a boar in rage,
I’m a salmon in a pool,
I’m a lake in a plain,
I’m a mountain of a man,
I'm a mountain of skill,
I’m a spear in sharpness, faring in fight,
I’m the god who kindles fire in your head
Who make smooth the mountain’s stones?
Who can count the ages of the moon?
Who finds the place where the sun goes down?
Who drives out the kine from Tethrach’s house?
Who makes the kine of Tethrach smile?
Who is the horned one, the god who forges?
Who incants weapons and calls up winds?

Notes

This poem is ascribed to Amergin, a Milesian prince or druid who settled in Ireland hundreds of years before Christ
and is from the Leabhar Gabhala, or Book of Invasions.
"The three short pieces of verse ascribed to Amergin are certainly very ancient and very strange. But as the whole story of the Milesian Invasion is wrapped in mystery and is quite possibly a rationalized account of early Irish mythology no faith can be placed in the alleged date or genuineness of Amergin's verses. They are of interest, because as Irish tradition has them as being the first verses made in Ireland, so it may very well be they actually do present the oldest surviving lines of any vernacular tongue in Europe except Greece." by Douglas Hyde, The Story of Early Gaelic Literature

Source

[Lulletje Rozewater]

Sin,
It's apart of me.
My kin,
My artery ..
Sin,
I can't shake it off ..
It's like a leech .
Something who doesn't learn,
love, live, or teach.
Only take,
Sin ..
Seeping through my fragile skin ..
Sin,
My last request ..
Is that when I leave ..
To enter the void,
I am alone ..
And what isn't there,
Sin.
Damn you, Sin!
You won't be hear for long ..
Says who? You say?
This sharp metal object in my hands ..
Because after all, Sin.
Your just ..
Sin.
Something I can withstand ..
Only for a moment, though ..
And then it's all over.
No more desire ..
Because this burning Sin,
Is coming over me ..
Like a white-hot fire.

[Sally]

Rapture -- To Laura

From earth I seem to wing my flight,
And sun myself in Heaven's pure light,
When thy sweet gaze meets mine
I dream I quaff ethereal dew,
When mine own form I mirror'd view
In those blue eyes divine!

Blest notes from Paradise afar,
Or strains from some benignant star
Enchant my ravish'd ear;
My Muse feels then the shepherd's hour
When silv'ry tones of magic power
Escape those lips so dear!

Young Loves around thee fan their wings --
Behind, the madden'd fir-tree springs,
As when by Orpheus fir'd;
The poles whirl round with swifter motion,
When in the dance, like waves o'er Ocean,
Thy footsteps float untir'd!

Thy look, if it but beam with love,
Could make the lifeless marble move,
And hearts in rocks enshrine;
My visions to reality
Will turn, if, Laura, in thine eye
I read -- that thou art mine!

-Friedrich Schiller

[Frigga]

The Journey
by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice-
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do-
determined to save
the only life you could save.

[Frigga]

Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air;
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting-
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

[Frigga]

Rage
by Mary Oliver

You are the dark song
of the morning;
serious and slow;
you shave, you dress,
you descend the stairs
in your public clothes
and drive away, you become
the wise and powerful one
who makes all the days
possible in the world.
But you were also the red song
in the night,
stumbling through the house
to the child's bed,
to the damp rose of her body,
leaving your bitter taste.
And forever those nights snarl
the delicate machinery of the days.
When the child's mother smiles
you see on her cheekbones
a truth you will never confess;
and you see how the child grows-
timidly, crouching in corners.
Sometimes in the wide night
you hear the most mournful cry,
a ravished and terrible moment.
In your dreams she's a tree
that will never come to leaf-
in your dreams she's a watch
you dropped on the dark stones
till no one could gather the fragments-
in your dreams you have sullied and murdered,
and dreams do not lie.

[Murphy]

"Who dares to say forget the past, to those of Irish birth?
Who dares to say cease fighting, for our place upon this earth?

Let remembrance be our watchword, and our dead we will never fail.
Let their graves to be us as milestones, on that blood-soaked one-way trail.

Remember how Owain Rowe fought, Port Lester mill beside.
No man can say a coward fell when Hugh O'Donnell died.

Remember Ruth and Starsfield and forget, whoever will,
That glorious stand in Limerick, at Kilnacaden hill.

How Emmitt's gallant handful, in historic Dublin Town,
Rode forth to give their challenge, to the forces of the crown.

And then for a time, 'twas silent. Was Ireland's struggle done?
The answer is in the negative, thundered many a Fenian gun.

And then when England thought she'd won, that we at last were meek,
Roared forth the glorious challenge of the men of Easter week!

Remember how our solders fought the scum of many lands,
Fought the scum of Britain's prisons - Britain's "Black and Tans".

And then by men we trusted, this land of ours was sold.
They sold our friends to enemies, as Judas did, of old.

Remember how in Kerry they butchered our lads like swine!
God! Think of Ballyseedy, where they tied them to a mine.

How Rory and Liam and Dick and Joe, to glut the Imperial beast,
Were murdered, while in prison, on our Blessed Lady's feast.

How, with overworked revolver as he dashed from that hotel,
Roared a rebel's last defiance as Cathal Brugha fell.

Hear we not the voice of Connelly, the worker-soldier's friend?
Our conquered soul asserts itself, and WE SHALL RISE AGAIN!

For Freedom, yes and not to starve, and not for rocks and clay,
But for the lives of Ireland's working class, we fight and die today.

And what, says Cathal Brugha, if the last man is on the ground,
If he is lying, week and helpless, and his enemies ring him round?

If he has fired his final bullet, and spent his final shot,
And they say, Come into the Empire, he will answer, I WILL NOT!

Then back, back to that one-way trail.
Ni shiorchan go saorcha is the war cry of the Gael!

While out country stands beside us with the blood of martyrs set,
Wayside crosses to remind us, WHO DARES TO SAY FORGET?

While Emmitt's tomb is uninscribed, until we our rights assert,
Until our country takes her place among the nations of the earth."

- Unknown

I heard a recitation of this many years ago on my older brother's MP3 player. Sadly I cannot remember who recited it and have never been able to find it again. But I still love it.

Regards,
Eóin.

[Graham]

A Man's A Man For A' That
Robert Burns
poem/song

Is there for honest Poverty
That hings his head, an' a' that;
The coward slave-we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that.
Our toils obscure an' a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The Man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an' a that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;
A Man's a Man for a' that:
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that;
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that:
For a' that, an' a' that,
His ribband, star, an' a' that:
The man o' independent mind
He looks an' laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's abon his might,
Gude faith, he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities an' a' that;
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a' that,)
That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That Man to Man, the world o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.

[Radojica]

Serbia

I am from the land, you know,
which is on the way of every empire.
In which life does not cost much,
in which we only glory the heroes.

That is the land, well, you know,
which is suffering for ages.
That country will never be smarten up,
think that justice govern the world.

I am from that people, you know,
which is never moving aside.
For them there is no greater or stronger,
they are not afraid of war.

Those people, you know,
gene of the war they carry.
It is their the greatest pleasure
to defiance the strongest.

And if you ever come to this land
in which there will never be peace,
You'll love the people in which
heart dominate over the reason.

[Piparskeggr]

The Bivouac of the Dead by Theodore O'Hara, 1847

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last Tattoo;
No more on life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On Fame's eternal camping ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And glory guards, with solemn round
The bivouac of the dead.

No rumour of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wind;
No troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind.
No vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dream alarms;
No braying horn, nor screaming fife,
At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust,
Their plumed heads are bowed;
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud.
And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow;
And the proud forms, by battle gashed,
Are free from anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shouts are past;
Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal,
Shall thrill with fierce delight;
Those breasts that never more may feel
The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce Northern hurricane
That sweeps the great plateau,
Flushed with triumph, yet to gain,
Come down the serried foe;
Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o'er the field beneath,
Knew the watchword of the day
Was "Victory or death!"

Long had the doubtful conflict raged
O'er all that stricken plain,
For never fiercer fight had waged
The vengeful blood of Spain;
And still the storm of battle blew,
Still swelled the glory tide;
Not long, our stout old Chieftain knew,
Such odds his strength could bide.

Twas in that hour his stern command
Called to a martyr's grave
The flower of his beloved land,
The nation's flag to save.
By rivers of their father's gore
His first-born laurels grew,
And well he deemed the sons would pour
Their lives for glory too.

For many a mother's breath has swept
O'er Angostura's plain,
And long the pitying sky has wept
Above its moldered slain.
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,
Or shepherd's pensive lay,
Alone awakes each sullen height
That frowned o'er that dread fray.

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground
Ye must not slumber there,
Where stranger steps and tongues resound
Along the heedless air.
Your own proud land's heroic soil
Shall be your fitter grave;
She claims from war his richest spoil,
The ashes of her brave.

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the gory field,
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast
On many a bloody shield;
The sunshine of their native sky
Smiles sadly on them here,
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The heroes sepulcher.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead,
Dear as the blood ye gave,
No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave.
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While fame her record keeps,
For honor points the hallowed spot
Where valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,
When many a vanquished age hath flown,
The story how ye fell.
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor time's remorseless doom,
Shall dim one ray of glory's light
That gilds your deathless tomb.

------------------------

Passages of this are inscribed on footstones around the periphery of Gettysburg National Military Cemetery in Pennsylvania, USA. It was originally written as a memorial ode to the fallen of the war between the US and Mexico, in 1847.

My wife and I visited Gettysburg soon after we married at the end of June, 1982. We were quite taken with the guide's admonition, when we visited the cemetery, that the cost of freedom lay at rest all around us.