Ides and Ireland!

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Beware the Ides of March! --

 

THE IDES OF MARCH 2009

The Ides marked an auspicious time in the Roman calendar. Depending on the month in question, the Ides fell on the thirteenth or fifteenth, and usually marked the Full Moon. As we all know, it was not an auspicious day for Julius Caesar, nor was it fortuitous for H.P. Lovecraft, who also met his maker on this infamous day. Tu quoque, Brute, fili mi! A mixture of Italian greenery, gleaming metal, and classical Roman cologne: rosemary, bergamot, lemon rind and vervain with costus, balsam, benzoin, gray amber, dittany, white narcissus and iris.

 

 

 

Irish bards were members of a hereditary caste of learned poets. They were officials of the courts of their chieftains and kings, and served as historians, storytellers, and satirists. They were immersed in the rich history of their clan and country, and learned the intricacies of their craft from birth. Their words held so much power that it was believed that a glam dicing, or satirical incantation, spoken by a bard held the magic of a curse.

 

This series is celebration of great Irish poets and storytellers. Through these poems, we touch the glory, beauty, and grief that permeates the soul of Ireland.

 

++ BARDS OF IRELAND

THE DESERTED VILLAGE

OLIVER GOLDSMITH

… Good heaven! What sorrows gloomed that parting day,

That called them from their native walks away;

When the poor exiles, every pleasure past,

Hung round their bowers and fondly looked their last,

And took a long farewell, and wished in vain

For seats like these beyond the western main;

And shuddering still to face the distant deep,

Returned and wept, and still returned to weep.

The good old sire the first prepared to go

To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe;

But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,

He only wished for worlds beyond the grave.

His lovely daughter, lovelier in her years,

Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,

And left a lover's for a father's arms.

With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,

And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose;

And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear,

And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear;

Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief

In all the silent manliness of grief.

 

O luxury! thou cursed by heaven's decree,

How ill exchanged are things like these for thee!

How do thy potions with insidious joy

Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!

Kingdoms, by thee to sickly greatness grown

Boast of a florid vigour not their own.

At every draught more large and large they grow,

A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe;

Till sapped their strength and every part unsound,

Down, down they sink and spread a ruin round.

 

Even now the devastation has begun,

And half the business of destruction done;

Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand,

I see the rural virtues leave the land.

Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail,

That idly waiting flaps with every gale,

Downward they move, a melancholy band,

Pass from the shore and darken all the strand.

Contented toil and hospitable care,

And kind connubial tenderness are there;

And piety, with wishes placed above,

And steady loyalty and faithful love.

And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid

Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;

Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame,

To catch the heart or strike for honest fame;

Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,

My shame in crowds, my solitary pride;

Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe,

That found'st me poor at first and keep'st me so;

Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel,

Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!

Farewell, and oh, where'er thy voice be tried,

On Torno's cliffs or Pambamarca's side,

Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,

Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,

Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,

Redress the rigours of the inclement clime;

Aid slighted truth; with thy persuasive strain

Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;

Teach him that states of native strength possessed,

Though very poor, may still be very blest;

That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,

As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away;

While self-dependent power can time defy,

As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

 

Where wealth accumulates and men decay. A scent of opulence, luxury, depredation, and dissolusion: velvety orris root and glittering bergamot, ambergris, red currant, honey, and neroli, with red oakmoss, patchouli, labdanum, and black musk.

 

 

THE DOLE OF THE KING’S DAUGHTER

OSCAR WILDE

Even stars in the still water,

And seven in the sky;

Seven sins on the King's daughter,

Deep in her soul to lie.

 

Red roses at her feet,

(Roses are red in her red-gold hair)

And O where her bosom and girdle meet

Red roses are hidden there.

 

Fair is the knight who lieth slain

Amid the rush and reed,

See the lean fishes that are fain

Upon dead men to feed.

 

Sweet is the page that lieth there,

(Cloth of gold is goodly prey,)

See the black ravens in the air,

Black, O black as the night are they.

 

What do they there so stark and dead?

(There is blood upon her hand)

Why are the lilies flecked with red?

(There is blood on the river sand.)

 

There are two that ride from the south to the east,

And two from the north and west,

For the black raven a goodly feast,

For the King's daughter to rest.

 

There is one man who loves her true,

(Red, O red, is the stain of gore!)

He hath duggen a grave by the darksome yew,

(One grave will do for four.)

 

No moon in the still heaven,

In the black water none,

The sins on her soul are seven,

The sin upon his is one.

 

Red roses, blood-flecked lilies, upturned earth, yew branches, and blood mingled with river sand.

 

 

EANACH DHÚIN

ANTOINE Ó RAIFTEIRI

If my health is spared I'll be long relating

Of that boat that sailed out of Anach Cuain.

And the keening after of mother and father

And child by the harbour, the mournful croon!

King of Graces, who died to save us,

T'were a small affair but for one or two,

But a boat-load bravely in calm day sailing

Without storm or rain to be swept to doom.

 

What wild despair was on all the faces

To see them there in the light of day,

In every place there was lamentation,

And tearing of hair as the wreck was shared.

And boys there lying when crops were ripening,

From the strength of life they were borne to clay

In their wedding clothes for their wake they robed them

O King of Glory, man's hope is in vain.

 

Unutterable grief expressed through the scent of balsam, frankincense, blackberry leaf, oud, white rose, driftwood, zdravetz, and bitter clove, beneath the cold waters of the River Corrib.

 

 

THE HOST OF THE AIR

WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

O'Driscoll drove with a song

The wild duck and the drake

From the tall and the tufted reeds

Of the drear Hart Lake.

 

And he saw how the reeds grew dark

At the coming of night-tide,

And dreamed of the long dim hair

Of Bridget his bride.

 

He heard while he sang and dreamed

A piper piping away,

And never was piping so sad,

And never was piping so gay.

 

And he saw young men and young girls

Who danced on a level place,

And Bridget his bride among them,

With a sad and a gay face.

 

The dancers crowded about him

And many a sweet thing said,

And a young man brought him red wine

And a young girl white bread.

 

But Bridget drew him by the sleeve

Away from the merry bands,

To old men playing at cards

With a twinkling of ancient hands.

 

The bread and the wine had a doom,

For these were the host of the air;

He sat and played in a dream

Of her long dim hair.

 

He played with the merry old men

And thought not of evil chance,

Until one bore Bridget his bride

Away from the merry dance.

 

He bore her away in his arms,

The handsomest young man there,

And his neck and his breast and his arms

Were drowned in her long dim hair.

 

O'Driscoll scattered the cards

And out of his dream awoke:

Old men and young men and young girls

Were gone like a drifting smoke;

 

But he heard high up in the air

A piper piping away,

And never was piping so sad,

And never was piping so gay.

 

Peat and rolling grass-covered hills, with wine-dappled heather, white clover, cloudberry, juniper berry, bluebell, dandelion, and cross-leaved heath.

 

 

The Ides of March and the Bards of Ireland will be with us until 15 April 2009!