Irish Poetry Quotes

Marginalia Sometimes the notes are ferocious, skirmishes against the author raging along the borders of every page in tiny black script. If I could just get my hands on you, Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O'Brien, they seem to say, I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head. Other comments are more offhand, dismissive - Nonsense." "Please!" "HA!!" - that kind of thing. I remember once looking up from my reading, my thumb as a bookmark, trying to imagine what the person must look like who wrote "Don't be a ninny" alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson. Students are more modest needing to leave only their splayed footprints along the shore of the page. One scrawls "Metaphor" next to a stanza of Eliot's. Another notes the presence of "Irony" fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal. Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers, Hands cupped around their mouths. Absolutely," they shout to Duns Scotus and James Baldwin. Yes." "Bull's-eye." "My man!" Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points rain down along the sidelines. And if you have managed to graduate from college without ever having written "Man vs. Nature" in a margin, perhaps now is the time to take one step forward. We have all seized the white perimeter as our own and reached for a pen if only to show we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages; we pressed a thought into the wayside, planted an impression along the verge. Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria jotted along the borders of the Gospels brief asides about the pains of copying, a bird singing near their window, or the sunlight that illuminated their page- anonymous men catching a ride into the future on a vessel more lasting than themselves. And you have not read Joshua Reynolds, they say, until you have read him enwreathed with Blake's furious scribbling. Yet the one I think of most often, the one that dangles from me like a locket, was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye I borrowed from the local library one slow, hot summer. I was just beginning high school then, reading books on a davenport in my parents' living room, and I cannot tell you how vastly my loneliness was deepened, how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed, when I found on one page A few greasy looking smears and next to them, written in soft pencil- by a beautiful girl, I could tell, whom I would never meet- Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love.

The world is but a Thought," said he: "The vast unfathomable sea Is but a Notion—unto me.

One can't help thinking, Daddy, what a colourless life a man is forced to lead, when one reflects that chiffon and Venetian point and hand embroidery and Irish crochet are to him mere empty words. Whereas a woman- whether she is interested in babies or microbes or husbands or poetry or servants or parallelograms or gardens or Plato or bridge- is fundamentally and always interested in clothes.

Come away, O, human child! To the woods and waters wild, With a fairy hand in hand, For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Irish improves a poet.

Be sure to wear green on March seventeen, or else Irish leprechauns pinch your bones clean!

Corned beef and cabbage and leprechaun men. Colorful rainbows hide gold at their end. Shamrocks and clovers with three leaves plus one. Dress up in green—add a top hat for fun. Steal a quick kiss from the lasses in red. A tin whistle tune off the top of my head. Friends, raise a goblet and offer this toast— 'The luck of the Irish and health to our host!'

A poem is a revelation, and it is by the brink of running water that poetry is revealed to the mind.

Imagine if we were all magical leprechauns, and every wish ever made on a four-leaf clover obliged us to help others obtain their wishes. Now imagine if people simply lived like this were true.

It’s simply this: the Irish kiss, a snog o’ bliss, be blessed luck from any miss.

She took the sea with her Not beaches but the grey relentless Irish sea, its rhythm and the crying gulls.

They understood, as few have understood before or since, how fleeting life is and how pointless to try to hold on to things or people. They pursued the wondrous deed, the heroic gesture: fighting, fucking, drinking, art - poetry for intense emotion, the music that accompanied the heroic drinking with which each day ended, bewitching ornament for one's person and possessions.

But he calls down a blessing on the blossom of the may, Because it comes in beauty, and in beauty blows away.

Why do you live on the bank of a river?' was one of these questions. 'Because a poem in a revelation, and it is by the brink of running water that poetry is revealed to the mind.

When you make a wee wish on a green four-leafed clover, may your belly stay full and your cup runneth over.

Bí ann nó as táimse ag triall Ort agus má tá cuirim geasa Ort mé a shábháil ón dream a deir gur fear fuar sa spéir Thú.

Jonathan Swift (November 30, 1667 – October 19, 1745) was an Irish cleric, satirist, essayist, political pamphleteer (first for Whigs then for Tories), and poet, famous for works like Gulliver's Travels, A Modest Proposal, A Journal to Stella, The Drapier's Letters, The Battle of the Books, and A Tale of a Tub. Swift is probably the foremost prose satirist in the English language, although he is less well known for his poetry. Swift published all of his works under pseudonyms — such as Lemuel Gulliver, Isaac Bickerstaff, M.B. Drapier — or anonymously. He is also known for being a master of 2 styles of satire; the Horatian and Juvenalian styles. Source: Wikipedia

Early Summer, loveliest season, The world is being colored in. While daylight lasts on the horizon, Sudden, throaty blackbirds sing. The dusty-colored cuckoo cuckoos. "Welcome, summer" is what he says. Winter's unimaginable. The wood's a wickerwork of boughs. Summer means the river's shallow, Thirsty horses nose the pools. Long heather spreads out on bog pillows. White bog cotton droops in bloom. Swallows swerve and flicker up. Music starts behind the mountain. There's moss and a lush growth underfoot. Spongy marshland glugs and stutters. Bog banks shine like ravens' wings. The cuckoo keeps on calling welcome. The speckled fish jumps; and the strong Swift warrior is up and running. A little, jumpy, chirpy fellow Hits the highest note there is; The lark sings out his clear tidings. Summer, shimmer, perfect days.

THE PILGRIM AT ROME To go to Rome Is much of trouble, little of profit: The King whom thou seekest here, Unless thou bring Him with thee, thou wilt not find.

Irish luck, aye, that I’ve got. A four-leaf clover—aye, that too. I’ll tell ye, lassie, what I’ve not, A lucky Irish kiss from you!

An ambition to squint At my verses in print Makes me hope that for these you'll find room If you so condescend Then please place at the end The name of yours truly, L. Bloom

Better to humour them politely Or to resign very quietly But if you opt to fight like a cat Bear in mind, you could die like a rat

I write poetry not for publication but merely to kill time. Airplanes are a good place to write poetry and then throw it away. My collected works are mostly on the vomit bags of Lufthansa.

Round these men stories tended to group themselves, sometimes deserting more ancient heroes for the purpose. Round poets have they gathered especially, for poetry in Ireland has always been mysteriously connected with magic.

Although two senior Irish diplomats were in Switzerland at the time, neither attended Joyce's funeral, and the Irish government later declined Nora's offer to permit the repatriation of Joyce's remains. Nora, who had married Joyce in London in 1931, survived

One afternoon more than thirty-five years ago I set foot on a path that changed my life. I found a name in a book – Brigit – and a brief column of text about her. A spark was kindled and I knew I wanted more. This led me to a search for information about Brigit and connection with her that has never ceased. Though my understanding of her has grown and shifted since those first few paragraphs, I remain drawn to Brigit like a lamb to its mother.

In Green Grandeur by Stewart Stafford Under towers of green pillars, Grow those leafed palaces, Stretching out their tall limbs, Up skyward in thanksgiving. Saplings with peacock foliage, A forest floor carpeted thickly, With dead leaves, kindling and, Subterranean roots peeking out. Storm-crooked trunks stooping, To the lightning-shattered bows, Fingers of dying sunlight reach, To caress the ivy-entwined bark. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved

Your Pride I sit and beg beside the gate, I watch and wait to see you pass, You never pass the portals old, The gate of gold like gleaming glass. Yet you have often wandered by, I've heard you sigh, I've seen you smile, You never smile now as you stray- You can but stay a little while. And now you know your task is hard, You must discard your jewelled gear, You must not fear to crave a dole From any soul that wats you here. And you still have your regal pride And you have sighed that I should see Your gifts to me beside the gate, Your pride, your great humility

Yes...I love how the Irish are so comfortable with paradox that they revel in it. In fact, if you took it away from them, I suspect they would start gasping like fish out of water. No wonder their land's name, now removed from its Gaelic notions of abundance in 'eire,' evokes anger, or 'ire,' and yet also the rich, cooling green of a sea-colored jewel. A 'terrible beauty' indeed. They understand oppression and repression and explosion, but they remain a culture of faith-faith that creaks and groans and pulls, but is alive and never dull. And which urges them to art, to poetry, to song-these, too, are forms of action. Of passion. Of conviction. Yes, of love.

Yeats—himself, we should note, deeply involved with the struggle for Irish independence—once said, “We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.” On the other side of the question, many feel that the abrasions of history upon, within, and against individual lives have been part of poetry’s domain from the start, and that whatever affects a person belongs in poems, and can be joined there to all the rest—the emotional with the intellectual; the personal with the social; the public and the private; the natural world and the humanly made; the coldness of stone and the humanly felt; the knowledge of violent injustice and the longing for lyrical transcendence.

Sweet to me your voice, said Caolcrodha Mac Morna, brother to sweet-worded sweet-toothed Goll from Sliabh Riabhach and Brosnacha Bladhma, relate then the attributes that are to Finn's people. [...] I will relate, said Finn. Till a man has accomplished twelve books of poetry, the same is not taken for want of poetry but is forced away. No man is taken till a black hole is hollowed in the world to the depth of his two oxters and he put into it to gaze from it with his lonely head and nothing to him but his shield and a stick of hazel. Then must nine warriors fly their spears at him, one with the other and together. If he be spear-holed past his shield, or spear-killed, he is not taken for want of shield-skill. No man is taken till he is run by warriors through the woods of Erin with his hair bunched-loose about him for bough-tangle and briar-twitch. Should branches disturb his hair or pull it forth like sheep-wool on a hawthorn, he is not taken but is caught and gashed. Weapon-quivering hand or twig-crackling foot at full run, neither is taken. Neck-high sticks he must pass by vaulting, knee-high sticks by stooping. With the eyelids to him stitched to the fringe of his eye-bags, he must be run by Finn's people through the bogs and the marsh-swamps of Erin with two odorous prickle-backed hogs ham-tied and asleep in the seat of his hempen drawers. If he sink beneath a peat-swamp or lose a hog, he is not accepted of Finn's people. For five days he must sit on the brow of a cold hill with twelve-pointed stag-antlers hidden in his seat, without food or music or chessmen. If he cry out or eat grass-stalks or desist from the constant recital of sweet poetry and melodious Irish, he is not taken but is wounded. When pursued by a host, he must stick a spear in the world and hide behind it and vanish in its narrow shelter or he is not taken for want of sorcery. Likewise he must hide beneath a twig, or behind a dried leaf, or under a red stone, or vanish at full speed into the seat of his hempen drawers without changing his course or abating his pace or angering the men of Erin. Two young fosterlings he must carry under the armpits to his jacket through the whole of Erin, and six arm-bearing warriors in his seat together. If he be delivered of a warrior or a blue spear, he is not taken. One hundred head of cattle he must accommodate with wisdom about his person when walking all Erin, the half about his armpits and the half about his trews, his mouth never halting from the discoursing of sweet poetry. One thousand rams he must sequester about his trunks with no offence to the men of Erin, or he is unknown to Finn. He must swiftly milk a fat cow and carry milk-pail and cow for twenty years in the seat of his drawers. When pursued in a chariot by the men of Erin he must dismount, place horse and chariot in the slack of his seat and hide behind his spear, the same being stuck upright in Erin. Unless he accomplishes these feats, he is not wanted of Finn. But if he do them all and be skilful, he is of Finn's people.

In Memory of W. B. Yeats I He disappeared in the dead of winter: The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted, And snow disfigured the public statues; The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day. What instruments we have agree The day of his death was a dark cold day. Far from his illness The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests, The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays; By mourning tongues The death of the poet was kept from his poems. But for him it was his last afternoon as himself, An afternoon of nurses and rumours; The provinces of his body revolted, The squares of his mind were empty, Silence invaded the suburbs, The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers. Now he is scattered among a hundred cities And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections, To find his happiness in another kind of wood And be punished under a foreign code of conscience. The words of a dead man Are modified in the guts of the living. But in the importance and noise of to-morrow When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the bourse, And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom A few thousand will think of this day As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual. What instruments we have agree The day of his death was a dark cold day. II You were silly like us; your gift survived it all: The parish of rich women, physical decay, Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry. Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still, For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives In the valley of its making where executives Would never want to tamper, flows on south From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs, Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives, A way of happening, a mouth. III Earth, receive an honoured guest: William Yeats is laid to rest. Let the Irish vessel lie Emptied of its poetry. In the nightmare of the dark All the dogs of Europe bark, And the living nations wait, Each sequestered in its hate; Intellectual disgrace Stares from every human face, And the seas of pity lie Locked and frozen in each eye. Follow, poet, follow right To the bottom of the night, With your unconstraining voice Still persuade us to rejoice; With the farming of a verse Make a vineyard of the curse, Sing of human unsuccess In a rapture of distress; In the deserts of the heart Let the healing fountain start, In the prison of his days Teach the free man how to praise.

HOSPITALITY O King of stars! Whether my house be dark or bright, Never shall it be closed against any one, Lest Christ close His house against me. If there be a guest in your house And you conceal aught from him, 'Tis not the guest that will be without it, But Jesus, Mary's Son.

THE VIKING TERROR Bitter is the wind to-night, It tosses the ocean's white hair: To-night I fear not the fierce warriors of Norway Coursing on the Irish Sea.

Jean-Claude Dehmel II was born in Vallejo, California to an All-American mother of Anglo-Irish ancestry and a French immigrant who abandoned the family before Dehmel was out of the mother's womb. Despite great odds Mr. Dehmel went to college (Humboldt State University) where he studied Mathematics and later law school (University at Buffalo). In 2004 he moved to mainland China to take up a teaching position at Liaoning Institute of Technology in Jinzhou, China. It was there he met his wife Li Xiao Bai. The marriage lasted three years. Mr. Dehmel has no children. He is the happy owner of a Pit Bull/Black lab mix. He has been a licensed attorney in Connecticut since 2009 but has little to no interest in practicing law. He is the author of three other books: Poetry for the Lovelorn, Notes from an American Jail and The House that Vivian Built

I am a poet and Frank said to me that I couldn’t say certain things, but if I put it in a poem?’ He then agreed to recite his poem aloud for the pair: ‘There is a full force hurricane, storming, circulating, swirling, angry, aggressive and vengeful, around the outside of my head. Yet because of beauty and love and thoughts of you, I remain calm in the eye of the hurricane. And in the bonfiring of my dreams, at that final moment, between the laughter and the tears, at the tumult of my fears, with thoughts of beauty and love and you, I am able to stay as calm as the stilled mill pond.’ Concluding the poem, he said it perfectly captured where he was at that precise moment in time. ‘That is from the heart. I am not acting calmly in a hurricane–I am.’ He acknowledged he was a ‘bit worried about herself’, in reference to his partner, Ms Thomas, who was not participating in the interview but who was painting in her studio just a few metres away. ‘She is a bit shook,’ he said. The poetry dominated coverage of the case over the coming days, most likely as intended. The striking photograph taken by Mark Condren, a multiple winner of the prestigious Irish Press Photographer of the Year Award, dominated the front page the following day. Such was the impact of the image it was reproduced several times over the coming weeks for use with various updates on the Paris trial and verdict.

The Dagda, who reigned just before the coming of the Milesians, was the greatest of the De Danann. He was styled Lord of Knowledge and Sun of all the Sciences. His daughter, Brigit, was a woman of wisdom, and goddess of poetry. The Dagda was a great and beneficent ruler for eighty years.

Joyce points out that there were three objects fulfilled by these great gatherings. Here the people learnt their laws, their rights, the past history of their country, the warlike deeds of their ancestors. Here also they got their relaxation and enjoyment, in the music, the poetry, the fun, the games, and the sports, provided for them. And here, likewise, were their markets[18] for buying, selling and exchanging. It should be added that a fourth most important function of the fairs was the opportunity they provided for mating and marrying the young, and thereby drawing closer the relationship of families and clans who had been distant, or at enmity. Studying

In other Celtic lands, destruction of the ancient bardic orders meant the loss of history and myth as well as of poetry. But not in Ireland -- at least, not entirely. There, the melding of the Christian and the pagan began early, during the great period of Celtic monasticism. Irish monks of that period provided most of our written records of Celtic mythology. In continental Europe, evidence of Celtic beliefs is found only in sculpture; in Britain, it is found only in a few verbal shards and the occasional inscribed statue; but in Ireland we find entire epics, whole chants and songs, lengthy narratives. In the curvilinear script for which they are justly famous, Irish monks wrote down the stories, poems, place-names, and other lore of their pagan ancestors before it disappeared in the mists of history.

We’ve been through this, Ma. Beer isn’t booze. Wine isn’t booze. If it ruins lives and inspires Irish poetry, country music, and soviet land wars, then it’s probably booze. Get me something with Kentucky written on the bottle.

The Watery Cosmos by Stewart Stafford O realm of Poseidon, Dura Mater of all hidden - Salty soup of subtle plankton, And breaching whales unbidden. O friendly ocean, Looking glass of sky steep - Shooting stars bioluminescent Whirlpool galaxies of the deep. This savage playground, Cradling hurricane fury, The birthing pool of the living, A submerged mass cemetery. As light fades fast above, So a lunar-dark seabed rears up, Slowly enveloping all and sundry, Surface in a seahorse stirrup. Seeds from the Amazon, Passengers of the Atlantic Conveyor, Nestling on English coasts Gifts of an aquatic purveyor. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

The Cycle's Whisper by Stewart Stafford A crisp mountain breeze, Whispers on verdant meadows, In the starlings' murmuration, Bodies flutter as the wind blows. River salmon leap upstream, To the places of their siring, All the tests of life in the flesh, With thrashing bodies expiring. Starving bears lie in wait to Shorten the fading quest, Or a moribund swim home, To a watery boneyard's rest. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

The Crowned Snail by Stewart Stafford The vortex-shelled snail, Hermit rider of the dome, Silver trails cross the garden, This green, perennial home. Playing Russian Roulette, With giant feet or wheels, Survivor of stone attacks, Battering rams birds wield. A journey with no beginning, Nor a destination to travel to, Snug in his fortress castle, A crowned king, incognito. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

Why not admit that other people are always Organic to the self, that a monologue Is the death of language and that a single lion Is less himself, or alive, than a dog and another dog? With vision but it is vision builds the eye; And in a sense the children kill their parents But do the parents die? And the beloved destroys like fire or water But water sculpts and fire refines And if you are going to read the testaments of cynics You must read between the lines.

The Spinning Year by Stewart Stafford Warm days, leaves of green, Winter's looming touch between, Harvesting in chill of night, Spiders crawl in roused delight. Rearranging the hibernacle, My living quarter tabernacle, To see out the darkened months, Until come Spring's timed shunts. Emerge into a world of change, Earth's mother hand will rearrange, Another tree ring sagely earned, See around a new corner turned. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

Stonebridge Forest by Stewart Stafford Woke to accusatory dark clouds, Growling menace of distant storms, The wrecking ball hung lifeless, Sun - blinding me with temporal light. A labyrinthine drive to Stonebridge, Transporting tunes of my pomp, Stopped for a tasty king's breakfast, Simpatico stares from the waitress. The river's alleviating rush past; A silver ribbon pulses in my veins, Positive ions cleanse city toxins, Welcomed to a placid homecoming. Fisherman dangling death downriver, Enthroned on the bank, skimming stones, I tried to top my record each time, Teasing out mysteries in a green maze. © Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.

Stephen looked up from his old Irish poetry book and said, “There’s another way.” “What way?” said the boy and the woman in unison. “Treat them with mercy, but never let them have any power over your heart.

from chapter on knotwork: We are creatures , tucked into empty space , encompassed by a pattern , caught amidst life’s twist and coil who rarely fathom its design . Our oldest wisdom , buried deep in shadow , manifests unconsciously in knots of story , poetry and song .

Might not get Easter or Paddy’s Day But Leo says maybe! Who’s he to say Men need their bets, pints and Grubb So Tony, Phil and Ronan let us go to the pub.

Brexit means Brexit In this she was being upfront But her only reward from some Would be a hot knife in her front

The average Christian is never meant to find out that, before it was warped and distorted, everything he reads about between the pages of his Bible, as well as every element of his religion, originally came from Egyptian Amenism and Irish Druidism. The more Druidism is studied the more apparent is its relationship to the revealed religion of the Mosaic Law – Rev. C. C. Dobson (Did Our Lord Visit Britain as they say in Cornwall and Somerset, 1954) The Culdee establishment had now acquired a firm footing in the nation. Some of its members not only excelled in astronomy, poetry, and rhetoric, but also in philosophy, mathematics, and several other arts and sciences (which exactly correlates with the learned Druid magi)…It is among the Scottish Culdees, that we are to look for that pure pattern of Christian life, such as was exemplified in the African, Greek and Egyptian Anchorites – Rev. Alexander Low (History of Scotland from the Earliest Period, to the Middle of the Ninth Century, 1826) Nothing is clearer than that Patrick engrafted Christianity on the pagan superstition with so much skill that he won people over to the Christian religion before they understood the exact difference between the two systems of belief – Dr. Donovan (editor of The Annals of the Four Masters)

XXVIII Why the Irish Drink Leaves talking to one another in the summer breeze Stands of grass caught in   floods of spring We are not the wind We are not the flood We are  empty cups We are the silent dark between the stars Cold clay pressed Against the heart of the warm earth We may be the moon hiding in the highest branch's of the  trees We may be sound of morning birds We may be tears from inner seas Wanderers all looking for home