These two poems from 9th Century Ireland (or around the 9th Century) reflect two sides of the complex Irish soul. And weather. One is from springtime and shows the happy side, the optimistic side, the tone of life I associate with my Grandfather, the side that loves God and nature. The other is the bleaker side and while a little obscure, is clearly full of foreboding. I associate it with me.
My understanding is that the first was found scribbled in the margin of a book an unknown 9th Century monk was transcribing by hand. At some point, he was distracted by the birdsongs and the peacefulness of his situation, wrote about it in verse, and was pretty damn happy with how it came out. On the rare occasions when I think I have written something good, a good phrase or sentence or paragraph, I admit to thinking to myself, "good the stuff I write in my cushy seat."
Notes of a Monastic Scribe
A hedge before me, one behind,
a blackbird sings from that,
above my small book many-lined
I apprehend his chat.
Up trees, in costumes buff,
mild accurate cuckoos bleat,
Lord love me, good the stuff
I write in a shady seat.
The other poem, I have run across several versions of it, is about winter and it makes me shiver. "Ice-frost time" and all that. Here are three translations, in order of how I like them. The middle one is the most recent version, and is a translation from the Irish by the great 20th Century Irish writer Flann O'Brien, author of, among many things, the novels At Swim Two Birds and The Pour Mouth; both are very funny. The third version below is probably the most poetically accomplished of these translations, but I like but I like #1 best, probably because it's the first I read.
#1
From the Fenian Cycle
A tale I have for you. Ox murmurs,
Winter roars, summer is gone.
Wind high cold, sun low.
Cry is attacking, sea resounding.
Very red raying has concealed form.
Voice of geese has become usual,
Cold has caught the wings of birds,
Ice-frost time; wretched, very wretched.
A tale I have for you.
#2
Flan O'Brien's Version
Here's a song --
stags give tongue
winter snows
summer goes.
High cold blow
sun is low
brief is day
seas give spray.
Fern clumps redden
shapes are hidden
wild geese raise
wonted cries.
Cold now girds
wings of birds
icy time --
that's my rime.
#3
Winter's Approach
List my lay; oxen roar,
Winter chides, Summer's o'er,
Sinks the sun, cold winds rise
Moans assail, ocean cries.
Ferns flush red, change hides all,
Clanging now, gray geese call,
Wild wings cringe, cold with rime,
Drear, most drear, ice-frost time.
Whilst the years are many
ReplyDeletesince my father
set forth from these emerald shores.
It is I a son of Patrick
remember the words that He sang.
& as each year that have past
I grew to be a sentimentalist
to a land that I have never known.
But every bit of me shines
being every part of it.
Even the glistening
of my emerald green eyes.
But the sad reality of It.
To come home to the land
of my fathers songs.
They would look at me as a tourist.
The lament of Paddy's son.