The first Brigidian connection that I thought of was the St.Brigid's Cross. But that seems to be another tradition that has gone. I even remember a teacher trying to show us how to make one with rushes, and I have seen them hung up in houses - but not for a long time. They seem to have survived in the form of jewellery.
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Just back from an Irish wedding (held here in the UK). Music by the Wild Murphys....
This was one of the chosen readings, delivered in a beautiful West Cork accent with a slight waver. Very powerful.
SCAFFOLDING
Masons, when they start upon a building,
Are careful to test out the scaffolding;
Make sure that planks won’t slip at busy points,
Secure all ladders, tighten bolted joints.
And yet all this comes down when the job’s done
Showing off walls of sure and solid stone.
So if, my dear, there sometimes seem to be
Old bridges breaking between you and me
Never fear. We may let the scaffolds fall
Confident that we have built our wall.Comment
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Sure anyone who could read that poem without wavering, Global, would surely have a heart of solid stone.Originally posted by Globaltruth View Post
an irish wedding in the UK... any border problems?Comment
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Update on the Heaney Centre.
I'll be there on Saturday for the launch of a book by a local poet - a woman who was also a colleague of mine when I worked for a living.Comment
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Ahead of what would have been Seamus' 80th, Radio 4's 'Front Row' had a special this evening exploring his life and poetry.
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St Kevin and the Blackbird (1996)
And then there was St Kevin and the blackbird.
The saint is kneeling, arms stretched out, inside
His cell, but the cell is narrow, so
One turned-up palm is out the window, stiff
As a crossbeam, when a blackbird lands
And lays in it and settles down to nest.
Kevin feels the warm eggs, the small breast, the tucked
Neat head and claws and, finding himself linked
Into the network of eternal life,
Is moved to pity: now he must hold his hand
Like a branch out in the sun and rain for weeks
Until the young are hatched and fledged and flown.
And since the whole thing’s imagined anyhow,
Imagine being Kevin. Which is he?
Self-forgetful or in agony all the time
From the neck on out down through his hurting forearms?
Are his fingers sleeping? Does he still feel his knees?
Or has the shut-eyed blank of underearth
Crept up through him? Is there distance in his head?
Alone and mirrored clear in love’s deep river,
‘To labour and not to seek reward,’ he prays,
A prayer his body makes entirely
For he has forgotten self, forgotten bird
And on the riverbank forgotten the river’s name.
[FONT=Comic Sans MS][I][B]Numquam Satis![/B][/I][/FONT]Comment
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Yesterday 30 August was the sixth anniversary of Seamus Heaney's death.Comment
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Possibly his last poem, for a granddaughter.Originally posted by Padraig View Post
In Time
for Siofra
Energy, balance, outbreak:
Listening to Bach
I saw you years from now
(More years than I'll be allowed)
Your toddler wobbles gone,
A sure and grown woman.
Your bare foot on the floor
Keeps me in step; the power
I first felt come up through
Our cement floor long ago
Palps your sole and heel
And earths you here for real.
An oratorio
Would be just the thing for you:
Energy, balance, outbreak
At play for their own sake
But for now we foot it lightly
In time, and silently.
18 August 2013Comment
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Beautiful; but I thought his last poem was this one, Padraig...'Banks of a Canal' which he wrote about Caillebotte's painting in the Irish National Gallery.Originally posted by Padraig View Post
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Possibly, John. Possibly.Originally posted by johncorrigan View Post
Both Heaneyish poems at any rate.Comment
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For no other reason than it turned up on the radio yesterday and stopped me in my tracks, not for the first time...or perhaps caught the heart offguard; the great man near the end of his days reading 'Postscript' from 'The Spirit Level'.
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Good to hear that, John, and for the first time, see it. Thank you.Originally posted by johncorrigan View Post
But, on the subject of 'Green Passports', I suspect he would have responded to this as I do! :
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I was browsing Stepping Stones and came across a reference to Percy French's The Four Farrellys. This was, and maybe still is, a popular recitation at parties, weddings and other social occasions pre-Televison times. My late good friend 'did' it at the drop of a hat wherever he found an audience, and when we went fishing in the West he was in his element, because reciting this piece involves putting on various Irish accents. Not everyone is very good at this skill, and neither was he, God bless him. Heaney himself learned it and often recited it; it was one of his father's favourites. Here it is.
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Forthcoming documentary airing on the Beeb on St Andrews Day, according to the Irish Post.
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