A lament don Ghaeilge

A language
in my Blood
but not - on my tongue.

The prose and poetry of my ancestors
fallen - on deaf ears.

When did we accept this anglicized assonance,
to marr the seanchaithe tale of soil and air?

The Land of Saints and Scholars -
speaking words from others tongues.

“Oh you’re Irish?” he said.
“Did you learn the language much?” he said.
Honestly, what can I tell him? I was raised in the North - a ****** wasteland for such a naïve question.
Vague memories of fumbled classes where our secret history was ditched just to get straight into the basics (Cad é mar atá tú?)
No – seriously - I was not tied to it – it was anonymous to me at that age.
Forgotten like some distant echo of once visiting Coole House as a child.
Sure, we knew it was “important”, “our national language”, “heritage” etc. and we were warned it was quickly slipping into the drain of Western hegemony.
But it was baffling, unsexy and only the blunt-faced humorless IRA thugs amongst us were in any way keen.
Then it was gone, just like the faded memories of “The Children of Lir” from my primary school.

Looking back I wonder, what was the point?
A half-full measure paying lip service to our identity.
Teachers and headmasters terrified of the grand colonial reveal that the lessons might have hinted at (were they trying to stop us being Provos-in-waiting?).
And all of this against the awful shame of a common tongue that had no foe yet was slowly vanquishing from our shores.
It could have all been so different.
Rather than rushing to get something in our empty skulls, they could have given us a sense of joy, pride & belief in our own culture.
Calling on Yeats, Behan, Heaney and others to drown us in the language of our ancestors.
Telling the stories of old that only the academics & hippies were keeping from us then.
You know, it might kept us all on the same beautifully illuminated page.
We might have been comfortable in our skins and open to others,
not looking deep into our worthlessness and lashing out at them.
Language is being and language is connecting, I’ve learnt.
But that’s not something I got from my secondary school.

June-July 2018

It's spelled the Irish way
The old Gaelic notes that ring when you say it after a few beers
Sluggishly lulling through the world while you find the rhythm of living vicariously
You stated once so boldly
I was the only reason you should save
You called the way I live
Brave  
Licking the copper clean as it whistles
craving a soul
Like I stand
another goal
But the sun slips in these autumn months
Ive visted the same places
Each kicked back bitter
different from the latter
you maniacally send me
Chapter after chapter

I wish I could just roll the windows down
Run through each noun
as it hits my ear
Turn in the moments I lived in fear
Cash them in for a year
Like the way you effortlessly describe me
Forgetting the constant flux of my
Internal neuroses

When I was young,
My ma would say:
"Beware the Sidhe
And Faerie Rings."

When I was young?

When I was young,
My ma would say:
"Bring tea and cakes
So they'll be gay."

When was I young?

When I was young,
My ma would say:
"They'll keep you safe,
Or take you 'way."

Am I human?

     "Alabaster!
     I am Leannán.
     This one whispered
     To you, sweet boy."
Alabaster?
     "Your name! Your name!
     Your spirit i claimed.
     A vow you made,
     And now you've paid."
With you I'll stay!
     "Among my folk?
     Keep fast your yoke,
     Or flesh will fade
     And farewells bade."
A song! A song!
     "Your song, my love,
      You've sang it well,
     And flowers laid
     For our parade."

When I was young,
My ma would say:
"Beware the Sidhe
And Faerie Rings."

When I was young,
My ma would say:
"Bring tea and cakes
So they'll be gay."

When i was young,
My ma would say:
"They'll keep you safe,
Or take you 'way."

     *A Faerie Friend
     Forever more.

This mind,
I bemoan it so,
that it cannot seamlessly
retain,
replay,
all of the words you have given me
so that I may overthink them endlessly
and hold them close
in lieu of an embrace

Nothing serves to fumble with your heartstrings
quite so well as a ceremony of the dead
(and nearly so)
where a tall man,
with black tie draped across broken heart,
wrestled with his voice;
in order not to display
what we are so practiced at hiding.

Rua
Dearg,
Rua, roselet,
Gruaige na fíniúna agus scarlet
Fíonchaora, drown me i do deoch
As liopaí, fíona, Ruby, flesh an paisean
Torthaí agus adharc de neart,
Earthen meirge de pebbled cré
Tarraing mé mar uisce seeping
Isteach uiscígh ársa, ualaithe, i bhfolach
Faoi vastness Sahára
Sands. Tá mé scamall de aisling
Drifting, itching, edging chomh maith do chothromú
Hills. Do ******* sruthán mé mar gaile,
Tá do chluasa le haghaidh doves neadaithe
Agus do shúile, tá an spéir ag fanacht, cogaíochta
Le farraige, le haghaidh a dath,
Is é an ghrian wandering strainséir
Mar a thiteann sé, dar críoch gach lá, faded
Mar an fathach gásach de Antares faint,
Eclipsed ag do heavenly
Foirm, do lasair Vulcan
An tsolais.

By twist and ties from ages past,
We are but Union bound
Ruled from afar by silver spoons,
'til hope and freedom found,
A fire in the belly of daughters and sons
Made a home in faces awash in blue,
With roaring thunder in voices loud, proclaim;
A Scot! Proud, free, canny and true.

Past leaders, past has-beens, past moguls and crooks,
The passion spreads, face to face,
Tangible static in the Square tonight,
The cone standing tall in it's place.
The fire of the people out in the streets,
Casting eyes to freedom's distant shores,
Their message clear and printed in bold,
With every paper passed through street-lit doors.
'Saor Alba! 'Alba gu Bràth!'
The spirit of Scotia is free.
'Bairns not Bombs!' 'Seize it with both hands!', they cry,
This Aye vote is for you, and for me.

With faith, with courage, with braw, gallus grace,
This word will nae weesht, but spread,
Not if but when, not now but again,
Independence is ne'er 'put to bed'.