South Wind was written in the 1700s by Domhnall Meir-geach Mac Con Mara( "Freckled Donal Macnamara" )in homesickness for his homeland( after he was banished for some 'misdoings' )in County Mayo. This sublime melody has a very Carolan-ish air about it...essence of my Irish childhood. I used to hum it to myself for comfort when my sister Junie was killed in a bus crash back in the world of '67.

A Ghaoth Aneas!

A Ghaoth Aneas na mbraon mbog glas
A ní gach faiche féarmhar
Bheir iasc ar eas is grian i dteas
Is líon is meas ar ghéagaibh

Más síos ar fad mar mbínn féin seal
Is mianach leat-sa séide
Cuirim Rí na bhFeart dhod chaomhaint ar neart
‘S túir don tír sin blas mo bhéil-se!

Sínim aneas ag díonamh cleas
Nach ndíonann neach san saol so
Mar íslím gaimh is scaoilim leac
Is díbrim sneachta as sléibhte

Ó taoi tú ar lear go bhfuí tú mo neart
‘S gur mian liom do leas a dhéanamh
Go bhfúigfe mé mo bheannacht ins gach aon tslí ar mhaith leat
Is choíche i gCathair Éamoinn!

A Chonnachta an tseoid, an tsuilt ‘s an spóirt
I n-imirt ‘s i n-ól an fhíona
Sin chugaibh mo phóg ar rith ins an ród
Leigim le seol gaoithe í

Tá mise beo i mboige na seod
Mar a mbrúitear gach sórt bídh dhom
Ach is mian liom fós tarraing d’bhur gcomhair
Muna gcluine mé ach ceól píopa!

O South Wind!

O South Wind with the soft clear drops
You that make every sword grassy
Bring the fish to the waterfall, give heat to the sun
And abundance of fruit to the branches

If it is far to the north where I once lived
That you are minded to blow
May the King of Power preserve your strength
And give the taste of my mouth to that country!

I blow from the south, performing feats
Which no one else on earth can do
For I lay winter low and scatter the ice
And banish the snow from the mountains

Since you are in need you shall have my strength
And I want nothing more than to help you
I shall leave my blessing in every place you choose
And always in Cathair Éamoinn!

O blissful, joyous, sporting Connacht
Home of gaming and of wine-drinking
Here goes my kiss to you rushing along the road
I send it on the wings of the wind

I am living in splendid luxury
Where every kind of food is dressed for me
But yet I am fain to draw towards you
If I should hear but the music of the pipes!

When writer's block strikes then use writer's block itself to defeat it and write a poem about being not able to write a poem. That will teach it to come around here and tie up my head in knots!

Ruby going for Gold...long may they reign...the King and Queen of Love.

HE ORDER OF THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD.

I was remembering fragments out of this as by the waters of the Liffey I sat down and wept.

"MAN, that is born of a woman, hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.

In the midst of life we are in death. . .

Thou knowest, LORD, the secrets of our hearts. . .

FORASMUCH as it hath pleased Almighty God. . .

I HEARD a voice from heaven, saying unto me, Write. . ."

Talking about his good friend Balwantbua, the old bajhan singer and racontuer who features in many of CHIRIMIRI's poems, Kolatkar could be describing his own poetic process...
"...everything he knew about life had come to him at first hand: from direct observation:  he didn't talk about the great events of this century...but about micro-event or non-events that make up his life - miniature comedies, adventures, misadventures, people he knew, the women in his life - with a sharp eye for absurdities inherent in situations and the contradictions in human behaviour, looking around him from street level, with his unique sense of humour which equips him with a sort of X-ray vision..."
Let's hope someone takes it into their head to publish his BALWANTBUA....still in a manuscript of nearly 1200 pages!

I just love this as an answer.....
Why did you take 10 years to complete your painting course at the J.J. School of Art?
I was doing other things.
What?
Painting.
From an interview with GOWRI RAMNARAYAN back in 2004 in THE HINDIU

How the Annunciation would have panned out in today's technical world of mores and morals and mobiles.

First ever Greek holiday....always remember to lock the door. The goat was the ringleader who butted into our private space and of course the others followed...guess they must have read ANIMAL FARM.

"Paddy" Kavanagh is one of John Coll's most prominent works of art, situated on the north bank of the Grand Canal on Mespil Road. The statue was built as part of the Dublin 1991 European City of Culture celebrations, unveiled by President Mary Robinson. It was inspired by his poem "Lines written on a Seat on the Grand Canal, Dublin".

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First ever Greek holiday....always remember to lock the door. The goat was the ringleader who butted into our private space and of course the others followed...guess they must have read ANIMAL FARM.

When we returned all the farmyard animals had taken up squatter's rights in the house. We felt like intruders! When we tried to talk the animals into leaving they were like" "Wot? Wot!"

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First ever Greek holiday....always remember to lock the door. The goat was the ringleader who butted into our private space and of course the others followed...guess they must have read ANIMAL FARM.

When we returned all the farmyard animals had taken up squatter's rights in the house. We felt like intruders! When we tried to talk the animals into leaving they were like" "Wot? Wot!"

When you are 7 and you put two and two together and come up with five and a half. It all seemed so logical at the time and I thought it a good stab at an answer. The movies are all illusion and flicker with celluloid maybes and frame by frame mightbes!

When one is seven it is hard to tell!

The joy of having a heart attack
is  ...surviving it enough to be able to write about it. The revenge of the words! How dare the poet's body go against him!

Who was it said? Why that was Sir William Cornwallis the Younger England’s first essayist in the style of Montaigne. He was the first to write a substantial book of “familiar” essays with the critical consciousness of working within a new vernacular prose genre that showed a human making his identity from doubt doubt and being prepared to question the who of what he was.

The title of the poem is me attempting a mock Shakespearean line in which the truth of my dying is exposed by the fact that I live to tell the tale.

FINAL SCORE

POET 1 - HEART ATTACK O