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Hannah McMullan Nov 2014
There are only two things to worry about:
Either you are well or you are sick.
If you are well, there is nothing to worry about.

If you are sick, there are two things to worry about:
Either you will get better or you will die.
If you get better, there is nothing to worry about.

If you die, there are two things to worry about:
Either you will go to heaven or you will go to hell.
If you go to heaven, there is nothing to worry about.

But if you are to hell,
You'll be so **** busy shaking the hands with all your friends,
*You won't have time to worry!
Although not "technically" a poem, I came across the one day and found it too humorous to pass up.
Hannah McMullan Nov 2014
He is Adonis reborn,
The charming and handsome youth,
Aphrodite's beloved,
Risen from his cold, dark grave,
And back to life, soon to be
Reclaimed by his lady love.
Hannah McMullan Nov 2013
It was just simple summer home,
Nothing fancy, really.
Water with a slightly odd taste,
And furniture with a distinctly "coastal" flair.

We called it "fish camp"
As an affectionate reminder that of the houses on the street,
It was the simplest, the plainest.
Meant to be lived in only for short times.

Not far from Harker's Island,
The sound became my playground.
My mother would play with me on the sound's gentle shallows,
While my father and grandfather would fish.

Even after my grandfather remarried,
And moved into his new wife's home
(A permanent residence down the street from our beloved fish camp),
Fish camp stayed in the family.

Now, our fish camp is ours no longer.
No longer is fish camp of the McMullan clan.
It belongs to another
Whose name I do not know.

What I would not give to be there again,
Now that I am older, hopefully wiser
More attuned to the rich history of the sound,
Of its waters, of its places, of its people.

What I would not give
To learn the waters of the sound
To learn the shallows and the tides
To sail with my grandfather again.

And, at the end of the day, to come home to
the fish camp at Straits.
Hannah McMullan Nov 2013
"To the victor goes the spoils"
This everyone knows.

However, not all spoils are created equally.

Wealth--especially material--is wondrous.
Territory--especially far-off-- is tempting.
Power--especially political--is promising.
Influence--especially cultural--is intoxicating.

Not one, however, can compare
To the greatest spoil of all.

The greatest spoil of all
Is neither tangible nor immediate.

The greatest spoil of all
Is the ablity to control history.

The ability to control history
Is not to be scoffed.

It is but the victor's voice we hear
As accepted history.
The loser's voice is silenced,
Heard at most as a murmur.

The victor's voice is a trumpet,
Sounding loud and clear.
The loser's voice is a wooden flute,
Unheard except by its fellows.

The victor's song is one of rejoicing
Echoing in the cathedrals and palace-halls.
The loser's song is one of mourning
Heard in the taverns and shanty-towns.

We hear what the victor
Sees fit that we hear.
His crimes never see the light of day,
While the sins of the loser are displayed at e'ery chance.

Think for a moment,
The next time you hear a victor's speech.
And remember that he is in control
Of the greatest spoil of all.
Hannah McMullan Nov 2013
In my dream the other night,
I first heard a panicked mot's voice:

"Is me, mo ghile mear!
Cathain a thoicfaidh tú abhaile chugam?"

When light then entered my eyes,
I saw a young woman hunched o'er a table

She writing, quill in hand, to her man.
Like a ghost I hovered o'er her.

I saw the year, 1745
The year of the Jacobite.

I blinked my eyes
And my world went black.

Once opened again, I saw that time had passed
And a tear-stained letter lay on the desk.

Mo leannán fionn, the letter read
Tá me i ndeoraíocht.
Is ár bprionsa caillte.
A stór, mo ghrá thú, ach
Níl riamh feicfidh mé tu arís.

When I awoke that morn,
The ghosts of the lovers haunted me.

I pitied that mot, who lost her love forever to exile
I pitied that cove, exiled from his love forever.

Though only shades, their story
Is from the dawn of time.
1745 was the year of the Glenfinnan Uprising, one of the various Jacobite Uprisings, during which Prince Charles Stuart (Bonnie Prince Charles/ár bprionsa [our prince])--a Catholic--attempted to claim the thrones of England, Ireland, and Scotland.  This uprising became the focus of many songs, both in Gaeilge and Gaidhlig.

— The End —