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dplynch Aug 10
Finches women of ill repute,
Proliferate the once silver street,
Sporting dreams ravaged by toot,
Rainfalls as rainfalls.
Colm Aug 4
I used to run across the Moherian cliffs
And jump to catch the first sunlight nether wisps
As they twinkled like dawning fireflies shone
In the jar of a hopeful wish
For as just as in your hand there mine own exists
The Song of Amergin: Modern English Translations

The Song of Amergin
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I am the sea breeze
I am the ocean wave
I am the surf's thunder
I am the stag of the seven tines
I am the cliff hawk
I am the sunlit dewdrop
I am the fairest flower
I am the rampaging boar
I am the swift-swimming salmon
I am the placid lake
I am the excellence of art
I am the vale echoing voices
I am the battle-hardened spearhead
I am the God who gave you fire
Who knows the secrets of the unhewn dolmen
Who understands the cycles of the moon
Who knows where the sunset settles ...

The Song of Amergin
an original poem by Michael R. Burch

He was our first bard
and we feel in his dim-remembered words
the moment when Time blurs . . .

and he and the Sons of Mil
heave oars as the breakers mill
till at last Ierne―green, brooding―nears,

while Some implore seas cold, fell, dark
to climb and swamp their flimsy bark
. . . and Time here also spumes, careers . . .

while the Ban Shee shriek in awed dismay
to see him still the sea, this day,
then seek the dolmen and the gloam.

The Song of Amergin II
a more imaginative translation by Michael R. Burch

after Robert Bridges

I am the stag of the seven tines;
I am the bull of the seven battles;
I am the boar of the seven bristles;

I am the wide flood cresting plains;
I am the wind sweeping deep waters;
I am the salmon swimming in the shallow pool;

I am the dewdrop lit by the sun;
I am the fairest of flowers;
I am the crystalline fountain;

I am the hawk shrieking after its prey;
I am the demon ablaze in the campfire ashes;
I am the battle-waging spearhead;

I am the vale echoing voices;
I am the sea's roar;
I am the rising sea wave;

I am the meaning of poetry;
I am the God who inspires your prayers;
I am the hope of heaven;

Who else knows the ages of the moon?
Who else knows where the sunset settles?
Who else knows the secrets of the unhewn dolmen?

Translator's Notes:

The "Song of Amergin" and its origins remain mysteries for the ages. The ancient poem, perhaps the oldest extant poem to originate from the British Isles, or perhaps not, was written by an unknown poet at an unknown time at an unknown location. The unlikely date 1268 BC was furnished by Robert Graves, who translated the "Song of Amergin" in his influential book The White Goddess (1948). Graves remarked that "English poetic education should, really, begin not with Canterbury Tales, not with the Odyssey, not even with Genesis, but with the Song of Amergin." The poem has been described as an invocation and a mystical chant.

I did not attempt to fully translate the ending of the poem. I have read several other translations and it seems none of them agree. I went with my "gut" impression of the poem, which is that the "I am" lines refer to God and his "all in all" nature, a belief which is common to the mystics of many religions. I stopped with the last line that I felt I understood and will leave the remainder of the poem to others. The poem reminds me of the Biblical god Yahweh/Jehovah revealing himself to Moses as "I am that I am" and to Job as a mystery beyond human comprehension. If that's what the author intended, I tip my hat to him, because despite all the intervening centuries and the evolution of the language, the message still comes through quite well. If I'm wrong, I have no idea what the poem is about, but I still like it.

Who wrote the poem? That's a very good question and the answers seem speculative to me. Amergin has been said to be a Milesian, or one of the sons of Mil who allegedly invaded and conquered Ireland sometime in the island's deep, dark past. The Milesians were (at least theoretically) Spanish Gaels. According to the Wikipedia page:

Amergin Glúingel ("white knees"), also spelled Amhairghin Glúngheal or Glúnmar ("big knee"), was a bard, druid and judge for the Milesians in the Irish Mythological Cycle. He was appointed Chief Ollam of Ireland by his two brothers the kings of Ireland. A number of poems attributed to Amergin are part of the Milesian mythology. One of the seven sons of Míl Espáine, he took part in the Milesian conquest of Ireland from the Tuatha Dé Danann, in revenge for their great-uncle Íth, who had been treacherously killed by the three kings of the Tuatha Dé Danann, Mac Cuill, Mac Cecht and Mac Gréine. They landed at the estuary of Inber Scéne, named after Amergin's wife Scéne, who had died at sea. The three queens of the Tuatha Dé Danann, (Banba, Ériu and Fódla), gave, in turn, permission for Amergin and his people to settle in Ireland. Each of the sisters required Amergin to name the island after each of them, which he did: Ériu is the origin of the modern name Éire, while Banba and Fódla are used as poetic names for Ireland, much as Albion is for Great Britain. The Milesians had to win the island by engaging in battle with the three kings, their druids and warriors. Amergin acted as an impartial judge for the parties, setting the rules of engagement. The Milesians agreed to leave the island and retreat a short distance back into the ocean beyond the ninth wave, a magical boundary. Upon a signal, they moved toward the beach, but the druids of the Tuatha Dé Danann raised a magical storm to keep them from reaching land. However, Amergin sang an invocation calling upon the spirit of Ireland that has come to be known as The Song of Amergin, and he was able to part the storm and bring the ship safely to land. There were heavy losses on all sides, with more than one major battle, but the Milesians carried the day. The three kings of the Tuatha Dé Danann were each killed in single combat by three of the surviving sons of Míl, Eber Finn, Érimón and Amergin.

It has been suggested that the poem may have been "adapted" by Christian copyists of the poem, perhaps monks. An analogy might be the ancient Celtic myths that were "christianized" into tales of King Arthur, Lancelot, Galahad and the Holy Grail.

Keywords/Tags: Amergin, song, translation, Ireland, Irish, Celtic, Gaelic, Gaels, Milesian, Druid, Banshee
Nad Simon Jul 25
Thirty tear-splashed pages
My response with runny ink
Not us anymore, don't you think?
Fire consumed it in a blink

You just left me!
Okay, you had a chance
You could not pass up
For our romance
I get that but...

I said someday I'd marry you
You threw it right in my face
So I'm the non-Greek Catholic geek?
Well, stick this in your Orthodox socks
You'll never again disgrace
This young Irish fool!

Sated, but not happy anymore
I am quick out the bed, going home
After pleasing another random girl
I AM good enough for
To see you swish and twirl
Through my rattled dome
But I hope you sense or know
How I just made HER toes curl

How could you say
Over a year every day
How much you loved me
But at the last drive away
Like I'm just a roll in the hay?

How could you tell me
I'm just for college
I'm a temporary smidge
That we're not bound to be

You give us short time
Then leave for half of it
You tell me "Have a nice life!"
But you get a pass for it?
And I'M that hole kid!?
What's that bull

It is just nuts!
Am I too poor and not tan?
Am I too pale to be your man?
So what! SO WHAT!

How could you dis me like that
Dismiss me like that
And then give an act
Like I hurt YOU so bad?

Making it all so breezy
You pop up and ask me to visit you
'Cause I have to show YOU something?
After telling ME I can't be your Everything!
And rolling away like I'm NOTHING!
Dancing to your same tune
For you, leaving was easy!

Now, Little Rich Girl
Write and tell me about your adventures
I will listen awhile
In lands I dream to see, but cannot be
You spoiled child

Tell me how great it is
Tell me how your heart is light
Tell me it all
I want to hear it, right?
Yeah. Not a'tall

Tell me where you go
While I do the same crap
We did back here
While I stay trapped
Your outgrowing shows

I give up. I'm done.
You are NOT the One
I'm not writing
Even one letter, "My Friend"
That I will send

I'm not the stupid kind
I see the request to write back
Jump through the hoops you stack
Maybe you want me back
I read between lines

I can hear you again
I can sense your smell
I see your face, taste your lips...

**** it all to HELL!

Where's my pen?!
The core of this poem was written about 25 years ago this fall. There was someone very special who had knocked me flat, and this somewhat incoherent piece was my reaction to her fist letter since we broke up. I got really drunk that night. I was really po'd....
Niamh Collins Jul 16
táim óg agus tá mé sean
dá fheicthe ná rudaí a bhfeicim
páistí, cairde, clann
tá súile againn uilig
tá chroí againn uilig
tá saoirse againn uilig

tá ádh orainn
ábalta labhairt
ábalta canadh
ábalta am a caitheadh lenár teaghlaigh
níl an t-ádh ag gach duine

glac cúpla soicind
nuair atá tú ag gaire s' ag guí
glac an deas atá agat
agus cuir é in úsáid.
Regina Jun 20
dropkick Murphys.....smoky pubs, height of Irish rough voiced songs, Celtic gifts
Sheila Greene May 19
Cotton has a plantation,
It’s home in central Texas.
It might be your cremation.
Don’t drive up in your Lexus.

In the barn he persecutes.
Devices of mad torture.
Chainsaws, meat hook executes,
Diced and spilt into quarters.

The Bloodbath we fascinate,
Victims face he has gotten.
Oh my, he does dominate.
****** face here’s some Cotten.
This was based on my trip to Florida last week because I’m convinced Waze wanted to **** us.  It took down this back Texas road that looked like Leatherfaces home.  It’s done in Ae Freislighe, an Irish Quatrain.
Kathryn Apr 20
It is cold tonight,
leave a saucer of sweet-milk
out for the fairies.
I had a deep love for Irish folklore <3 My mother believed in fairies and if I'm honest I hope they're real. So I write them little love poems and maybe someday they'll let me dance with them.
fiachra breac Apr 11
grey carpet, yellow wall,
brown table, yellow wall,
blue seat, yellow wall,
and a **** coloured stain on the ceiling.

shoulders pressed inward,
hands between thighs,
hair hanging in front of
detestable grey eyes.

but details matter,
red hands must smear
a crude-drawn picture,
on strips of brown-clear.

blinding and white
burning the table,
ten pages in all,
a statement from Abel.

attempt to explain,
better yet confess,
inky black clips,
secret, sudden cess.

bottle green, cautioning;
two lives lost
to action unseen.
golden is youth,
yet blue is the feeling,
all colour gone, body reeling.
Eleanor Apr 10
So noisy, it’s crushing
Its songs; sad ones
happy ones, silly ones.
It's jokes; fallen pens,
****** texts, Durcan’s poetry.
None of these thoughts are helpful.
Not even by a little bit.
Pastel highlighters, a new pencil case
My jacket is green.
I did the bare minimum of Spanish
I organised a previous debate’s cards
My Irish notes glare at me.
My math's teacher won't give up.
I keep all of history in my head,
But not in a place I can access.
I can give you Sinn Fein manifesto
but not the sections of Mozart’s  
23rd concerto in A major.
The room is loud, but silent in  
Comparison to my argumentative mind.
Busy, so busy.
Nothing will be done.
My mind is often times busy, confusing and distracting. i know a lot of people in similar situations. This poem is meant to represent what it is like to have a busy mind, be very stressed or have trouble completing tasks because of a constant stream of chatter. Enjoy :)
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