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My gal's got a way of talkin' so sweetly
Of talkin' so sweetly to me
It brings me the mornin' to hear her
Voice sweetly
To hear her
Kind words just for me

She talks of forever and ever just with me
She talks like she's writin' a poem
She talks like a liar
Eyes glint like a tiger
I see it,
And know that I'm *****

My gal's got me wrapped all up on her finger
Caught up in her hair
Curls like irons.
But me I don't worry
That she'd ever harm me
I'm just as disarming
As she

I know by the taste of her tongue
It is silver
I know cause it matches my own
And though we both talk of such aery ideas
When we are together I'm home
This poem accompanies an original american-irish folk song written also by me.
Man Aug 2021
I've listened to the Jamaicans wail
Englishmen too
The Africans & Asians the same
And of my own kinsmen, the Irish, have I heard long cry
Of their lowlands
Mother or Father
Babes we are, to the branch whose fruits we partake
Ready for fight, readily we die
To cut down the lecherous head
Of the beasts that stalk
Be ye a Great Kingdom or States United
No union knows our unity
For we cannot be organized
We are grassroots
We are the homeland
For when your troubles have become foreign
Be domestic
One day I sat alone drinking a pint,
My a mhuirnin arriving this mornin'
I said I'd greet her and then spend the day
Stroll'an' watch all the ships come to harbor

Her ship was due in from Dublin today,
She'd gone home for to bury her father,
And though she loved him she weren't feelin' grey,
He'd left her mom alone at the alter,

So there I sat, her ship taking its time,
A little red lark sung above me,
And then it landed, much to my surprise,
On my shoulder just ever so gently

I didn't move I just marveled in place,
The small clever lark sung on my shoulder,
And then from tweets to words slowly I heard
My dear love's voice come out of the small bird

My dear I don't have time
To ask how you are
God gave me but only a moment
To say I love you and don't waste your time
My ship won't ever make it to harbor.

I didnt know just quite what I should say
I was feeling a mix of emotions
I had no reason to doubt this small bird
But if so then my heart surely'd be broke,

My dear I can see you
Can't quite understand
I've died and I've gone on to heaven
In time you'll see
I've done all that I can
And have found yourself a new a mhuirnin

Then back to songs that bird's beak did return,
I couldn't help but shaking and bawling,
But as it flew off It left me a plume,
And I still keep that feather right on me.

In time I found love again,
Calling my name,
And boy did he say it so sweetly,
But every morning I still hear her song
My little red lark singing above me.
a mhuirnin - My dear love

This poem was written as lyrics to the Irish traditional song "Little Red Lark" from the perspective of an American-Irish person.
Elaenor Aisling Mar 2021
His touch was
like sunlight on my skin
the sweeping skim of kelp across marbled coat
his webbed fingers tracking their rough edges
through the sand.
In the storm's howl he was calm
the chaos of waves in my belly slowed
an unearthly peace
of tide-pool eyes that stilled the seventh stream.  
The waves roll out and the waves roll in
and out my love rolls with them.
Seven tears shed at Spring tide
for love of a man
whose heart
is sea bound,
sealed.
Orkney Selkie Legend: http://www.orkneyjar.com/folklore/selkiefolk/ursilla.htm
Thomas W Case Jan 2021
Back in my bone crushing
poverty ridden days,
I collected cans for nickels;
enough cans meant ***** and
smokes for the day.
one morning I came across
an empty can of beer, it said,
Dead Irish Poet Beer.
i thought, how odd is this?
Just then, a car blew by blaring
a Van Morrison song.
I thought, ah yes, but he's alive.
I didn't take the can for the nickel.
I left it to its green garbage
can grave.
Nolan Willett Nov 2020
In their beauty, an unparalleled race
From a higher, supernatural place,
Driven to hidden, underground refuge
When mans’ cynical wars the earth deluged-
Leaving only the slightest, unclear trace.

They knew no pain, nor any suffering
And the world is darker from their leaving
And we are left to pick up the pieces,
While our own ambivalence increases,
Seeking to find a singular meaning.

You may call it naive wish fulfillment,
But I will search for reconcilement.
I will upturn the soil and the roots,
Until I may procure some lasting truce
Make amends for Ill-judged revilement

And then mankind again will have a guide
Some holy beings to gift us back our pride
What a dream, to again have dignity
To direct our kind to benignity
So we may be pulled back from the wayside

It’s all very romantic, isn’t it?
That some saviors will see us fit.
It takes the blame off us,
Makes our apathy superfluous,
Proves we are not hypocrites.

But maybe we should fix our own mistakes,
Go outside and clean our own ******* lakes,
Stop hiding behind flowery language and care
Waiting for a savior when they are rare,
Before our zeal irreversibly breaks.
Jamie F Nugent Nov 2020
Guarding the door,
like a bulbus Heimdall,
a blank pumpkin sits,
internally unhallowed,
without gashed gaping maw,
nor knife-notched nose,
nor eyeslits: triangular and odious.

Its inertia, serendipitous,
not for a moment did it greet
children asking
"Treat-or-Treat?!";
Never a one did it glow for.

Encased within, like
those stringy pumpkin guts,
is the puckish Pagan spirit,
craving bones ablaze in a fire;
Lost Loves manifested as moonlit
flaxen apparitions,
finding them Angelic
(yet unchanged),
easily as a ring
found in barmbrack.

A return to the turnip.

Ambling along ferns
rusted that same shade of pumpkin,
pondering the dead, and where
I long for them to reside now;
Rose, with her heaven,
Ryan, his Valhalla.

To each their Kingdom
of eternal inviolate peace.
Barmbrack, also often shortened to brack, is a quick bread with added sultanas and raisins. The bread is associated with Halloween in Ireland, where an item, normally a ring, is placed inside the bread, with the person who receives it considered to be fortunate.

On all Hallow's Eve, the Irish hollowed out Turnips, rutabagas, gourds, potatoes and beets. They placed a light in them to ward off evil spirits and keep Stingy Jack away. These were the original Jack O'Lanterns.
dplynch Aug 2020
Finches women of ill repute,
Proliferate the once silver street,
Sporting dreams ravaged by toot,
Rain falls as rain falls.
Colm Aug 2020
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
Con·tent·edly
https://youtu.be/W1PoiyRFrUI
Michael R Burch Aug 2020
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
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