#celtic
I look for you in every woman I meet
Your heart's design in the words they speak
But no retreat, no retreat!
Let the cloths of fate weave over me
And when the fires of night are fading dim
Let softness fall on weary limbs
And brightness gather among the whins
July 2024
Mar 16
Mar 16, 2026 at 5:30 AM UTC
And so I stand by the Fairy Tree
Frosted grass beneath my feet
Crunching crisp between my toes
That curl and curl as the hours grow
Afraid to pluck red berries bright
Or snap a twig should the Sídhe arise
So I make a wish and in return
A dab of butter, soft and warm
I'll come again tomorrow morning
O'er frostbit hills, mid shepherd's warning
And with foggy breath, I'll ask a favour
If only they'd listen and send a saviour
Uplifted roots; bark all broken
The berries gone; the door unopened
They lay down to sleep; no intervention
And my heart grew strong of its own intention
Curl and curl as the hours grow
Crunching crisp between your toes
The frosted grass beneath your feet
If you await a wish from the Fairy Tree
April 2024
Mar 15
Mar 15, 2026 at 3:27 PM UTC
Curling buds,
Growing Moisture,
Fertility hops to.
Eostre watches;
Sprigs peek out,
Leaves spring gently
Into Existence.
Cernunnos
Is invoked, and
Brings life forth.
The old hag
Succumbs to
The horned
Man.
Her
Cold heart
Warms to
A gently
Breeze,
And brings
Blood to
Life.
Apr 28, 2025
Apr 28, 2025 at 9:43 PM UTC
On the Emerald Isle when the brier's green,
Occur strange sights seldom seen.
There's golden rainbows and small clay pipes,
And wee folk dancing every night.
I've heard stories of the leprechaun, but
Before I see 'em they're usually gone.
Yet one green misty night in the brier,
I saw them jigging round the fire.
Sean and I were in green Irish woods,
Gathering shamrocks and just being good.
While searching near a hidden creek,
We heard faint giggles from fifty feet.
Near the giggles grew a small green fire,
Perhaps six inches high - no higher.
We crouched low for a better look,
To our surprise we saw a small green cook.
He wore a tall green hat and pulled-up socks,
And stirred a *** of simmering shamrocks.
Smoke curled from his pipe of clay,
Why, I remember his grin still today.
A band of gold encircled his brim,
My little finger seemed bigger than him.
He had golden buckles and a puggish nose,
Glimmering eyes and curly toes.
Sweet music floated on wings of air,
Fifty-one leprechauns were dancing near.
They passed the poteen with a smack of their lips,
As each in turn took a good Gaelic sip.
Suddenly the gaiety quickly slowed down.
Sure we were that we'd been found.
But they all looked north with reverent faces,
Bowed their heads, stood still in their places.
The banshee's wailing was heard afar,
O'erhead the Death Coach had a full car.
The wee folk respect, it must be said,
Erin's children when they're dead.
Soon flying fast through the green night air,
We spied King Darby hurrying near.
He rode atop his beloved steed,
O'er dales and glens, woods and mead.
His hummingbird lighted on a leaf,
And all the wee folk knelt beneath.
With a golden smile he waved to all,
To officially begin The Leprechaun Ball.
Tiny green fiddlers fiddled their fiddles,
That sounded just like ten thousand giggles.
Dancers danced on mists of green,
Pipers piped, but none were seen.
They danced and ate and passed the ladle,
And kicked up their heels to Irish reels.
We enjoyed the sight late into the night,
But suddenly they gave us a terrible fright.
They saw us cowering behind the trees,
So they cast a spell which made us freeze.
We'd heard what happens to caught spies,
That now are spiders, toads or flies.
Well, old King Darby drew us near,
Sean and I were in a terrible fear.
With a grin and a snap he made us small,
And requested our presence at the Leprechaun Ball.
We reeled and laughed with our new found friends,
'Til the green mist lifted to signal the end.
With a glean in his eye the good King said:
"'Tis sure'n the hour yous be abed."
He waved his shillelagh to return our height,
Wished us well and bade good-night.
And as they rode the winds away
I suddenly remembered it was St. Patrick's Day.
I'm sure the lot of you think me a blarney liar, but that night I assure you
I danced 'round a green fire.
Mar 14, 2025
Mar 14, 2025 at 8:28 AM UTC
Eerie stirrings in reedy beds
The watery depths holding pipers in yonder voes
Charging bulls run with musics charm
A crescendo of Tartan kilts harnessing all asunder
Sep 2, 2021
Sep 2, 2021 at 11:24 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
What I Found While Cleaning a Faeries’ Well
Perhaps it was because I cleared the vines
The ancient vines, with tools of iron, of steel
And traced the circles of the well’s lost lines
With my unhallowed hands, by touch and by feel
Or that I wore my boots, or forgot my prayers
To the White Lady said to haunt this place
Or whistled secular songs, careless airs
Until the dusk, when I came face-to-face…
I have lived to tell of this wildest of adventures
I found on the lichened stone – a set of dentures
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 9:12 AM UTC
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
Aug 1, 2020
Aug 1, 2020 at 5:28 AM UTC
It is cold tonight,
leave a saucer of sweet-milk
out for the fairies.
Apr 19, 2020
Apr 19, 2020 at 8:42 PM UTC
The Celtic Cross at Île Grosse
by Michael R. Burch
“I actually visited the island and walked across those mass graves [of 30,000 Irish men, women and children], and I played a little tune on me whistle. I found it very peaceful, and there was relief there.” – Paddy Maloney of The Chieftans
There was relief there,
and release,
on Île Grosse
in the spreading gorse
and the cry of the wild geese . . .
There was relief there,
without remorse
when the tin whistle lifted its voice
in a tune of artless grief,
piping achingly high and longingly of an island veiled in myth.
And the Celtic cross that stands here tells us, not of their grief,
but of their faith and belief—
like the last soft breath of evening lifting a fallen leaf.
When ravenous famine set all her demons loose,
driving men to the seas like lemmings,
they sought here the clemency of a better life, or death,
and their belief in God gave them hope, a sense of peace.
These were proud men with only their lives to owe,
who sought the liberation of a strange new land.
Now they lie here, ragged row on ragged row,
with only the shadows of their loved ones close at hand.
And each cross, their ancient burden and their glory,
reflects the death of sunlight on their story.
And their tale is sad—but, O, their faith was grand!
Keywords/Tags: Ile Grosse, Celtic, Cross, faith, belief, grief, Ireland, potato, famine
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 2:46 AM UTC
In the summer i hear
a street vender
Playing the brodhran drum
Those comforting
And relaxing thuds
***** makes
For money
Dec 28, 2019
Dec 28, 2019 at 8:29 AM UTC
.
I see myself in you—
With a spike we two spoke out,
Vagaries of wind, verisimilitudes
And the moon gives us her light.
Black bird, black robed Druid,
We both are spinning round
The hills draped in psalms
Of the oak and windy leaves.
Your words, I hear, go unsaid,
My utterings babble, ring in a rill,
Cold and cascading to mosses,
Bleeding from a lone escarpment.
.
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 2:37 PM UTC
This is a hieroglyph in the middle of the ocean,
a message to the center of space,
it is Stravinsky in a metal box;
a prayer in the grave.
It is not to be heard, read, or felt,
but is sent out into the darkness
like the wheezing breath from my last cigarette ,
the chill of the last river I altered with my step,
the forever in the space between our eyes,
and the time machine of you and I.
There is a snap of electricity that moves you from here to there
and there is our world in the hollow spaces of your brain.
You are the blood, you are the marrow,
you are in my depths and in my narrows.
There was a little boy who saw a tail on the sun,
wandered into the wrong back door
and stumbled out the front
with a pocket full of kisses,
and there was a girl who was far from home,
tiny hands and full of wishes.
Close your eyes.
Do not read this next part.
It's a secret I cannot share.
There is a picture that I look at often and it is of a ridge of mountains,
snow on top, jagged edges like a page ripped from a magazine
and I know now what I didn't know then
that after I snapped that shot everything would change,
that I would go home and become something I never could be again,
that I would discard gods like tissue
and drive my car as fast as it would go in the rain,
that I would share this picture on a tilting Saturday night
with a sigh and the subtle rustling of metal and cloth,
a susurration settling over us like a shroud,
and that I would surrender myself to the chaos,
lose everything within our delicious destruction
and spend the rest of my life wondering where all the pieces of me landed.
This is a riddle you are not meant to understand.
This is a Celtic Cross spread by a dead man's hand.
Jan 3, 2019
Jan 3, 2019 at 10:08 PM UTC
All alone with no place to call home
A vagrant called The Wanderer roams
Destitute and resigned to his solitude
No one to miss him or care that he’s gone
Immortalized with the mark of Sloan
He thrives amongst forgotten gravestones
To restore their legacy is why he intrudes
For systemic erasure he believes society must atone
All alone with no place to call home
A vagrant called The Wanderer roams
Destitute and resigned to his solitude
No one to miss him or care that he’s gone
Empathy drives this misguided untomb
Generations of oppressors he seeks to dethrone
Reality remains an unfamiliar interlude
For to delusion The Wanderer is prone
All alone with no place to call home
A vagrant called The Wanderer roams
Destitute and resigned to his solitude
No one to miss him or care that he’s gone
All alone with no place to call home
A hero called The Wanderer roams
Complacent in his intrepid pursuit
Unfaltering ‘till the world sees glory of Arawn
Dec 6, 2018
Dec 6, 2018 at 8:50 AM UTC
Faries live in the hawthorn,
Gnomes live under rocks,
Trolls stay under bridges,
And nessie’s stay in the Loughs.
Pookas come close to farmers,
Changlings come to babes,
Spirits in the mirrors,
Kelpies in the waves.
The little folk are trouble,
In the heat they bring the cold,
They trick the weary traveler,
With pots of magic gold.
They whisper on the breeze,
While hidden in the mist,
Without them doing anything,
Remind you they exist.
They write about themselves,
So we don’t think they’re real,
They carved the lines in oghm,
magic words in ancient ghael.
Yet still we leave them gifts,
Bits of whisky & pooka’s share,
We have never ever seen one,
Yet we know that they are there.
Jun 19, 2018
Jun 19, 2018 at 2:11 AM UTC
When the moon rises and the sun gives way,
The shadows creep forth as She enters the fray.
The strike of her spear will end your day;
The Morrighan's ravens will take you away.
She who darkens the battlefield skies;
She who listens to the soldiers' cries.
She flies over the fields on black wings,
Vigilant of those ready to hear how Death sings.
But She is protective and nurturing, should She choose,
Just as easily as She decides who will win or lose.
Glory and defeat, life and death,
She is The Morrighan, praise under your breath.
When the moon rises and the sun gives way,
The shadows creep forth as She enters the fray.
The strike of her spear will end your day;
The Morrighan's ravens will take you away.
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 5:05 AM UTC
I know that I hung on a windy tree,
cross
Nine long nights.
Hanukkah, Christmas, Saturnalia
Wounded with a spear, dedicated to Odin,
Longinus
Myself to myself...
Abandoned by God
On that tree of which no man knows
The Tree of Knowledge
from where it's roots run.
Laws by mankind
No bread did they give me nor drink from a horn,
Suffering, no mercy
I arose with the Word,
Ascension
and came back down to them.
Resurrection *
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 2:45 PM UTC
At school I had trouble socializing,
And still, The Owl, comes all too late?
My formative years are spent deep within caves searching,
Yet The Owl is never found there?
The failures and sadness accumulate over time,
Leaving The Owl traversing some other’s sky,
I feel life slipping away each day,
And still The Owl never manifests!
Where is The Owl? Does it not come with time?
Will cleverness induce her, perhaps woo her with rhyme?
Quell restless mind, The Owl reforge me so I’m freed!
Grant me your talons so that I may succeed!
And still, The Owl, who never manifests,
And still The Owl never manifests.
I curl chalky fingers into travertine-grip,
Aged ruin takes a hold, in my despair as I slip,
Sans which The Owl never did manifest,
To wit, sans The Owl, pounding sand as I jest,
So what, The Owl, never did manifest?
And still The Owl never manifests.
Life without The Owl, was no life at all,
No solemnity of greatness, a life of doltish pit-fall.
And still The Owl never manifests.
And still The Owl never manifests.
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 8:02 AM UTC
The Harbour quakes as we break your Boom,
The Nemesis Sails-Harbinger of doom,
A New Chapter - the Sly Celt Raptor,
Bain Shi proceed us-Scream in rapture
As The Bodhran shakes your eardrums shatter,
Lightning rakes- your defences Scatter,
It's raiding season!-Take your Oars!,
Boats filled to the brim with Ores and ******
our targets-fat Merchants waddle,
Crimson seas as the Forces Battle
The Morrigan Swaddles our mind with the caul (call)
no Mercy asked(None Given!) SLAY ALL
Widows scream as they're dragged to the Ship
Towns burn to ash in our wake as we rip,
A Blood red Swathe Through the Dawn in the east,
As the Nemesis Sails,The Harbinger Feasts...
Jan 15, 2018
Jan 15, 2018 at 7:08 PM UTC