#druid
Not just a fluid,
I am ink — the druid,
Shaping your ideas in a blink.
In depth of papers, I sink.
Not just a physical thing,
An end to your thoughts — I bring.
Not made to drink,
I am the almighty ink.
I flow on the paper,
With your thoughts — I caper.
Like the roots of a tree,
Even the history is written with me.
Not just a black fluid,
From the sac of a squid.
Not made to drink,
I am the almighty ink.
Jun 25, 2025
Jun 25, 2025 at 2:47 PM 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
Spit from your mouth like an insult
like the very word doesn't bloom
and fill me with the pride of it
_witch, pagan, devil_
Spit hate and misinformation
like your ancestors before you
keep your cycle and see where it goes
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 12:57 AM UTC
[We are rendered vulnerable
Gender-less and pleasure-ful
Honest
Giddy children of the prance
Tuned to the occasion
of seasonal rearrange
and jealous of nothing]
Oct 28, 2019
Oct 28, 2019 at 1:16 PM UTC
It's not yet the hour
that already flew past
The thin air runs smoothly
The hard thought
pulses fast
Beat-heart beats
All sound
as creature
retreats
Coming are the Winter ways
But tonite
we stand witness
to Tempus feint-play
Aside the River
Abreast the Well
Beneath the Earth
Cupping the Swell
With a Breath
Into the Breeze
We ignite new fire
And
‘Twixt these Veils
We effect our Tease
Oct 28, 2019
Oct 28, 2019 at 1:16 PM UTC
A sea of white
Favors hallowed ground
Where dotted lines track snow angels
And souls are lost to release
A druid spell conjures delirious bliss
Tasting the snowflakes
Kissing the cold air
Hugging the entire sky
A great and simple magick stirs
Holding mitten hands
Warming nuzzle noses
And the smell of her hair in winter
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 9:54 PM UTC
If not to touch the earth
and know your sun kissed skin,
if not to chase your shadow
through every place you've been.
If not to stand on mountains,
howling from the peaks,
if not to lie in fields
as melodic whispers weep.
If not to dance in forests
where tangled roots take hold,
if not to bathe in oceans
while eternities unfold.
If not to touch the earth,
upon me you would shine
and for that fleeting moment
I could call you mine.
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 9:18 AM UTC
Even the most beautiful flower
must carry the curse to wilt
and even in its dying hour
new life upon it is built.
No longer will it grace our eyes,
but through death it is still giving.
A new purpose is served through it's demise:
the chance to nourish the living.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 10:30 PM UTC
The raven is my eye in the sky
Swift and stealthy,
She cuts through the clouds
Her song rings in premonitions
Forewarning and foreshadowing
Any luck or omen that might meet me
The wolf and her pack are my ears
Listening for the buzzing in the forest
Striding through the leaves with discipline
She knows by the look in her eyes
By the fierce smile and sharp teeth
That she has my respect, and we are the same.
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 12:07 PM UTC
He walks in stolid darknesses
At days zenith, hears whispers
In the dew dusted fens, lights
Leaves into sun candle flames,
Drew a lake sword by maidens
Hand, alchemic shaper of water,
Air, old fires and earth, bending
Cold elements of moly and lode
Rushing forth, in extra emotions.
Jul 6, 2016
Jul 6, 2016 at 3:52 PM UTC
The Druids power has been lost for some time. But we all believe in Magic to some degree. So how do we multiply our presence without cried or Cree? We rise again starting next to the Old Oak Tree.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 4:04 PM UTC
Bright sunny days and cool nights we wake beside the fires light and to the tweet of the twite. we give a prayer for the day to go right. And for the plight of our ancestors. Whom we raise stones to celebrate. But who will know these rites if we don't tell? Aside from those who Dawn all white?
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 3:57 PM UTC
The forest is alive with Woods and timbers of Oak. Wild thickets and sheltered homes. Ivy growth's rise over coppice. Clumps of flowers and Clover bloom where light penetrates. The weald is our home.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 3:51 PM UTC
The spirit of Jacksonia lies in the tides. But sometimes we never see what the moon hides. The spirit of Albion lies everywhere at all times.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 3:32 PM UTC
Is it true that the Bard spirit Never Dies yes, yes, yes, Lord yes! The Bard cries other people's tears. The Bard wears other people's fears. The Bard gives abundant cheers. The bard masters the Lyre and plays the music of the Spheres. The Bard writes heavenly and perseveres knowing when they die they're soul reappears.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 4:50 AM UTC
The flight and call of the birds imbues us with the future. Our past comes from a well. The present lies in a river. Our elders are now gone in crumbling stone. If the bough of the Oak is as wide as 3 men all boundaries can be broken and our souls can pass on.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 4:39 AM UTC
Albion. Our circle. Our home. Our world. Our land of the rose. The land of lime and stone. Our ***** Our Native Land. Our Father Land. Our Mother Land. Our Home. Oh Albion!
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 4:12 AM UTC
Trees bud at the joints and flower. tulips try and keep up with the volume. crocus flowers have done their jobs ushering in change. leaves find their way pointing up to the heavens. the dandelions maybe turned into wine now. spring is upon us. time for rejoicing and divine intervention. Miracles, rebirth, and spiritual growth. brave souls Dawn a crown of knots. hero image is drawn out of instances. every man battles priggishness. this is not a time for mistakes.
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 4:03 AM UTC