'TWAS THEN THE TIME...WE WERE IN THE DAYS"
His head full
of Irish myth.
The here & there
of this & that
bits that stick
in the mind
for as long as
forever is.
Sticky backs hitching
a ride on a boy's blue jumper.
This the emotional
archeology of me
sifting what's left
of times
long long gone by
in the time of his own
long long gone byes.
A winter of '63.
That 67-ish summer.
An Easter
that brought death.
There was a woman
(was there a woman?)
turned into a pool
turned into a fly
blown away by a wind
her name eroded
by a sea of time.
And the legendary heroes
like little boys
building a snowman
that would be the biggest
of the biggest
and
that the women would
compete to see
who could ***
furtherest through this
man of snow.
Some things are
not made
. . .to forget.
Oh such
artifacts of thoughts!
Such shards of stories
come back
to see what
kind of man
the little boy
would become.
He smiles as he remembers
& un-remembers
the such
of such
the unforgettable
calling to him
in mythic voices
the tallest tales
still easier
to resurrect
that his time
of 9
when he was going on
10.
A stickyback is what we called burrs which do hitchhike on the backs of cows and small blue jumpered bows.
The nameless woman is of course that old tale of Étaín Echraide changed into such changings by her husband Midir's former wife Fuamnach in that wondrous tale of various incarnations and reincarnations.
So she actually is changed to water on a pool then a worm then a fly which is blown away and falls into a cup of wine that is drunk by a lady who then gives birth to...another Étaín. And so...it goes.
As a little boy making snowmen bigger than my self I was surprised to learn that even the legendary heroes got up to the same thing! Their women peeing through it was a different thing altogether. These are the flotsam and jetsam of tales told by my sisters that somehow find their way back into my mind even though I have gone through many incarnations since...the present one being of course...the auld fella I am this day.
The title comes from that old Irish school chestnut by Mr. Mangan.
King Cahal Mór Of The Wine-Red Hand
I WALKED entranced
Through a land of Morn:
The sun, with wondrous excess of light,
Shone down and glanced
Over seas of corn
And lustrous gardens aleft and right.
Even in the clime
Of resplendent Spain,
Beams no such sun upon such a land;
But it was the time,
’T was in the reign,
Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.
Anon stood nigh
By my side a man
Of princely aspect and port sublime
Him queried I—
“Oh, my Lord and Khan,
What clime is this, and what golden time?”
When he—“The clime
Is a clime to praise,
The clime is Erin’s, the green and bland;
And it is the time,
These be the days,
Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.”
Then saw I thrones
And circling fires,
And a Dome rose near me, as by a spell,
Whence flowed the tones
Of silver lyres,
And many voices in wreathèd swell;
And their thrilling chime
Fell on mine ears
As the heavenly hymn of an angel-band—
“It is now the time
These be the years,
Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.”
I sought the hall,
And behold!—a change
From light to darkness, from joy to woe!
Kings, nobles, all,
Looked aghast and strange;
The minstrel group sate in dumbest show!
Had some great crime
Wrought this dread amaze,
This terror? None seemed to understand
’Twas then the time,
We were in the days,
Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.
I again walked forth;
But lo! the sky
Showed flecked with blood, and an alien sun
Glared from the north,
And there stood on high,
Amid his shorn beams, a skeleton!
It was by the stream
Of the castled Maine,
One Autumn eve, in the Teuton’s land,
That I dreamed this dream
Of the time and reign
Of Cahal Mór of the Wine-red Hand.
James Clarence Mangan
