"jacobite" poems
In my dream the other night,
I first heard a panicked mot's voice:
*"Is me, mo ghile mear!
Cathain a thoicfaidh tú abhaile chugam?"*
When light then entered my eyes,
I saw a young woman hunched o'er a table
She writing, quill in hand, to her man.
Like a ghost I hovered o'er her.
I saw the year, 1745
The year of the Jacobite.
I blinked my eyes
And my world went black.
Once opened again, I saw that time had passed
And a tear-stained letter lay on the desk.
Mo leannán fionn, the letter read
*Tá me i ndeoraíocht.
Is ár bprionsa caillte.
A stór, mo ghrá thú, ach
Níl riamh feicfidh mé tu arís.*
When I awoke that morn,
The ghosts of the lovers haunted me.
I pitied that mot, who lost her love forever to exile
I pitied that cove, exiled from his love forever.
Though only shades, their story
Is from the dawn of time.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 4:01 PM UTC
What is that flower I see?
While walking
Culloden pavilions
Sweet William
Sweet William
Sweet William
It may only be a flower
but it's story has power
to me
I see
Stinking Billy
Stinking Billy
Stinking Billy.
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 6:44 AM UTC
that’s genius! honestly,
we killed apache and aztec tribalism off
with money,
by said: copper signatured elizabeth ii
is worth more than gold signatured john...
there was never a second given
the magna carta...
only the individual will to will survives...
to get the biological categorisation treatment
is really horrid, morbid to resurrect death even;
otherwise it's all heidegger as:
only the individual will to be survives...
which really does but really doesn't appropriate
humanity, given there's no given example -
although ideally it's all maple syrop & pancakes dandy.
i hate the english intellectual output,
it’s so finite, so fascinated with post-anglo-saxon gore.
nonetheless...
copper worth more than gold
just, just because it had elizabeth ii written on it
as the unrighteous owner of copper?!
i dare say i will complain with a jacobite plot
to plough fireworks in parliament.
i guess it does translate as kingdom in nothern ireland:
bow and **** the kind m’lord;
i’ll write you a *********** of reality you wish you could have seen:
just so you could satiate your necessity of writing fiction...
because in terms of reality and writing fiction...
you haven’t seen enough of the first.
so you do the next best thing equated with western democracy...
you hide me.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 9:13 PM UTC
Here by the shore of the swift flowing Boyne
Where the Jacobite cause bled and died.
Here the piper had come to find his dead sons
that their loved native soil must soon hide.
What chance had they here against William’s cannon
Armed with muskets their grand sires bore?
Why had they been drawn to the sound of the guns?
A call they will hear nevermore.
While he searched he still harbored the faintest of hopes
That one of his sons still might bide.
But no, then he saw them as if they both slept
by the shore of the Boyne, side by side.
Beneath a great oak the man buried his hopes
His ***** turned the red clay aside.
His strong hands worked the earth for all he was worth
as a trickle of sweat stung his eyes.
I have heard that man play, on the cool evening’s breath,
Such a dirge as would make angels weep.
It’s a cry from his heart that escapes from his pipes
to the place where his two heroes sleep.
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 9:31 PM UTC