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Proinnsias
Tuesday, 7 June 2022
Monday, 31 December 2018
A Ghost, a Memory and a Welch Mortgage
I am moved to revisit my last posted poem, "Abandoned by the Dead," to include a phrase that was used in the dream state from which it sprang, but omitted in my initial recollection, the words "Let it Be," uttered by a ghost that I had heard of.
Much, (some say all), of what dreams throw up is "noise" from the recent activities of our mind. In the case of this poem, it follows from my commencing the reading a book on bereavement, The Year of Magical Thinking
by Joan Didion. In my dream world, the book caused the revival of memories of my own bereavements and memories of people who have passed over. The phrases "Devil the hair I care," and "Sorrow the one of them," are phrases, deriving indirectly from the Irish language, used by the old people, that are seldom heard now. "Devil the one," and "Sorrow the one," both mean "Not one."
Here is a recent ghost story, awakened in this dream activity. I have changed the names, because nothing is added by recounting the true names.
Paddy married Nellie, who owned a house and a small piece of land. They lived happily for several years on the land, but had no children. When Nellie died, she left the house and land to Paddy for his life and after his death to her nephew. Paddy grew old and feeble. One year, his cow died and then his donkey. Instead of re-stocking, he allowed his nephew, Jack, to amalgamate the land with Jack's own farm, and was supplied with his food and necessities by Jack.
Paddy always dressed very well, and, when he died, it was found that he had been supplied with suits and clothes on tick for many years by a shop in town. Welch mortgages have been a feature of farming life in Ireland. When a farmer was unable to pay his debt to the shopkeeper, the shopkeeper would get a court order for the recovery of the money owed. If the money was not paid, the shopkeeper would take possession of the house and land. This device was used widely by shopkeepers to extend their own land-holdings, particularly in dealing with old people. To avoid the shopkeeper taking the land, Jack paid off his uncle's debt. He also paid his funeral expenses, which are a considerable burden on a small holding.
Next, Nellie's nephew, who was legally entitled to the house and land on the death of Paddy, returned and took possession of the land. Jack thought he had some claim to the property, because he had looked after Paddy in his feeble years and had paid off his debts and funeral expenses. However, one day, as he was going past the house, his dog took fright, and, looking up, he saw Paddy's ghost, neatly dressed as ever. The ghost said "Let it Be," and then disappeared. Jack understood the ghost to mean that he should not raise a dispute with Nellie's nephew, the new owner.
Much, (some say all), of what dreams throw up is "noise" from the recent activities of our mind. In the case of this poem, it follows from my commencing the reading a book on bereavement, The Year of Magical Thinking
by Joan Didion. In my dream world, the book caused the revival of memories of my own bereavements and memories of people who have passed over. The phrases "Devil the hair I care," and "Sorrow the one of them," are phrases, deriving indirectly from the Irish language, used by the old people, that are seldom heard now. "Devil the one," and "Sorrow the one," both mean "Not one."Here is a recent ghost story, awakened in this dream activity. I have changed the names, because nothing is added by recounting the true names.
Paddy married Nellie, who owned a house and a small piece of land. They lived happily for several years on the land, but had no children. When Nellie died, she left the house and land to Paddy for his life and after his death to her nephew. Paddy grew old and feeble. One year, his cow died and then his donkey. Instead of re-stocking, he allowed his nephew, Jack, to amalgamate the land with Jack's own farm, and was supplied with his food and necessities by Jack.
Paddy always dressed very well, and, when he died, it was found that he had been supplied with suits and clothes on tick for many years by a shop in town. Welch mortgages have been a feature of farming life in Ireland. When a farmer was unable to pay his debt to the shopkeeper, the shopkeeper would get a court order for the recovery of the money owed. If the money was not paid, the shopkeeper would take possession of the house and land. This device was used widely by shopkeepers to extend their own land-holdings, particularly in dealing with old people. To avoid the shopkeeper taking the land, Jack paid off his uncle's debt. He also paid his funeral expenses, which are a considerable burden on a small holding.
Next, Nellie's nephew, who was legally entitled to the house and land on the death of Paddy, returned and took possession of the land. Jack thought he had some claim to the property, because he had looked after Paddy in his feeble years and had paid off his debts and funeral expenses. However, one day, as he was going past the house, his dog took fright, and, looking up, he saw Paddy's ghost, neatly dressed as ever. The ghost said "Let it Be," and then disappeared. Jack understood the ghost to mean that he should not raise a dispute with Nellie's nephew, the new owner.
Saturday, 29 December 2018
Posts and Edits
I post poems on this blog as they come to me.
Generally speaking, a poem comes to me at night, or is in my head as I wake up, and I post it, if at all, as soon as may be after waking. Inevitably, like Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Kubla Khan, there is a feeling that there is something missing from the recollected version, or the dream version has to be re-crafted to give body to what is recalled as vague bits and pieces. Over time, the poem is often improved.
If you were to view the papers of, for example, W B Yeats, you would see how poems are re-shaped with edits over a period of time. Edited by hand, the changes are visible in manuscript. Since I post my new creations directly here, and edit on the fly, my edits are, in fact, invisible, except when, occasionally, I keep a copy on my home computer.
I post these thoughts today having just edited the poem I posted yesterday: Abandoned by the Dead.
Generally speaking, a poem comes to me at night, or is in my head as I wake up, and I post it, if at all, as soon as may be after waking. Inevitably, like Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Kubla Khan, there is a feeling that there is something missing from the recollected version, or the dream version has to be re-crafted to give body to what is recalled as vague bits and pieces. Over time, the poem is often improved.
If you were to view the papers of, for example, W B Yeats, you would see how poems are re-shaped with edits over a period of time. Edited by hand, the changes are visible in manuscript. Since I post my new creations directly here, and edit on the fly, my edits are, in fact, invisible, except when, occasionally, I keep a copy on my home computer.
I post these thoughts today having just edited the poem I posted yesterday: Abandoned by the Dead.
Friday, 28 December 2018
Abandoned by the Dead
We are abandoned by the dead.
They leave us all alone-eo.
They hint there's nothing to be said,
Save that we must soon come over-o.
They care not about anything at all on earth,
Forgetting now what made them tick;
Equal are failure and success,
Striving no better to them than drift.
About our ambitions or problems now,
Devil the hair they care;
Disinterest registers in their eyes,
And into space they stare.
It's not, "It no longer matters", but,
"It never mattered at all".
Once you step over the boundary,
It is not worthy to recall.
It's not, "It no longer matters", but,
"It never mattered at all".
Once you step over the boundary,
It is not worthy to recall.
“Killarney” means naught but “cell of the haw.”
They rove around without laugh or cry.
When we call the names of those now gone,
Sorrow the one of them will reply.
Still we chew upon the pie,
Though hard is the over-bakéd crust,
And the over-shelféd fruit is dry:
We might as well chew upon the dust!
We are abandoned by the dead.
But one thing that they cry out, all,
With one almighty, shout of dread,
Is that we will soon come over-o.
Saturday, 19 May 2018
Ard Hessly
This song came to me in a dream, described in my Dream Diary. It refers to a historic event, where an enthusiastic priest, in Cromwell's time, raised a rabble army and marched them foolishly into a valley of death. However, the name "Ard Hessly" was a concoction of the dream and not the name of a real place. It can be sung to the air of "Only our rivers run free."
Welcome, men, to Ard Hessly,
Whose priests, holy men of the cloth,
Will lift your faith to a frenzy,
And all for the glory of God.
For the glory of God and for Ireland,
They'll raise your spirits so high,
You'll arm with poor home-made weapons,
And march into battle to die.
You will join the priests' rabble army
And march down the valley to death,
Entrapped by Cromwell's grim army,
Which will encircle you in its net.
The net will close in around you,
Leaving no route of escape.
They'll slaughter you with sharp weapons,
And then all your women will rape.
Woe to the priests of Ard Hessly,
Who've wasted the best of our men,
Who could have learned war in the mountains,
And then fought for Ireland again,
And again.
Welcome, men, to Ard Hessly,
Whose priests, holy men of the cloth,
Will lift your faith to a frenzy,
And all for the glory of God.
For the glory of God and for Ireland,
They'll raise your spirits so high,
You'll arm with poor home-made weapons,
And march into battle to die.
You will join the priests' rabble army
And march down the valley to death,
Entrapped by Cromwell's grim army,
Which will encircle you in its net.
The net will close in around you,
Leaving no route of escape.
They'll slaughter you with sharp weapons,
And then all your women will rape.
Woe to the priests of Ard Hessly,
Who've wasted the best of our men,
Who could have learned war in the mountains,
And then fought for Ireland again,
And again.
Saturday, 7 October 2017
Hallowe'en Dance
Father, mother
And my own dear
brother,
Come to join me
Till the light of
dawn.
Father, mother,
And my own dear brother,
Dancing, singing
Till the light of
dawn.
Will
you stay?
Will you stay?
Will you stay and
join me,
Dancing, singing,
Till the light of
dawn.
(Repeat)
Granny, granddad,
Those who went
before you,
Come to join me
Till the light of
dawn.
Granny, granddad,
Those who went
before you,
Dancing, singing,
Dancing on the lawn.
Will
you stay? Etc.
All good neighbours,
In their generations,
Come to join me
Till the light of
dawn.
All good neighbours,
In their
generations,
Dancing, singing,
Dancing on the lawn.
Will
you stay? Etc.
All good spirits
Gathering together,
Come to join me
Till the light of
dawn.
All good spirits
Gathering together,
Dancing, singing,
Dancing on the lawn.
Will
you stay? Etc.
Smiling, laughing,
Feasting and
drinking,
Dancing, singing,
Till the light of
dawn.
Smiling, laughing,
Feasting and
singing,
Dancing, singing,
Dancing on the lawn.
Will you stay? Etc.
Father, mother,
And my own dear brother,
Come to join me
Till the light of
dawn.
Father, mother,
And my little
brother,
Dancing, singing,
Dancing on the lawn.
Will
you stay?
Will you stay?
Will you stay and
join me,
Dancing, singing,
Till the light of
dawn.
(Repeat twice)
Tuesday, 22 August 2017
Nelson
(A poem I wrote when I was a teenager, around 1959, a few years before Nelson was toppled from his pillar in Dublin)
Take Nelson down.
Fit
He dominate our town,
Is it?
Foreign man who fought French fleets,
Though remarkable his many feats,
What do we to this man owe
That such respect for him we show?
He, with his one-eyed frown,
Stares our street up and down.
Cars and buses all around
Look little midges on the ground.
It is not fit!
Take Nelson down.
Take Nelson down.
Fit
He dominate our town,
Is it?
Foreign man who fought French fleets,
Though remarkable his many feats,
What do we to this man owe
That such respect for him we show?
He, with his one-eyed frown,
Stares our street up and down.
Cars and buses all around
Look little midges on the ground.
It is not fit!
Take Nelson down.
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