The Man of Songs - To My Father - The Irish Widow's Message to her Son in America
The
Man of Songs
Paddy Tunney
"That day
I scored the winning goal!"
the cobbler said and seized the tongs
he spat upon the half-burnt coal
"A stranger boys, the man of songs!"
He stooped beneath
the lintel low
a troubador from legend lands
and settling near the greeshagh glow
round blackthorn hasped a harper's hands.
The mountain
marrow braced his bone
hard granite set in monarch mould
his tongue untethered sweetest tone
of silver sound, well veined with gold.
An urchin from
the shadows sprang
and straddle-legged on an upturned creel
he lilted loud; the rafters rang
with riot of a mountain reel.
A fiddler drew
a long bent bow
the eager dancers couldn't wait
as fast they rallied heel and toe
and flaked it out to Bonny Kate.
From flagstones
faster fly the splanks
all fiddle-frenzied, hard they flail
then sudden wheel to face the ranks
and hobnails bring a handclap hail.
"And now
we'll have the man of songs'"
the cobbler said, and silence fell
as if the love the lone heart longs
for, cast before it's binding spell.
And music bounded
in the breeze
by dark, trout-throw and salmon-leap
where shepard pined and pressed his cheese
and moorcocks cackled in their sleep.
He sang a song
the mountains sing
when mating thunders in the blood
and torrent-torn temples fling
from high the fury of the flood.
The last line
spoken and the speed
of lightening swept us from the peaks
like Ossian from the famed white steed
for spirit sings but mortal speaks
And as the cobbler
raked the fire
and held once more the flat-toed tongs
he sought the land of heart's desire
and lingered with 'the man of songs'.
Poetry and Poets - Home - Cork - Line Index - Title index
In years to
come when I am grown
And sense and truth come to your words,
When deafened youth no longer screams
Defiantly in wisdom's face,
I see them now the memory triggering sights...
Alone on the
edge of morning,
The sun shedding light on confusion,
I picture you chanting the magical words of mystical men,
Furtively trying to enlighten,
The mind a sleepy tangled web of dreams.
Walking the
infinite deserted shore,
I sense the eternal presence of your spirit,
As a wrathful gull screams it's warnings
To hesitant fledglings
So too is your constant echoing cry
Engraved upon my soul, forever guiding.
Resting alone
in cool, menacing shade,
Having parted ways and faced responsibilities
A reminder of your greatest gift ever,
The sun creeping towards me.
Bringing warmth and security,
Such feelings always present,
Because of your love for me.
Poetry and Poets - Home - Cork - Line Index - Title index
The Irish
Widow's Message to her son in America
Ellen Forrester
"Remember,
Denis, all I bade you say,
Tell him we're well and happy, thank the Lord!
But of all our troubles since he went away,
You'll mind, avic, and never say a word, -
Of cares and troubles sure we've had all our share,
The finest summer isn't always fair.
"Tell him
the spotted heifer calved in May, -
She died, poor thing, but that you needn't mind -
Now how the constant rain destroyed the hay;
But tell him, God to us was always kind,
And when the fever spread the country o'er.
His mercy kept the sickness from the door.
"Be sure
you tell him how the neighbours came
And cut the corn and stored it in the barn;
'Twould be as well to mention them by name -
Pat Murphy, Ned McCabe, and James McCarn,
And big Tim Daly from behind the hill -
But say, agra, Oh, say, I miss him still!
"They came
with ready hands our toil to share -
'Twas then I missed him most my own right hand!
I felt, although kind hearts were round me there,
The kindest heart beat in a foreign land.
Strong arm! Brave heart! Oh, severed far from me
By many a weary mile of shore and sea!
"You'll
tell him she was with us (he'll know who),
Mavourneen! Hasn't she winsome eyes?
The darkest, deepest, brightest, bonniest blue
That ever shone, except in summer skies;
And such black hair! - it is the blackest hair
That ever rippled o'er a neck so fair.
"tell him
that Pincher fretted many a day -
Ah, poor old fellow, he had like to die!
Crouched by the roadside, how he watched the way,
And sniffed the travellers as they passed him by.
Hail, rain and sunshine, sure, 'twas all the same,
he listened for the foot that never came.
"Tell him
the house is lonesome-like and cold,
The fire itself seems robbed of half its light;
but maybe 'tis my eyes are growing old,
And things grow dim before my failing sight;
For all that, tell him, 'twas myself that spun
The shirts you bring, and stitched them every one.
"Give him
my blessing : morning, noon and night,
Tell him my prayers are offered for his good,
That he may keep his maker still in sight,
And firmly stand as his brave fathers stood,
True to his name, his country and his God,
Faithful at home and steadfast still abroad.
Poetry and Poets - Home - Cork - Line Index - Title index
