Ag Stopadh sa Choill Oíche Shneacht

Ag Stopadh sa Choill Oíche Shneacht Aistriúchán le Cathal Ó Manacháin ar ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening’ le Robert Frost Is eol dom an choill seo agus cé leis í, Ach is sa bhaile a bhíonn sé ag cur faoi. Ní fheicfidh sé muid ag stopadh dúinn Le hamharc ar a choill ag bánú di. Is saoithiúil le mo chapaillín, Sinn stopadh gan áitreabh in aice linn, Idir an choill agus an t-oighearloch An oíche is dorcha den bhliain. Tosaíonn an clog ar a chuing a chlingíneach, Ag fiafraí díom cá bhfuil an teach, Ach seachas fannghaoth agus sneachta ag séideadh, Ní chluintear fuaim ó aon neach. Is breá liom an choill seo sa dúgheimhreadh, Ach tá gealltanais agam le comhlíonadh, Is na mílte le taisteal roimh chodladh, Is na mílte le taisteal roimh chodladh.

Rí na Sióg

Rí na Sióg Aistriúchán le Eoin Mc Evoy ar ‘Der Erlkönig’  le Johann Wolfgang von Goethe Cé seo ar an gcapall chomh deireanach san oíche? An t-athair is a mhac ag rás tríd an ngaoth. Tá an gasúr go daingean go socair lena ucht Coinníonn sé teolaí lena chroí é go docht. A mhaicín, cad chuige a bhfolaíonn tú d’aghaidh? A Dheaide, nach bhfeiceann tú an tsióg ar an gclaí? An Rí atá ann lena ruball is a choróin! A mhaicín, a thaisce, níl ann ach bréid cheo. Nach dtiocfaidh tú liom, a bhuachaillín lách? Go dté muid ag súgradh le chéile go lá Tá bláthanna áille thíos cois na trá Is éadaí mar ór i seomraí mo mháthar. A Dheaide, a Dheaide, nach gcloiseann tú chugainn Glór Rí na Sióg ’ mo mhealladh go ciúin? Fan socair, bí socair, ná bac leis, a chroí, Níl ann ach na duilleoga á mbreith ag an ngaoth. A pháiste chaoin dhil, nach dtiocfá anois? Tabharfaidh m’iníonacha an-aire duit Déanfaidh siad rince na sí ag an ráth Cealgfar a chodladh thú le suantraí bhreá. A Dheaide, a Dheaide, nach bhfeiceann tú thall Iníonacha an Rí i ndorchacht na gcrann! A mhaicín, a thaisce, sea, feicim go glé Seansaileacha liatha is iad geal faoin ré. Meallann do chló mé, a bhuachaill, a shearc, Is murar teacht ded’ dheoin é, imreoidh mé forneart! A Dheaide, a Dheaide, anois braithim a lámh! Tá Rí na Sióg dom ghortú, dom chrá! Tagann scéin ar an athair is géaráionn ar a phráinn Le gach cnead óna ghasúr ina lámha go fann, Isteach leis sa chlós go fuascrach garbh, Thíos ina bhaclainn bhí an gasúr marbh.

An Mhaighdean Óg

Dá mbeidh’ áitreabh agam féin No gabháltas a’s réim, Caoirigh breágh’ bána Ar árd-chnoc no sléibh, Sláinte agus méin Agus grádh ceart d’á réir, Bheidhinn-se ’s mo ghrádh geal Go sáimh ann san tsaéghal. Tá maighdean óg ’san tír ’S is réaltan eólais í, Grian bhreágh ar bórd í A’s togha de na mnáibh, A cum fada breágh ’S a cúilín crathach bán ’S gach alt léi ar lúth-chrith Ó búcla go brághaid. Dá mbeidhinn-se ’s mo rún Ar choill ag buain cnó No ar thaoibh lisín aoibhinn ’S gan dídionn orrainn acht ceó, Bheidheadh mo chroidhe-se d’á bhreóghadh Le díogras d’á póig ’S gur b’é grádh ceart do chlaoidh mé ’S do fhíor-sgair mo shnódh. Dá mbéidhinn-se ’s mo ghrádh Ar thaoibh chnuic no báin ’S gan feóirling ann ár bpóca Ná lón chum na slighe, Bheidh’ mo shúil-se le Críost Le ár ndóthaint gan mhoill A’s go dtógfadh mo stór geal An brón so de m’ chroidhe. Dá mbéidhinn-se ’s mo ghrádh Cois taoide no tráigh ’S gan aon neach beó ’nn ár dtimchioll An oidhche fhada, ’s lá, Do bhéidhinn-se ag cómhrádh Le Neilidh an chúil bháin Is liom-sa ’budh h-aoibhinn Bheith ag coímhdeacht mo ghrádh.		If I had a home of my own Or a holding and position, Fine white sheep On a high hill or mountain, Health in body and mind And love in turn, Myself and my bright love Would live there peacefully. There is a young maiden in the land And she is a star of knowledge, A splendid sun at table And a pick among women, Her long lovely form And her waving fair hair And her every joint aquiver with life From buckles to breast. If myself and my sweetheart Were gathering nuts in the wood Or beside a pleasant little rath With only fog our shelter, My heart would be sick With passion for her kiss, Such love would destroy, Would shatter me. If myself and my love were Beside the hill or moor, No farthing in our pocket, No food for the way, My hope in Christ To soon provide And my darling light To take this sorrow from my heart. If myself and my love Were beside the tide or strand With nothing alive around us, The long night and day I would be talking With Nelly of the fair hair, My own pleasure won To be with my love.
—from Abhráin Grádh Chúige Connacht, Douglas Hyde (1893); revised translation by Eric Rosenbloom (2018)

Tune by Eric Rosenbloom:

Dá dTéidhinn-se Siar

Dá dtéidhinn-se siar is aniar ni thiucfainn, Air an g-cnoc do b’áirde is air a sheasfainn, ’S í an chraobh chúmhartha is túisge bhainfinn ’Gus ’s é mo ghrádh féin ar luaithe leanfainn. Tá mo chroidhe chomh dubh le áirne, Ná le gual dubh dhoighfidhe i g-ceartaidh, Le bonn bróige air hállaidhibh bána, ’S tá lionndubh mór os cionn mo gháire. Tá mo chroidhe-se brúighte briste, Mar leac-oidhre air uachtar uisge, Mar bheidh’ cnuasach cnó léist a mbriste, Ná maighdean óg léis a pósta. Tá mo ghhrádh-s’ air dhath na sméara, ’S air dhath na súgh-craobh, lá breágh gréine, Air dhath na bhfraochóg budh duibhe an tsléibhe, ’Gus is minic bhí ceann dubh air chollainn glégil. Is mithid damh-s’ an baile seó fhágbháil, Is geur an chloch ’gus is fuar an láib ann, Is ann a fuaireas guth gan éadáil, Agus focal trom ó lucht an bhiodáin. Fuagraim an grádh, is mairg do thug é Do mhac na mná úd, ariamh nár thuig é, Mo chroidhe ann mo lár gur fhágbhuidh sé dubh é, ’S ni fheicim air an tsráid ná i n-áit air bith é.		If I could go west, I’d not return— On the highest hill I’d stand, The first fragrant branch I’d pick, My love I’d quickly follow. My heart is as black as sloe, As black coal burned in a forge, As bootsoles dirtying white floors, A deep melancholy above my smile. My heart indeed is bruised and broken, Like an ice-sheet on water, Like gathered nuts are after cracking, As a young maid after marrying. My love the color of blackberries, The color of raspberries a fine sunny day, The color of black mountain heath-berries— There’s often a black head on a pure body. I should leave this town, Where the stone is hard and the mud cold, Where song no longer avails, But heavy words from the chattering mob. I warn of love, and woe to who gave it To yon woman’s son, who never understood, My heart in my stomach, where he left it black, And I don’t see him on the street or anywhere at all.
—from Abhráin Grádh Chúige Connacht, Douglas Hyde (1893); revised translation by Eric Rosenbloom (2018) —can be sung to the tune of “Scarborough Fair”

Prayse and disprayese

‘The disfiguring of names is a serious business, though it is often very comical in Joyce’s work and in other places where the Irish penchant for theatricality manifests and amuses itself; yet it is traditionally an office reserved for the Irish bard who was both feared and admired for his ability to “nail a name” on a friend of foe. Terrence Des Pres explains the historical link between naming, satire, and bardic disfigurement in a discussion of Yeats and the ancient, bardic rat-rhymers, suggesting that “the blemish of a nickname” was one of the Gaelic bards’ best defenses against an enemy:

As late as the seventeenth century a famous bard (Teig, son of Daire) challenged his own patrons (the O’Briens) by threatening to “nail a name” on them with his “blister-raising ranns”. ... To “nail a name on a man” could ruin his tribal standing, destroy his reputation and the honor on which his personal worth depended. (Terrence Des Pres, Praises and Dispraises: Poetry and Politics, the Twentieth Century (1988), p. 42)

‘Des Pres explains that “mockery, invective and magical injury” were often involved in cursing of this sort (42), and that the potency or believed potency of the relevant rhymes, verses, and incantations endowed the rat-rhymers with a certain fame: “Irish bards were often more famous for their cursing than for their more constructive powers, their duties and privileges as ministers to the tribe” (38).’

—Claire A. Culleton, Names and Naming in Joyce (1994)

‘Irenius: There is amongest the Irishe, a certen kinde of people called the bardes, which are to them insteade of Poetts, whose profession is to sett forth the prayses and disprayese of men in theire Poems or rymes; the which are had in soe high regarde and estimacon amongest them, that none dare displease them for feare to runne into reproach through theire offence, and to be made infamous in the mouthes of all men. For theire verses are taken up with a generall applause, and usuallye sonnge att all feaste meetings, by certen other persons whose proper function that is, which also receave for this same, great rewardes, and reputacon besides.

‘Eudoxus: Doe you blame this in them, which I would otherwise have thought to have ben worthie of good accompte, and rather to have ben mayntayned and augmented amongest them, then to have ben disliked? for I have reade that in all ages Poetts have bene had in specyall reputacon, and that me seemes not without greate cause; for besides theire sweete invencons, and most wyttie layes, they are alwayes used to sett forth the praises of the good and vertuous, and to beate downe and disgrace the bad and vicyous. Soe that many brave younge mindes have oftentymes, through the hearinge the prayses and famous Eulogies of worthie men songe and reported unto them, benn stirred up to affecte the like commendacons, and soe to stryve unto the like desertes. ...

‘Irenius: It is most true that such Poettes, as in theire wrytinge doe labor to better the Manners of men, and through the sweete bayte of theire nombers, to steale into the younge spirittes a desire of honor and vertue, are worthy to be had in greate respecte. But these Irish bardes are for the most parte of another mynde, and soe far from instructinge younge men in Morrall discipline, that they themselves doe more deserve to be sharplie decyplined; for they seldome use to chuse unto themselves the doinges of good men, for the ornamentes of theire poems, but whomesoever they finde to bee most lycentious of lief, most bolde and lawles in his doinges, most daungerous and desperate in all partes of disobedience and rebellious disposicon, him they sett up and glorifie in their rymes, him they prayse to the people, and to younge men make an example to followe.

‘Eudoxus: I mervayle what kinde of speaches they cann finde, or what face they cann put on, to prayse such lewde persons as lyve so lawleslie and licensiouslie upon stealthes and spoiles, as most of them doe; or howe can they thincke that any good mynde will applaude the same?

‘Irenius: There is none soe bad, Eudoxus, but that shall finde some to fauor his doinges; but such licentious partes as these, tendinge for the most parte to the hurte of the English, or mayntenance of theire owne lewd libertye, they themselves, beinge most desirous therto, doe most allowe. Besides these evill thinges beinge deckt and suborned with the gay attyre of goodlie wordes, may easilie deceave and carry awaye the affeccon of a younge mynde, that is not well stayed, but desirous by some bolde adventure to make profe of himselfe; for beinge (as they all bee) brought up idlelie, without awe of parents, without precepts of masters, without feare of offence, not beinge directed, nor imployed in anye coorse of lief, which may carry them to vertue, will easilie be drawen to followe such as any shall sett before them: for a younge mynde cannot but rest; yf he bee not still busied in some goodnes, he will finde himselfe such busines as shall soone busye all about him. In which yf he shall finde any to prayse him, and to geve hym encorragement, as those Bardes and rymers doe for little rewarde, or a share of a stollen cowe, then waxeth he moste insolent and halfe mad with the love of himselfe, and his owne lewde deedes. And as for wordes to sett forth such lewdenes, yt is not hard for them to geve a goodlie glose and paynted showe thereunto, borrowed even from the prayses which are proper unto vertue yt selfe. As of a most notorius theife and wicked outlawe, which had lyved all his tyme of spoiles and robberies, one of theire Bardes in his praise findes, That he was none of those idle mylkesoppes that was brought up by the fyer side, but that most of his dayes he spent in armes and valiant enterprises; that he never did eate his meate before he had wonne yt with his sworde; that he laye not slugginge all night in a cabben under his mantle, but used commonly to kepe others wakinge to defend theire lyves, and did light his Candle at the flame of their howses to leade him in the darknes; that the day was his night, and the night his daye; that he loved not to lye woinge of wenches to yealde to him, but where he came he toke by force the spoile of other mens love, and left but lamentacon to theire lovers; that his musicke was not the harpe, nor layes of love, but the Cryes of people, and clashinge of armor, and that fynally, he died not wayled of manye, but [made] many wayle when he died, that dearlye bought his death. Doe you not thinke, Eudoxus, that many of these prayses might be applied to men of best desert? yet are they all yeilded to moste notable traytors, and amongest some of the Irish not smallye accompted of. For the same, when yt was first made and soung vnto a person of high degree, they were bought as their manner is, for fortie crownes.

‘Eudoxus: And well worth sure. But tell me I pray you, have they any arte in their composicons? or bee they any thinge wyttye or well favored, as poems shoulde bee?

‘Irenius: Yea truly; I haue caused diuers of them to be translated unto me that I might understande them; and surelye they savored of sweete witt and good invencon, but skilled not of the goodly ornamentes of Poetrie: yet were they sprinckled with some prettye flowers of theire owne naturall devise, which gave good grace and comlines unto them, the which yt is greate pittye to see soe good an ornament abused, to the gracinge of wickednes and vice, which woulde with good usage serve to bewtifie and adorne vertue. This evill custome therefore needeth reformacon.’

—Edmund Spenser, A vewe of the present state of Ireland: discoursed by waie of a dialogue betwene Eudoxus & Irenius (1596) (via Corpus of Electronic Texts, University College, Cork)

“’Tis not war we want to wage With Thomond thinned by outrage. Slight not poets' poignant spur— Of right ye owe it honor. “Can there cope a man with me In burning hearts bitterly? At my blows men blush I wis, Bright flush their furious faces. “Store of blister-raising ranns These are my weighty weapons, Poisoned, striking strong through men, They live not long so stricken. “Shelter from my shafts or rest Is not in furthest forest— Far they fall, words soft as snow, No wall can ward my arrow. “To quench in quarrels good deeds, To raise up wrongs in hundreds, To nail a name on a man, I fail not—fame my weapon.”

—Douglas Hyde, from a poem by Teige Mac Daire (The Golden Treasury of Irish Songs and Lyrics (1907), edited by Charles Welsh)

(‘At the commencement of the seventeenth century, most of the senachies in the kingdom were engaged in a poetical controversy respecting the claims to superiority between the great northern family of O'Neal and the great southern one of O'Brien, a subject on which several thousand verses were employed. These have been collected, and are termed by Irish scholars, ‘the Contention of the Bards;’ the contest arose out of a composition of Teige Mac Daire's, who was retained as poet by Donogh O'Brien, the fourth Earl of Thomond, and was answered by Louis O'Clery, poet to O'Neal. Rejoinder and reply almost innumerable ensued, and the majority of the bards of that period became involved in the dispute.’ —Thomas Crofton Croker, Researches in the South of Ireland (1969) (via Corpus of Electronic Texts))

Climacteric, a poem

CLIMACTERIC
by Eric Rosenbloom
copyright 2017

Not the self-consuming fire In glorious explosion Leaving the quiet worm To slowly grow a new self In the sudden ashes of the old — Our turnings are slow ones The growing frailty of parents And their dying The growing independence of children And their leaving The dogs and cats that grew with them Their lives now ending Griefs accruing ... The slow ending of an age And the aged required to start anew ... The fire is in the worm Nurturing, destroying in turn The ashes accumulate Overwhelming Until we shake them off And turn to face the new day — The phoenix of our yesterdays In the phoenix of our tomorrows — Burning, burning

The Rebel

I am come of the seed of the people, the people that sorrow, That have no treasure but hope,. No riches laid up but a memory Of an Ancient glory. My mother bore me in bondage, in bondage my mother was born, I am of the blood of serfs; The children with whom I have played, the men and women with whom I have eaten, Have had masters over them, have been under the lash of masters, And, though gentle, have served churls; The hands that have touched mine, the dear hands whose touch is familiar to me, Have worn shameful manacles, have been bitten at the wrist by manacles, Have grown hard with the manacles and the task-work of strangers, I am flesh of the flesh of these lowly, I am bone of their bone, I that have never submitted; I that have a soul greater than the souls of my people’s masters, I that have vision and prophecy and the gift of fiery speech, I that have spoken with God on the top of His holy hill.   And because I am of the people, I understand the people, I am sorrowful with their sorrow, I am hungry with their desire: My heart has been heavy with the grief of mothers, My eyes have been wet with the tears of children, I have yearned with old wistful men, And laughed or cursed with young men; Their shame is my shame, and I have reddened for it, Reddened for that they have served, they who should be free, Reddened for that they have gone in want, while others have been full, Reddened for that they have walked in fear of lawyers and of their jailors With their writs of summons and their handcuffs, Men mean and cruel! I could have borne stripes on my body rather than this shame of my people.   And now I speak, being full of vision; I speak to my people, and I speak in my people’s name to the masters ofmy people. I say to my people that they are holy, that they are august, despite their chains. That they are greater than those that hold them, and stronger and purer, That they have but need of courage, and to call on the name of their God, God the unforgctting, the dear God that loves the peoples For whom He died naked, suffering shame. And I say to my people’s masters: Beware, Beware of the thing that is coming, beware of the risen people. Who shall take what ye would not give. Did ye think to conquer the people, Or that Law is stronger than life and than men’s desire to be free? We will try it out with you, ye that have harried and held. Ye that have bullied and bribed, tyrants, hypocrites, liars!   —Pádraig Pearse

The Fool

Since the wise men have not spoken, I speak that am only a fool; A fool that hath loved his folly, Yea, more than the wise men their books or their counting houses, or their quiet homes, Or their fame in men’s mouths; A fool that in all his days hath done never a prudent thing, Never hath counted the cost, nor recked if another reaped The fruit of his mighty sowing, content to scatter the seed; A fool that is unrepentant, and that soon at the end of all Shall laugh in his lonely heart as the ripe ears fall to the reaping-hooks And the poor are filled that were empty, Tho’ he go hungry.   I have squandered the splendid years that the Lord God gave to my youth In attempting impossible things, deeming them alone worth the toil. Was it folly or grace? Not men shall iudge me, but God.   I have squandered the splendid years: Lord, if I had the years I would squander them over again, Aye, fling them from me! For this I have heard in my heart, that a man shall scatter, not hoard, Shall do the deed of to-day, nor take thought of to-morrow’s teen, Shall not bargain or huxter with God; or was it a jest of Christ’s And is this my sin before men, to have taken Him at His word?   The lawyers have sat in council, the men with the keen, long faces, And said, “This man is a fool,” and others have said, “He blasphemeth;” And the wise have pitied the fool that hath striven to give a life In the world of time and space among the bulks of actual things, To a dream that was dreamed in the heart, and that only the heart could hold.   O wise men, riddle me this: what if the dream come true? What if the dream come true? and if millions unborn shall dwell In the house that I shaped in my heart, the noble house of my thought? Lord, I have staked my soul, I have staked the lives of my kin On the truth of Thy dreadful word. Do not remember my failures, But remember this my faith.   And so I speak. Yea, ere my hot youth pass, I speak to my people and say: Ye shall be foolish as I; ye shall scatter, not save; Ye shall venture your all, lest ye lose what is more than all; Ye shall call for a miracle, taking Christ at His word. And for this I will answer, O people, answer here and hereafter, O people that I have loved shall we not answer together?   —Pádraig Pearse

“Renunciation”

Fornocht a chonac thú, a áille na háille, is dhallas mo shúil ar eagla go stánfainn. Chualas do cheol, a bhinne na binne, is dhúnas mo chluas ar eagla go gclisfinn. Bhlaiseas do bhéal a mhilse na milse, is chruas mo chroí ar eagla mo mhillte. Dhallas mo shúil, is mo chluas do dhúnas; Chruas mo chroí, is mo mhian do mhúchas. Thugas mo chúl ar an aisling do chumas, is ar an ród seo romham m’aghaidh a thugas. Thugas mo ghnúis ar an ród seo romham, ar an ngníomh a chím, is ar an mbás a gheobhad.		Naked I saw thee, O beauty of beauty. And I blinded my eyes For fear I should fail. I heard thy music, O melody of melody, And I closed my ears For fear I should falter. I tasted thy mouth, Sweetness of sweetness, And I hardened my heart For fear of my slaying. I blinded my eyes. And I closed my ears, I hardened my heart And I smothered my desire. I turned my back On the vision I had shaped And to this road before me I turned my face. I have turned my face To this road before me, To the deed that I see And the death I shall die.
—Pádraig Pearse

Annie Gower

By Eric Rosenbloom, copyright 2013

She bore me and she bears me still     My mother Annie Gower. She played with me and plays to kill     My sister Annie Gower. She took me in and takes it well     My lover Annie Gower. She made our bed and makes a meal     My wife my Annie Gower. She mourns me and each morn she will     My widow Annie Gower. She reads my words and red her quill     My daughter Annie Gower. I built a bower on the hill     And wooed my Annie Gower. And we embraced beneath the elm     That grew for Annie Gower. We sang my rise and when I fell     And dreamed of Annie Gower.

On Rising

by Eric Rosenbloom, copyright 2012

No man shall lend an eye Ere dairy maid knead dough And dug at morn is sucked For tits to fingers tell Where air bore scents of bread Of love and masters dread

Homecoming, a poem

HOMECOMING
by Eric Rosenbloom
copyright 2012

Where are you turning toward now? All your shipmates have gone And the days alone are long Of sameness and sameness before the prow. Remember the one that remains Embraced by ethereal arms Or washed by the earthiest rains — Your time like the darkness comes. You forgot all the names And work turns to play While your voice is echoing the air — And she rose above the waves To call you forth that fateful day When you joined the waters forever.

Mountain maid, maiden mount — a song

by Eric Rosenbloom copyright 2011 A wisp of a thing, a thought on the air That often it seems she isn’t there A touch of moisture, a stir in the breeze You see her passing in the leaves of trees The birds gather seeds And people their deeds She rises and darkens in the mountain’s arms Colors with passion and furious alarms The dizzying heights now fill her with dread Now longing that knows no rest, no bed The birds gather seeds And people their deeds His grip is tight, she cannot fly From fate and this his cruel eye To swoon upon his hardened crags And croon his hills and downy legs The birds gather seeds And people their deeds He crouches beneath her, dark in her dark To know the journey he can’t embark In his craggy rocks and clinging firs That are in her, washed by all that’s hers The birds gather seeds And people their deeds All that she has and strained to hold Bursts forth — she is of a sudden old Her color fades as her life runs down The rocks and trees that ring his crown The birds gather seeds And people their deeds The waters gather and a river born Of a clash divine, of a spirit torn And the sun now shines and the valley sings And the river means so many things The birds gather seeds And people their deeds The ocean calls his wandering daughter To lose herself in his circling water While the mountain looms with a fiery glare And calls forth another maid who was fair The birds gather seeds And people their deeds

Two poems by Eric Rosenbloom

THE FALLEN FAR

Clouds waft from over the ocean         And rain upon the land Rivers flowing return to ocean         Waters seeped through the land Out of the ocean a ship finds the river         And sails against her waters Its people build on her shores of mud         With rushes, wood, and stone And their towers tumbling back to the land         Are the last that the river washes Of the memories returned to ocean         Of its people seeped in the land

THE FAYRE QUEAN

Lilith the earth has drawn the waters to her And grown a tree that branches over the ocean And screens the sky from its jealous view Adam takes the proffered fruit And dwells with Lilith among the limbs And leaves of her mortal garden She is fair and he her king, but Eve Her clouded brow is drawing him apart To live again with her as ever He promises return but knows not which And Lilith dies, and he dies too, or lives With Eve our queen to return, to return

Adam and the Queen of Eden

ADAM AND THE QUEEN OF EDEN

by Eric Rosenbloom
copyright 2010

One day while strolling to take the air, Sir Adam spied a garden fair         Its keeper called         He was enthralled With Eve at home atearing her hair. He entered on her invitation Flattered by her fine flirtation         And there he stayed         With the merry maid His life now and ever a boon vacation. But dragons keep from him a tree Where golden fruit would often be         Athought of gifts         His sword he lifts And gathers food, Lilith to see. But Lilith the maid is not to be found, Her garden is withered to the ground         The fruit of his shame         He brings the same To Eve — who with Cain has moved to town.

Misses Monahan (a poem)

MISSES MONAHAN by Eric Rosenbloom copyright 2010 Are you not the son of Manannan Mac Lir? The queen Etain? Have you not already fought The hosts arrayed against you, won the hearts of kings And people? Wake! child! your fate is rising before you. Shuffle the deck and read the signs once more. The gateways that have brought you here have fallen Away, and you are at the origins of something new. You have fasted in the tomb of rebirth — Wake now to the light that shines before us, The spring is in your stepping through the door, It nourishes the earth, and we sing the song from your lips That shape our morning and lead us where you will.