Monday, January 01, 2018
Saturday, May 13, 2017
The Refugee
The cracks and groans of the house in the wind
like an old ship tied up dry.
The shrivelled dreams and shreds of flag
flap their last goodbye.
To foreign lands in a paper boat,
I’ll seek compassion there.
In shackled chains and shanty camps
I’ll find a home, beware.
Our blood it runs from Yankee guns,
seemingly mysteriously delivered.
NATO there with a cold hard stare,
contemptuously conniving in the killing.
In secret cells near worn out bells
we’ll plot and plan for homecoming.
Though such a thing is a journey far,
in a world turned mad and loathing.
--
..we have a problem... people cowed down / hiding in their kitchens so politically correct and not able to act :-(
Labels:
poems
Thursday, May 11, 2017
Remember Fontenoy Always
May 11
Fontenoy
By Thomas Osborne Davis (1814–1845)
THRICE at the huts of Fontenoy the English column failed,
And twice the lines of St. Antoine the Dutch in vain assailed;
For town and slope were guarded with fort and artillery,
And well they swept the English ranks and Dutch auxiliary.
As vainly through De Barri’s wood the British soldiers burst, 5
The French artillery drove them back, diminished and dispersed.
The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye,
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride!
And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at eventide. 10
Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread,
Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head;
Steady they step a-down the slope—steady they climb the hill—
Steady they load—steady they fire, moving right onward still
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as though a furnace blast, 15
Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets showering fast;
And on the open plain above they rose, and kept their course,
With ready fire and steadiness, that mocked at hostile force.
Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks,
They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland’s ocean banks. 20
More idly than the summer flies French tirailleurs rush round;
As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground;
Bombshell, and grape, and round shot tore, still on they marched and fired—
Fast from each volley grenadier and voltigeur retired.
“Push on, my household cavalry,” King Louis madly cried: 25
To death they rush, but rude their shock—not unavenged they died.
On through the camp the column trod—King Louis turns his rein;
“Not yet, my liege,” Saxe interposed, “the Irish troops remain;”
And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo,
Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement, and true. 30
“Lord Clare,” he says, “you have your wish—there are your Saxon foes;”
The marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously he goes!
How fierce the look these exiles wear, who’re wont to be so gay!
The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day—
The treaty broken ere the ink wherewith ’twas writ could dry, 35
Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women’s parting cry,
Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country overthrown—
Each looks as if revenge for all rested on him alone.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere,
Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were. 40
O’Brien’s voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands,
“Fix bayonets—charge.” Like mountain storms rush on these fiery bands!
Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow,
Yet, mustering all the strength they have, they make a gallant show.
They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that battle-wind— 45
Their bayonets the breakers’ foam; like rocks, the men behind!
One volley crashes from their line, when, through the surging smoke,
With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish broke.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzzah!
“Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sassenach.” 50
Like lions leaping at a fold when mad with hunger’s pang,
Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang.
Bright was their steel, ’tis bloody now, their guns are filled with gore;
Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and trampled flags they tore.
The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, staggered, fled— 55
The green hill-side is matted close with dying and with dead.
Across the plain and far away passed on that hideous wrack,
While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track,
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun,
With bloody plumes the Irish stand—the field is fought and won!
A village in Belgium. Here, on May 11, 1745, the French under Marshal Saxe defeated the allied English, Dutch and Hanoverians under the Duke of Cumberland.
The Irish fighting alongside the French (as 500,000 Irish did for France) covered themselves with glory.
more on Thomas Osborne Davis
Fontenoy
By Thomas Osborne Davis (1814–1845)
THRICE at the huts of Fontenoy the English column failed,
And twice the lines of St. Antoine the Dutch in vain assailed;
For town and slope were guarded with fort and artillery,
And well they swept the English ranks and Dutch auxiliary.
As vainly through De Barri’s wood the British soldiers burst, 5
The French artillery drove them back, diminished and dispersed.
The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye,
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride!
And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at eventide. 10
Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread,
Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head;
Steady they step a-down the slope—steady they climb the hill—
Steady they load—steady they fire, moving right onward still
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as though a furnace blast, 15
Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets showering fast;
And on the open plain above they rose, and kept their course,
With ready fire and steadiness, that mocked at hostile force.
Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks,
They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland’s ocean banks. 20
More idly than the summer flies French tirailleurs rush round;
As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground;
Bombshell, and grape, and round shot tore, still on they marched and fired—
Fast from each volley grenadier and voltigeur retired.
“Push on, my household cavalry,” King Louis madly cried: 25
To death they rush, but rude their shock—not unavenged they died.
On through the camp the column trod—King Louis turns his rein;
“Not yet, my liege,” Saxe interposed, “the Irish troops remain;”
And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo,
Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement, and true. 30
“Lord Clare,” he says, “you have your wish—there are your Saxon foes;”
The marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously he goes!
How fierce the look these exiles wear, who’re wont to be so gay!
The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day—
The treaty broken ere the ink wherewith ’twas writ could dry, 35
Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women’s parting cry,
Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country overthrown—
Each looks as if revenge for all rested on him alone.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere,
Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were. 40
O’Brien’s voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands,
“Fix bayonets—charge.” Like mountain storms rush on these fiery bands!
Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow,
Yet, mustering all the strength they have, they make a gallant show.
They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that battle-wind— 45
Their bayonets the breakers’ foam; like rocks, the men behind!
One volley crashes from their line, when, through the surging smoke,
With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish broke.
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzzah!
“Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sassenach.” 50
Like lions leaping at a fold when mad with hunger’s pang,
Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang.
Bright was their steel, ’tis bloody now, their guns are filled with gore;
Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and trampled flags they tore.
The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, staggered, fled— 55
The green hill-side is matted close with dying and with dead.
Across the plain and far away passed on that hideous wrack,
While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track,
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun,
With bloody plumes the Irish stand—the field is fought and won!
A village in Belgium. Here, on May 11, 1745, the French under Marshal Saxe defeated the allied English, Dutch and Hanoverians under the Duke of Cumberland.
The Irish fighting alongside the French (as 500,000 Irish did for France) covered themselves with glory.
more on Thomas Osborne Davis
Thursday, March 16, 2017
a chara.. any chance of a coffee?
something very nice from Julius Meinl..
https://www.meinlcoffee.com/poetry/campaigns/pay-with-a-poem-2017/
#PayWithAPoem
.
Wednesday, February 22, 2017
The Beauty Queen of Leenane
a really good friend the famous ET Gallagher says take no prisoners... and this is very Tyrone.. nonetheless as I get older I am more impressed by his brand of tolerance...
In this context then we must look at the Pale, The Pale | An Pháil | An Pháil Shasanach
They are long conquered and it is reflected in everything they say and do
in truth we have nothing in common with them...
..but sure whatever they like, believe or not
this is my most eloquent introduction for something beyond the Pale...
(it's the best I can do while the British have anything to do with Ireland...and all of Dublin are siting on their fat chairs complacent, complaining but not campaigning.. welcome to Ireland and the contradictions that abound on every turn in the crooked road...
without further ado / to do
The Beauty Queen of Leenane
.
In this context then we must look at the Pale, The Pale | An Pháil | An Pháil Shasanach
They are long conquered and it is reflected in everything they say and do
in truth we have nothing in common with them...
..but sure whatever they like, believe or not
this is my most eloquent introduction for something beyond the Pale...
(it's the best I can do while the British have anything to do with Ireland...and all of Dublin are siting on their fat chairs complacent, complaining but not campaigning.. welcome to Ireland and the contradictions that abound on every turn in the crooked road...
without further ado / to do
The Beauty Queen of Leenane
.
Saturday, February 04, 2017
Hocus POTUS
Hocus POTUS, nukes protect us
screaming walls and evil laws
torture chambers and fresh cabals
abra cadaver
macabre...
.
screaming walls and evil laws
torture chambers and fresh cabals
abra cadaver
macabre...
.
Sunday, January 22, 2017
"What is an American?"
In this era of Donald Trump and the changes that will follow my American friends may find it interesting to read the letters of J. Hector St. John de Crèvecœur and particularly his Letter III published in 1782:
"What is an American?"
Jean de Crèvecœur, naturalized in New York as John Hector St. John, was a French-American writer. He was born in Caen, Normandy, France, to the Comte and Comtesse de Crèvecœur. Wikipedia
The University of Virginia have the full text of Letter III (& all his letters)
The New Republic published a commentary in 2013
Herewith a small extract;-
"Formerly they were not numbered in any civil lists of their country, except in those of the poor; here they rank as citizens. By what invisible power has this surprising metamorphosis been performed? By that of the laws and that of their industry. The laws, the indulgent laws, protect them as they arrive, stamping on them the symbol of adoption; they receive ample rewards for their labours; these accumulated rewards procure them lands; those lands confer on them the title of freemen, and to that title every benefit is affixed which men can possibly require. This is the great operation daily performed by our laws.
From whence proceed these laws? From our government. Whence the government? It is derived from the original genius and strong desire of the people ratified and confirmed by the crown. This is the great chain which links us all, this is the picture which every province exhibits, Nova Scotia excepted. There the crown has done all; either there were no people who had genius, or it was not much attended to: the consequence is, that the province is very thinly inhabited indeed; the power of the crown in conjunction with the musketos has prevented men from settling there. Yet some parts of it flourished once, and it contained a mild harmless set of people. But for the fault of a few leaders, the whole were banished. The greatest political error the crown ever committed in America, was to cut off men from a country which wanted nothing but men!
What attachment can a poor European emigrant have for a country where he had nothing? The knowledge of the language, the love of a few kindred as poor as himself, were the only cords that tied him: his country is now that which gives him land, bread, protection, and consequence: Ubi panis ibi patria, (Where there is bread, there is (my) country" (or home, or homeland)) is the motto of all emigrants. What then is the American, this new man? He is either an European, or the descendant of an European, hence that strange mixture of blood, which you will find in no other country. I could point out to you a family whose grandfather was an Englishman, whose wife was Dutch, whose son married a French woman, and whose present four sons have now four wives of different nations. He is an American, who leaving behind him all his ancient prejudices and manners, receives new ones from the new mode of life he has embraced, the new government he obeys, and the new rank he holds.
He becomes an American by being received in the broad lap of our great Alma Mater. Here individuals of all nations are melted into a new race of men, whose labours and posterity will one day cause great changes in the world. Americans are the western pilgrims, who are carrying along with them that great mass of arts, sciences, vigour, and industry which began long since in the east; they will finish the great circle. The Americans were once scattered all over Europe; here they are incorporated into one of the finest systems of population which has ever appeared, and which will hereafter become distinct by the power of the different climates they inhabit. The American ought therefore to love this country much better than that wherein either he or his forefathers were born.
Here the rewards of his industry follow with equal steps the progress of his labour; his labour is founded on the basis of nature, self-interest; can it want a stronger allurement? Wives and children, who before in vain demanded of him a morsel of bread, now, fat and frolicsome, gladly help their father to clear those fields whence exuberant crops are to arise to feed and to clothe them all; without any part being claimed, either by a despotic prince, a rich abbot, or a mighty lord. "
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