Anthology by thom0901

Anthology of Irish Poetry S.E. The short edition of the anthology for Irish poetical works.

The shorter version of the first edition the Anthology of Irish poetry. With selected poems from various Irish poets, selected carefully and brought together in this unique edition.

2014 J.L.J. Thomas 2

NHL 1-1-2014

Table of Contents

General Introduction Poetry

â&#x20AC;&#x153;There was a young fellow In short you could say the art of poetry is from Belfast. That I wanted so conveying a message or feeling in a rhythmical and aesthetic way. Meaning a poem should be badly to tell fast, Not to climb beautiful and/or appealing and contain some sort up the stair, As the top step of rhythm. The easiest way to add rhythm is to was air. And thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s why the introduce a rhyme- scheme (a set format of young fellow fell fast" rhyming words). In European poetry the Greeks are often considered the founders of modern poetry. They also used rhyme schemes. Epic poems such as 'The Iliad & The Odyssey' are well known examples of classical Greek poetry. Their translations are still very popular nowadays. Through the years different forms of poetry have developed. You might have heard of a Haiku or a Limerick (such as the example on the right) for example. The Haiku has a set format and doesn't rhyme for example, whereas a Limerick often does rhyme, intends to be funny and has a completely different format. In other words poetry is very diverse. Fun fact: There is a city in Ireland called Limerick.

Ireland and Poetry

On Ireland Northern Ireland

Republic of Ireland

Selected Poetry Jonathan Swift - Holyhead 1 Lo here I sit at Holyhead With muddy ale and mouldy bread All Christian victuals stink of fish I'm where my enemies would wish 5 Convict of lies is every sign, The inn has not one drop of wine I'm fasten'd both by wind and tide I see the ship at anchor ride The Captain swears the sea's too rough 10 He has not passengers enough. And thus the Dean is forc'd to stay Till others come to help the pay In Dublin they'd be glad to see A packet though it brings in me. 15 They cannot say the winds are cross Your politicians at a loss For want of matter swears and frets, Are forced to read the old gazettes. I never was in haste before 20 To reach that slavish hateful shore Before, I always found the wind To me was most malicious kind But now, the danger of a friend On whom my fears and hopes depend 25 Absent from whom all climes are curst With whom I'm happy in the worst With rage impatient makes me wait A passage to the land I hate. Else, rather on this bleaky shore 30 Where loudest winds incessant roar Where neither herb nor tree will thrive, Where nature hardly seems alive, I'd go in freedom to my grave, Than rule yon isle and be a slave.

Oscar Wilde - The Ballad of Reading Goal

He did not wear his scarlet coat, For blood and wine are red, And blood and wine were on his hands When they found him with the dead, The poor dead woman whom he loved, And murdered in her bed. He walked amongst the Trial Men In a suit of shabby gray; A cricket cap was on his head, And his step seemed light and gay; But I never saw a man who looked So wistfully at the day. I never saw a man who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue Which prisoners call the sky, And at every drifting cloud that went With sails of silver by. I walked, with other souls in pain, Within another ring, And was wondering if the man had done A great or little thing, When a voice behind me whispered low, "That fellow's got to swing." Dear Christ! the very prison walls Suddenly seemed to reel, And the sky above my head became Like a casque of scorching steel; And, though I was a soul in pain, My pain I could not feel. I only knew what hunted thought Quickened his step, and why He looked upon the garish day With such a wistful eye; The man had killed the thing he loved And so he had to die. Yet each man kills the thing he loves By each let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword! Some kill their love when they are young, And some when they are old; Some strangle with the hands of Lust, Some with the hands of Gold: The kindest use a knife, because The dead so soon grow cold.

W.B. Yeats - The Lake Isle of Innisfree 1 I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made: Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade. 5 And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings. I will arise and go now, for always night and day 10 I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey, I hear it in the deep heart's core.

W.B. Yeats - Why should not old men be mad? 1 Why should not old men be mad? Some have known a likely lad That had a sound fly-fisher's wrist Turn to a drunken journalist; 5 A girl that knew all Dante once Live to bear children to a dunce; A Helen of social welfare dream, Climb on a wagonette to scream. Some think it a matter of course that chance 10 Should starve good men and bad advance, That if their neighbours figured plain, As though upon a lighted screen, No single story would they find Of an unbroken happy mind, 15 A finish worthy of the start. Young men know nothing of this sort, Observant old men know it well; And when they know what old books tell And that no better can be had, 20 Know why an old man should be mad.

James Joyce - At that Hour 1 At that hour when all things have repose, O lonely watcher of the skies, Do you hear the night wind and the sighs Of harps playing unto Love to unclose 5 The pale gates of sunrise? When all things repose, do you alone Awake to hear the sweet harps play To Love before him on his way, And the night wind answering in antiphon 10 Till night is overgone? Play on, invisible harps, unto Love, Whose way in heaven is aglow At that hour when soft lights come and go, Soft sweet music in the air above 15 And in the earth below.

James Joyce - All day I hear the noise of waters 1 All day I hear the noise of waters Making moan, Sad as the sea-bird is when, going Forth alone, 5 He hears the winds cry to the water's Monotone. The grey winds, the cold winds are blowing Where I go. I hear the noise of many waters 10 Far below. All day, all night, I hear them flowing To and fro.

C.S. Lewis - Evolutionary Hymn 1 Lead us, Evolution, lead us Up the future's endless stair; Chop us, change us, prod us, weed us. For stagnation is despair: 5 Groping, guessing, yet progressing, Lead us nobody knows where. Wrong or justice, joy or sorrow, In the present what are they while there's always jam-tomorrow, 10 While we tread the onward way? Never knowing where we're going, We can never go astray. To whatever variation Our posterity may turn 15 Hairy, squashy, or crustacean, Bulbous-eyed or square of stern, Tusked or toothless, mild or ruthless, Towards that unknown god we yearn. Ask not if it's god or devil, 20 Brethren, lest your words imply Static norms of good and evil (As in Plato) throned on high; Such scholastic, inelastic, Abstract yardsticks we deny. 25 Far too long have sages vainly Glossed great Nature's simple text; He who runs can read it plainly, 'Goodness = what comes next.' By evolving, Life is solving 30 All the questions we perplexed. On then! Value means survivalValue. If our progeny Spreads and spawns and licks each rival, That will prove its deity 35 (Far from pleasant, by our present, Standards, though it may well be).

Patrick Kavanagh - On Raglan Road 1 On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue; I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way, And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day. 5 On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge, The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay O I loved too much and by such and such is happiness thrown away. I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that's known 10 To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say. With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow 15 That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day.

Samuel Beckett - Malacoda 1 thrice he came the undertaker's man impassable behind his scrutal bowler to measure 5 is he not paid to measure this incorruptible in the vestibule this malebranca knee deep in the lilies Malacoda knee-deep in the lilies Malacoda for all the expert awe 10 that felts his perineum mutes his signal sighing up through the heavy air must it be it must be it must be find the weeds engage them in the garden hear she may see she need not 15 to coffin with assistant ungulata find the weeds engage their attention hear she must see she need not to cover 20 to be sure cover cover all over your targe allow me hold your sulphur divine dogday glass set fair stay Scarmilion stay stay lay this Huysum on the box 25 mind the imago it is he hear she must see she must all aboard all souls half-mast aye aye nay

Seamus Heaney - Digging 1 Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. Under my window, a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: 5 My father, digging. I look down Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds Bends low, comes up twenty years away Stooping in rhythm through potato drills Where he was digging. 10 The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked, Loving their cool hardness in our hands. 15 By God, the old man could handle a spade. Just like his old man. My grandfather cut more turf in a day Than any other man on Toner’s bog. Once I carried him milk in a bottle 20 Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up To drink it, then fell to right away Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods Over his shoulder, going down and down For the good turf. Digging. 25 The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge Through living roots awaken in my head. But I’ve no spade to follow men like them. Between my finger and my thumb 30 The squat pen rests. I’ll dig with it. 15

Dennis O'Driscoll - Someone 1 someone is dressing up for death today, a change of skirt or tie eating a final feast of buttered sliced pan, tea scarcely having noticed the erection that was his last shaving his face to marble for the icy laying out 5 spraying with deodorant her coarse armpit grass someone today is leaving home on business saluting, terminally, the neighbours who will join in the cortege someone is paring his nails for the last time, a precious moment someone’s waist will not be marked with elastic in the future 10 someone is putting out milkbottles for a day that will not come someone’s fresh breath is about to be taken clean away someone is writing a cheque that will be rejected as ‘drawer deceased’ someone is circling posthumous dates on a calendar someone is listening to an irrelevant weather forecast 15 someone is making rash promises to friends someone’s coffin is being sanded, laminated, shined who feels this morning quite as well as ever someone if asked would find nothing remarkable in today’s date perfume and goodbyes her final will and testament 20 someone today is seeing the world for the last time as innocently as he had seen it first

Maurice Riordan - The Lull 1 It happened on the cinder path between the playing field and the graveyard one afternoon in October when all the leaves of the aspen flipped over and stayed, the way a skirt might blow up and hold 5 in a gust of wind – except there was no wind, one of those days when the thud of a football hangs in the deadened air. But there was no thud, no sound from man or bird. So I’d swear if I’d looked at my watch just then the digits would have stuck 10

if I could have looked, for it must’ve been a time

when time was snagged in its fluid escapement and in that lull no one can enter the world, or leave it; the cars stand on the motorway, the greyhound’s legs are knotted above the track, 15

a missile is framed in mid-flight, no sound

comes from the child’s mouth, the open beak, and the shoal of herring is a sculpted cloud shimmering under the glass of the rolling downs. At this moment, when the joker palms the room-key, 20

the punching fist can be opened, the egg slipped back

under the nesting bird, and each of us could scurry to forestall one mischance, or undo one wrong choice whose thorn of consequence has lodged till now, before whatever it is keeps the world scary 25

and true breaks loose. A squirrel turns tail

overhead, a chestnut rolls to the ground, and with it a drawn-out scream arrives from childhood.

Short Biographies Jonathan Swift

Jonathan Swift was born in Dublin, in 1667. He moved to England before finishing his master degree at the Trinity University Dublin. In 1690 he moved back to Dublin because of health problems, now known to have been mĂŠniĂ¨re's disease. He finished his master degree and received his Doctor in 1702. In the following years Swift travelled often to London in pursuit of his political career , first with the Whigs but later on and more successfully with the Tories. During this time he published his first work: 'A Tale of a Tub'. A satirical work on religion that instantly made him a notorious writer. Because of (especially) 'Tale of a Tub' Swift was faced with a problem when the Whigs, years later, took over again. He wanted to be appointed a place in the Church of England, but because the Queen disliked his book and therefore him, he didn't get appointed. So the best his friends could arrange for him was the position of Dean at St. Patricks Cathedral. Swift didn't like it, but he had no options left. During this time Swift wrote 'A modest Proposal' another satirical work, this time on England's' mistreating of Ireland. In 'A modest Proposal' Swift suggests the idea of selling children as food to English noblemen. He goes into the financial benefit, but also into ideas of preparing the children. This book shows (even more so than 'A Tale of a Tub' I think) what a satirical genius Swift was, with perfect use of the juvenalian and horatian satirical style used in Latin satire. In the later period Swift published his masterwork 'Gulliver's' Travels' , which he is probably best known for. Another satirical work in which Swift looks back upon his time in London and his life and experience with people in general. The genius part lies in the fact that the book is both a great story and a satirical masterpiece at the same time. In the latest years of his live Swift became more ill and was even declared unsound of mind, meaning he was (near to) insane, to protect his own name. Swift died in 1745 and was buried in St. Patricks Cathedral, Dublin.

Oscar Wilde

Oscar Wilde was born in Dublin, 1854. He came from a successful Anglo-Irish family and first attended university in Dublin before going to Oxford university . After his time at Oxford Wilde moved briefly back to London because of a girl. But the girl married to Bram Stoker instead, so Wilde went back to England again. He made his way into London and travelled to America to give lectures. After his Travels he began writing short stories and essays. One of his best know prose work is 'The Soul of Man under socialism'. Before writing plays in the 1890's Wilde published his only novel: 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'. The great success of his time came with his plays such as 'Lady Windermere's Fan' and 'an ideal husband'. It was during this time he got an affair with Alfred Douglas who he calls 'Bosie'. With 'The importance of being Earnest' , one of his best works he topped his career. Bosie's father found out and summoned Oscar Wilde to court, were he was charged with sodomy. He was sent to prison and made to do hard labour for 2 years. After his release he was exiled and moved to Paris, his health had suffered severe damage, but he took up the pen once more. Finishing 'De Profundis' which is addressed to Bosie and writing his famous poem 'Ballad of a Reading Goal'. Bosie came to visit him while he was in Napels, but his wife threatened to cut off his funds if this continued so they split up again. Oscar Wilde died in Paris, 1900.

William Butler Yeats William Butler Yeats was born in Dublin in 1865. J.B. Yeats, his father, had abandoned the law to take up painting, at which he made a somewhat precarious living. The Yeatses were in London from 1874 until 1883, when they returned to Ireland- To Howth, a few miles from Dublin. After high school Yeats decided to be an artist, with poetry as his avocation, and attended art school; but he soon left, to concentrate on poetry. His first published poems appeared in the ‘ Dublin University review’ in 1885. Yeats his father was a religious sceptic, but he believed in the religion of art. Yeats himself, religious by temperament but unable to believe in Christian orthodoxy, sought all his life for traditions on esoteric thought that would compensate for a lost religion. This search led him to various kinds of mysticism, to folklore, theosophy, spiritualism, and Neo-Platonism. In London in the 1890’s he met the important poets of the day, and in ’91 was one of the founders of the Rhymers’ club. The poem ‘Down by the Salley Gardens’ was part of the first collection of poems published by Yeats in 1889. The collection was called: ‘The Wanderings of Oisin’. Shortly after that period he got an affair with 'Maud Gonne' who later rejects his marriage proposal multiple times. He then begins focusing on the 'Abbey Theatre' a project he started with friends. Somewhat later he joins the IRA and becomes an activist, but during the midst of the Easter Rising he withdraws and stops writing for a while. In 1916 he married 'georgie' and in 1923 received the Nobel Prize for literature. He became more politically active and was appointed in the first Irish Senate. In 1924 he wrote 'The Dial' with the poem 'Leda and the Swan'. In his later years he kept writing poetry, prose work and plays and lived outside Dublin. He died in France in 1939.

James Joyce James Joyce was born in a middle class family in Dublin, 1882. After attending Jesuit schools he made his way to University in Dublin. He began writing at a young age, but failed to have his books published right away. He began travelling to France and Switzerland. At this time he was a big spender and heavy drinker. He came back to get some of his work published in Dublin, but never really returned. His best know works are: 'Dubliners, Ulysses, The portrait of the artist as a young man and Finnegan's Wake'. Dubliners is a series of short stories, published first, following various people throughout Dublin of the time. His book Ulysses is written in the same style and Joyce first wanted Ulysses to be another chapter in Dubliners, but later decided it to be a work on its own. 'The portrait of the artist as a young man' and 'Finnegan's wake' are both written in Joyce's best know style of self-consciousness. In his later years Joyce struggled to finish some of his works. He is considered a modernist and one of the most influential writers of the early 20th century. He died slipping into a coma after surgery in 1941.

Clive Staples Lewis Clive Staples Lewis was born in Belfast (Northern Ireland) in 1898. His friends and family called him 'Jack' after his deceased dog. He went to Oxford and later to Cambridge. During his Oxford years he met with fellow writer J.R.R. Tolkien, who is best known for writing Â´The Lord of the Rings' trilogy which takes place in 'Middle Earth'. C.S. Lewis is best known for writing 'The Chronicles of Narnia', which also takes place in a self invented world. The books are heavenly themed with references to the bible and other mythological concepts. C.S. Lewis was a Christian, when he was 15 he declared himself to be an atheist; not believing there was a god. Later he changed his mind and joined the Christian community again. During his career he taught at Oxford college. In his latest years he taught at Cambridge college. He died in 1963, on the same day as J.F. Kennedy and Aldous Huxley died.

Patrick Kavanagh Patrick Kavanagh was born in Inniskeen in 1904. His father was a shoemaker and farmer and Kavanagh would follow in his footsteps. When he was 27 he began writing and tried to get his work published. It took a couple of years before he got his first works published, but when it did he pursuit a writing career. Apparently he walked 80 kilometres to Dublin to meet with Russell, his publisher. Russell also became his literary adviser and later friend. Kavanagh best known work is 'The Great Hunger', about the hardships of labour and rural life in Ireland. The poor region he grew up in and the hardships or the labour became central themes in various works by Kavanagh. In his later life he worked as a journalist in Dublin and later in Belfast. When he returned to Dublin he started drinking heavily. He died short after marrying Katherine in 1967.

Samuel Beckett Beckett was born in Dublin in 1906. He later attended Trinity college Dublin where he got his B.A. After a short period of teaching Beckett moved to Paris where he met James Joyce. He became an admirer of Joyce and even dated his daughter. This ended badly and for a while he wasn't welcome anymore. James Joyce really influenced his style, and later Becket would help Joyce finish his later works, such as 'Finnegan's' wake'. During his life he wrote poetry, novels and plays. He didn't really go back to Dublin, because he felt to be in the shadows of Joyce there. His writing style is more dark, as he uses black humour or gallows humour. In his later life he worked for BBC radio and had a more minimalistic style of writing. His style of writing is generally characterized by the use of black humour. In 1969 Beckett received the Nobel prize in literature. He died in 1989, shortly after his wife's dead.

Seamus Heaney Born in 1939, Northern Ireland. After university Heaney taught at various universities around the world, such as Harvard. He focussed mainly on poetry (also in old Irish) and writing novels. In his later period he started teaching in Dublin and has remained there ever since, stating himself that he feels more Irish here than in Belfast. Heaney is one of the key translators of 'Beowulf', and won the Nobel prize in literature in 1995, as well as various other literary and poetry awards. He died in the summer of 2013.

Maurice Riordan

Born in Lisgoold, county Cork in 1953. Riordan has written many poems, one of his most famous poems is 'floods', nominated for the T.S. Eliot prize. Beside poetry he is also interested in science. He has written poems about dark matter and quarks for example. In early 2000 he became editor at Poetry London. After this he became editor of Poetry Review. He also taught at Goldsmith and Imperial college. At the moment he is professor of Poetry at Sheffield Hallam University.

Dennis O' Driscoll Born in Thurles in 1954. He later studied at University College Dublin. After this he worked at Ireland's Office of the Revenue Commissioners over 35 years. Later he became an editor, a critic, a poet and an essayist. In 1987 he worked as editor for Poetry Review Ireland. His biography on Seamus Heaney is considered the definitive biography of the Nobel prize laureate. He died unexpected and very sudden during Christmas 2012.

for

Educational Motivation Jonathan Swift - Holyhead Oscar Wilde - Ballad of a Reading Goal W.B. Yeats - The Lake Isle of Innisfree W.B. Yeats - Why should not old men be mad? James Joyce - At that Hour James Joyce - All day I hear the noise of waters C.S. Lewis - Evolutionary Hymn Patrick Kavanagh - On Raglan Road Samuel Beckett - Malacoda Seamus Heaney - Digging Maurice Riordan - The Lull Dennis O' Driscoll - Someone

List of references & further reading