I had a very pleasant evening in Trim Library, last Thursday 6th October, when over twenty local writers' turned up to celebrate All Ireland Poetry Day.
Tom French, and Tommy Murray, kept things running smoothly.
I was out canvassing all that afternoon and when I came home, I put my camera battery on to charge in preparation hoping to get a few shots.
I arrived in the library with my camera on my belt only to discover that I forgot to install the battery.
I read three poems from my school days. I thought I'd reproduce them here.
Oh in case I forget! vote Michael D. Higgins for president.
A Ballad of Athlone
Does any man dream that a Gael can fear?
Of a thousand deeds let him learn but one!
The Shannon swept onward, broad and clear,
Between the leaguers and broad Athlone.
' Break down the bridge! ' Six warriors rushed
Through the storm of shot and the storm of shell:
With late but certain victory flushed,
The grim Dutch gunners eyed them well.
They wrenched at the planks ' mid a hail of fire:
They fell in death, their work half done:
The bridge stood fast; and nigh and nigher
The foe swarmed darkly, densely on.
' Oh who for Erin will strike a stroke?
Who hurl yon planks where the waters roar?'
Six warriers forth from their comrades broke,
And flung them upon that bridge once more.
Again at the rocking planks they dashed;
And four dropped dead; and two remained:
The huge beams groaned and the arch down-
crashed;-
Two stalwart swimmers the margin gained.
St Ruth in his stirrups stood up and cried:
' I have seen no deed like that in France! '
With a toss of his head, Sarsfield replied,
' They had luck, the dogs! 'Twas a merry chance! '
Oh, many a year upon Shannon's side
They sang upon moor and they sang upon heath
Of the twain that had breasted the raging tide,
And the ten that shook bloody hands with death!
Aubrey de Vere.
The Presence of God
I see his blood upon the rose,
And in the stars the glory of his eyes:
His body gleams amid eternal snows,
His tears fall from the skies.
I see his face in every flower;
The thunder, and the singing of the birds
Are but his voice; and, carven by his power,
Rocks are his written words.
All pathways by his feet are worn;
His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea;
His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn;
His cross is every tree.
Joseph Mary Plunkett.
My Land
She is a rich and rare land,
Oh she's a fresh and fair land;
She is a dear and rare land,
This native land of mine.
No men than hers are braver,
Her women's hearts ne'er waver;
I'd freely die to save her,
And think my lot divine.
She's not a dull or cold land,
No, she's a warm and bold land,
Oh, she's a true and old land,
This native land of mine.
Could beauty ever guard her,
And virtue still reward her,
No foe would cross her border-
No friend within it pine.
Oh, she's a fresh and fair land,
Oh, she's a true and rare land;
Yes she's a rare and fair land,
This native land of mine.
Thomas Davis.
