maybe its time to stop harpping about?

Maybe its time to stop harping around?

James Connolly
 1899
After Ireland is free, says the patriot who wont touch socialism, we will protect all classes, and if you won’t pay your rent, you will be evicted same as now. But the evicting party… will wear green uniforms and the harp without the Crown… Now isn’t that worth fighting for? -
( Dudley Edwards, Ruth, James Connolly, Gill & Macmillian, 1981, p.31.)




Henry VIII, Second harp issue as king of Ireland, 1541-1542.
Some rights reserved: Classical Numismatic Group, Inc. hppt://www.engcoins.com


Maybe its time to stop harping around?
Just because we take away the term “King” doesn’t mean we’ve solved the problem of oppression.




 Not ancient history, just history repeating itself:

Luke Byrne – 07 March 2013
A terminally ill woman, who was subjected to a failed eviction attempt, will leave her home if emergency accommodation can be secured……
http://www.independent.ie/irish-news/ugly-scenes-as-eviction-of-dying-woman-abandoned-in-clontarf-29114649.html



Just saying!

RE: Poets / Liam Clancy - Mary Hynes

from Liam Clancy reading of fallons mary hynes

Bless your poet then and let him go!
He'll never stack a haggard with his breath:
His thatch of words will not keep rain or snow
Out of the house, or keep back death.
But Raftery, rising, curses as he sees you
Stir the fire and wash delph,
That he was bred a poet whose selfish trade it is
To keep no beauty to himself.

Irish Winter part 1 with Richard Brautigan

Part one

the Richard Brautigan of my youth brings me not fame and fortune artist type but rather here,, un wanting to go to work, un wanting to start the fire; for some reason not minding even this Irish cold of a stone cottage on the soft outlands by some ancient fairy tear drop lake. older than children of lir, older than swans, sorrows of an age of ice surrendered, scared into a valley of wind and soft reeds l such as where stones were heaved into boxes for the filing of small human lives. grey bones of long dead glaciers and the twisted muscle of earth’s resistance, cut to fit by long dead humans . Stone of bone encapsulated ice age how many days? Days of even now the open air mid winter warmer outside than is in. the stone locks in its glacial ghosts. the nights even by an open fire, filled with whispers of returned revenge. I could fit a small car into the fire place. In America it would be romantic. Here I suppose sometimes it is , in the summer if we get one, in the golden autumn a few days now in November. To talk about the weather an insincere politeness, unless you were out in the rural lands where then it was a true concern as well as a way of showing friendliness. These days now to talk about the weather reminds me of cliché Si-Fi stories something from the 50s, you know nuclear winter or disrupted axis due to alien interventions or atomic testing or maybe an asteroid? Trees are growing within the Arctic circle. The north pole will soon be used to mark a golf cup.

There are places to sit inside the hearth. Places to sir by the cast iron crane that once held the iron handles of iron cooking pots, sway them in and out back n forth like the three bears, like Hansel and Gretel like a witches cauldron bubble and trouble, like tiny Tim like a dream of every long gone discoverer of open fire. the heaviness of stone, iron, cold, fire, turf, these were the places that only famine and/or bailiffs cold ever lever you out of. But now I am here from America, wondering who the girls were in the photographs with Richard Brautigan on the covers of his books. wondering whatever happened to people I used to know back in the USA, high school days and can I ever not wish justice on those bulling bastards of my first year? ah but today is now and the sun catches little dangling crystals off the candle holder small rainbows brief n glorious across the table up the white walls into the dark beam ceiling disappear because of marauding clouds reappear dance renew as my typing slightly shakes the table.

 

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Fore Abbey by Pd Lyons

Fore Abbey by Pd Lyons

 

Whiskered wooden posts
Decorated by bits of rusted star crossed metal
Silhouettes upon the hillsides
Random marks above the weeds
As if graves of unknown beings

Silent but for crows
Tied like rags upon an invisible thread
Suspended ever changing from an ever changing sky
More shades of grey than words I know

And when the sun
Ignites as far as I can see
A brief and brilliant green such as emeralds could only dream
Sure as this November morning makes each breath a smoky prayer
I know this rolling valley is the wherever I should exactly be

Cut stones shifted by anonymous hands
Nameless legacy bequeathed from each to each
Now held by my own
What lingers here for however long

Richer than any fame
Black earth by sparkling pebble beds
Fed by springs that have no end
Remembered by some other unknown soul

All who left their mark upon this land.

where i worked

the hill

yellow waiting by the sea

yellow waiting by the sea

“i must go down to the seas again” -Sea Fever by John Masefield

so we have moved

we are now living in galway, over looking the bay. decided to move july 20. arrived here august 26. very busy time. finally feeling a little settled. spent the last few hours working on new book of poetry, "The Girlz". hope to have a finished manuscript by weeks end. Have about two hundred pages to sort out, final edits, culls,order,format etc. and then the easy part - a publisher.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1f0py2QhHNQ

re Joyce part 4

Three minuets to home and home work. Not too bad though. They were nuts for it back in Ireland, sometimes two hours or more of the stuff in third class. She still missed her friends from the little two room school house, neighbours, could walk the lane be at their house in a few minuets. Ten years old and she had lived in three different countries, Ireland, Canada, America, in six different homes and for three months in a tent. Little gypsy indeed, first transatlantic crossing at six weeks, learned to walk on the most exquisite beaches Nysna Indian Ocean South Africa. Now she was learning French, Spanish, long division in Litchfield Connecticut and writing stories and poems, he forte, counted as homework! Voluntarily she'd taken up chorus. Voluntarily she was attending school full stop. Originally the plan had been for home school. Dad would be the teacher. Research into the legalities and curriculum had been done, contact with local support groups had been made and she had drawn up the schedule herself, all prior to the move. During the summer there were tours of the local school. He told her about it. Told her they could go just to see. "What if I don't like it? what if I still want  home school?"  "No matter what", he said, "you can choose." So they went. Met the teachers of the fourth grade, saw the art room, the music room, the library , the computer room, the gym, the stage, the cafe and on the way out she asked, "Dad? Would it be alright if I went to this school?" She hadn't wanted to hurt his feelings about his not being the teacher any more.