Just because I like these poems, just because they exist and have survived….

Bright Blessings,

Gwyllm

Wave after wave, each mightier than the last,

Till last, a ninth one, gathering half the deep

And full of voices, slowly rose and plunged

Roaring, and all the wave was in a flame….

– Tennyson, “The Ninth Wave”

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Just Because – Ancient Irish Poems…

How Curious The Light Behaves

How curious the light behaves

Reflecting off the dancing waves.

Oh how my very being craves

A view from down below.

Suspended in my watery lair,

I would not need to gasp for air,

For I’m no longer human there

Beneath the icy flow.

It’s peaceful there, but I have found

I still can hear the distant sound

Of voices of the souls who drowned

And left loved ones to mourn.

The lonely wails transmit the pain

Of those who just could not remain

So journeyed to the unknown plane

Of dead souls and unborn.

But in this world there still exist

Survivors who will always miss

The passion of their lovers’ kiss

That warmed them night and day.

Though here above the vast, cold sea,

My heart is without tragedy,

For I have someone dear to me

Who hasn’t passed away.

Never let that be untrue,

For I could not bear thoughts of you

Trapped underneath the ocean blue

Deprived of your last breath.

No harm to you would I condone,

For I’d be left here on my own

To face this tragic world alone,

A fate far worse than death.

– Pre-Christian Irish Poem –

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The Harp of Cnoc I’Chosgair

Harp of Cnoc I’Chosgair, you who bring sleep

to eyes long sleepless;

sweet subtle, plangent, glad, cooling grave.

Excellent instrument with smooth gentle curve,

trilling under red fingers,

musician that has charmed us,

red, lion-like of full melody.

You who lure the bird from the flock,

you who refresh the mind,

brown spotted one of sweet words,

ardent, wondrous, passionate.

You who heal every wounded warrior,

joy and allurement to women,

familiar guide over the dark blue water,

mystic sweet sounding music.

You who silence every instrument of music,

yourself a sweet plaintive instrument,

dweller among the Race of Conn,

instrument yellow-brown and firm.

The one darling of sages,

restless, smooth, sweet of tune,

crimson star above the Fairy Hills,

breast jewel of High Kings.

Sweet tender flowers, brown harp of Diarmaid,

shape not unloved by hosts, voice of cuckoos in May!

I have not heard music ever such as your frame makes

since the time of the Fairy People,

fair brown many coloured bough,

gentle, powerful, glorious.

Sound of the calm wave on the beach,

pure shadowing tree of pure music,

carousals are drunk in your company,

voice of the swan over shining streams.

Cry of the Fairy Women from the Fairy Hill of Ler,

no melody can match you,

every house is sweet stringed through your guidance,

you the pinnacle of harp music.

– Gofraidh Fion O Dalaigh. 1385]

Little Bird

Little bird! O little bird!

I wonder at what thou doest,

Thou singing merry far from me,

I in sadness all alone!

Little bird! O little bird!

I wonder at how thou art

Thou high on the tips of branching boughs,

I on the ground a-creeping!

Little bird! O little bird!

Thou art music far away,

Like the tender croon of the mother loved

In the kindly sleep of death.

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Have a wonderful weekend!