Poetry Friday: Irish Winter

I sat in the waiting room of my cardiologist’s office yesterday for nearly an hour and got all the way through an oversized, hardback picture book of Ireland.  The photos were breathtakingly beautiful.  I kept gasping as I turned the pages (I'm pretty sure the little old lady and the little old man that were waiting there with me were fairly sure I was going to have a heart attack!)

One photo in particular "spoke" to me; maybe it's because we've had so much snow this year (14" the other day!) or maybe because measurable snow is so rare in Ireland, I'm not sure.  I wish I could share the photo with you--it was a stunning scene that captured all the isolated, wind swept, harsh and beautiful aspects of a remote Irish landscape.  Even as tired as I am of snow, I yearned to walk those fields and feel the sharp bite of icy snow on my face.

Alas, I cannot share the photo, but I can share a poem by my favorite Irish poet, Anonymous, that captures a bit of the drama of the scene:

My tidings for you:  the stag bells
Winter snows, summer is gone.

 Wind high and cold, low the sun
Short his course, sea running high.

Deep red the bracken, shapes are hidden.
The wild-goose has raised his wonted cry.

Cold has caught the wings of birds:
Season of ice--these are my tidings.

--Anonymous, translated by Kuno Meyer

 

Poetry Friday is hosted this week at AmoXcalli.  You can find the schedule for future Poetry Fridays at Big A Little a.

Comments

[Kelly Fineman]

Great imagery in that poem. Thanks for sharing it. And I hope all went well once you saw the doctor.

[ellen b]

Ireland keeps calling to us my friend! Listen I'll be surprised if I lose anything this week. I'm happy when the totals show that I haven't gained. Hope you feel real good soon...