REELY'S POETRY BLOG

When I was a child, I was absolutely captivated with the tale of Baucis and Philemon.

No, I wasn’t an Ovid-studying prodigy at the age of 8. The story was in a mythology book I had taken out of the library and I remember that it had an illustration of the intertwined trees. It was such a lovely illustration and such a lovely thought that the kindly couple would be together always. A round table was built around the Baucis and Philemon trees, and it just was the epitome of a beautiful eternity to me.

We’ve added Jonathan Swift’s very clever Baucis and Philemon to the site:

In ancient times, as story tells,
The saints would often leave their cells,
And stroll about, but hide their quality,
To try good people’s hospitality.

It happened on a winter night,
As authors of the legend write,
Two brother hermits, saints by trade,
Taking their tour in masquerade,
Disguised in tattered habits, went
To a small village down in Kent;
Where, in the strollers’ canting strain,
They begged from door to door in vain;
Tried every tone might pity win,
But not a soul would let them in.
continued here

Swift transports Baucis and Philemon to the County of Kent in merry old England and provides quite a different ending to their encounter with two saints. Interestingly, the poem turns up in a child’s reader, entited Open Sesame!: Arranged for Children From Four to Twelve (1898) without the ending.

With or without the ending, it’s a delightful read.

Reely

On Raglan Road on an autumn day I saw her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I passed along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.

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 -
Oh I loved too much and by such by such is happiness thrown away.

I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that’s known
To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint without 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
That I had loved 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.

What if you had a great voice but didn’t have anything great to say? Or maybe you had something great to say, but didn’t have a great voice. Hey, It happens …

Then there are some who have not only a great voice but something great to say.

Today is Irish poet, Paul Muldoon’s birthday. You can visit his website

http://www.paulmuldoon.net/recordings.php4

and listen to some of his recordings that he has been kind enough to put online. You will really like his voice. I like his poem “At Least They Were Not Speaking French,” (though since my ancestors were both Irish and French, it probably has a different signficance to me than he means). He describes the deaths of two uncles against this nonsense refrain “fol-de-rol fol-de-rol fol-de-rol-di-do.”

Among his many accomplishments, Paul Muldoon is a professor at Princeton, chair of the university’s Lewis Center for the Arts, and poetry editor for the New Yorker magazine. In 2003, he won the Pulitzer for Moy Sand and Gravel.

More Irish Poet’s Audio Links:

Seamus Heany on The Poetry Archive – you will need realplayer for this page

Dylan Thomas Do Not Go Gentle Into that Good Night. If Dylan Thomas’ voice doesn’t blow you away, nothing will!