This year has been, unequivocally, a total and utter kick in the nuts. That is not to say that it has not been interesting, sometimes sweet, oft-times sour - just that it has mostly been a sharp to dull pain in the groin region. I will bid 2012 adieu with a greater understanding of how life can swallow people whole and grind them down. 2012 has also been a really good year in other ways. My studies have progressed up to the point where now I can actually understand most of the crap that I have talked for the last number of years. I have made good friends with good people and enjoyed the craic where ere I may, but am still stuck in an area that I would rather not be. I remembered a poem I read when I was young and realised the transcendental power of the written word. When I was young I thought the poem was a song of youth and rebellion, a cautionary tale to the child - the father of the man - to embrace all that he can while he can for life is a fleeting thing. The poem is an English translation, by Thomas MacDonagh, of a Cathal Buí Mac Giolla Ghunna piece. In English it is titled The Yellow Bittern (for all you non-ornithologists out there a Bittern is a wading bird of the Heron family) and it reads ....

The yellow bittern that never broke out
In a drinking bout, might as well have drunk;
His bones are thrown on a naked stone
Where he lived alone like a hermit monk.
O yellow bittern! I pity your lot,
Though they say that a sot like myself is curst -
I was sober a while, but I'll drink and be wise
For I fear I should die in the end of thirst.

It's not for the common birds that I'd mourn,
The black-bird, the corn-crake, or the crane,
But for the bittern that's shy and apart
And drinks in the marsh from the lone bog-drain.
Oh! if I had known you were near your death,
While my breath held out I'd have run to you,
Till a splash from the Lake of the Son of the Bird
Your soul would have stirred and waked anew.

This year has been, unequivocally, a total and utter kick in the nuts. That is not to say that it has not been interesting, sometimes sweet, oft-times sour - just that it has mostly been a sharp to dull pain in the groin region. I will bid 2012 adieu with a greater understanding of how life can swallow people whole and grind them down. 2012 has also been a really good year in other ways. My studies have progressed up to the point where now I can actually understand most of the crap that I have talked for the last number of years. I have made good friends with good people and enjoyed the craic where ere I may, but am still stuck in an area that I would rather not be. I remembered a poem I read when I was young and realised the transcendental power of the written word. When I was young I thought the poem was a song of youth and rebellion, a cautionary tale to the child - the father of the man - to embrace all that he can while he can for life is a fleeting thing. The poem is an English translation, by Thomas MacDonagh, of a Cathal Buí Mac Giolla Ghunna piece. In English it is titled The Yellow Bittern (for all you non-ornithologists out there a Bittern is a wading bird of the Heron family) and it reads ....

The yellow bittern that never broke out
In a drinking bout, might as well have drunk;
His bones are thrown on a naked stone
Where he lived alone like a hermit monk.
O yellow bittern! I pity your lot,
Though they say that a sot like myself is curst -
I was sober a while, but I'll drink and be wise
For I fear I should die in the end of thirst.

It's not for the common birds that I'd mourn,
The black-bird, the corn-crake, or the crane,
But for the bittern that's shy and apart
And drinks in the marsh from the lone bog-drain.
Oh! if I had known you were near your death,
While my breath held out I'd have run to you,
Till a splash from the Lake of the Son of the Bird
Your soul would have stirred and waked anew.

My darling told me to drink no more
Or my life would be o'er in a little short while;
But I told her 'tis drink gives me health and strength
And will lengthen my road by many a mile.
You see how the bird of the long smooth neck
Could get his death from the thirst at last -
Come, son of my soul, and drain your cup,
You'll get no sup when your life is past.

In a wintering island by Constantine's halls
A bittern calls from a wineless place,
And tells me that hither he cannot come
Till the summer is here and the sunny days.
When he crosses the stream there and wings o'er the sea
Then a fear comes to me he may fail in his flight -
Well, the milk and the ale are drunk every drop,
And a dram won't stop our thirst this night.

Now when I read this it fills my heart with a longing for a place by the hearth and clear air to hear and be heard on a more primordial plane. It no longer, to me, seems a poem of life's embrace but one of perpetuity. It seems to tell to all that there is no meaning in the philosophy of life, there is no game of chance that can be won, there is no greater greatness than self and there is no place called home. There is comfort in the moments, the cracks between dusk and dawn in which we choose to eke out our daily bread and wine. The stony grey soil that once burgled the banks of our youth (Kavanagh, P.) now stand as testament to our maturing folly. In the end, we live, we abide and we shuffle loose this mortal coil with as much dignity as we can muster. If we chance to hit upon shared experiences the best we can hope for is to share them with others. If you want to read on please insert any and all other cliches that seem to fit for you and you can make this yours.

I will sign off on this sad diatribe with a more uplifting and positive outlook which I will assign to the coming year.

Inniskeen Road: July Evening

The bicycles go by in twos and threes -
There's a dance in Billy Brennan's barn tonight,
And there's the half-talk code of mysteries
And the wink-and-elbow language of delight.
Half-past eight and there is not a spot
Upon a mile of road, no shadow thrown
That might turn out a man or woman, not
A footfall tapping secrecies of stone.

I have what every poet hates in spite
Of all the solemn talk of contemplation.
Oh, Alexander Selkirk knew the plight
Of being king and government and nation.
A road, a mile of kingdom. I am king
Of banks and stones and every blooming thing.

I hope to have a more positive message before the midnight of 2012 but until then please be incredibly nice to each other

By the way will everyone please cast an eye over Rubis set On the battlefield - http://suicidegirls.com/members/Rubis/albums/site/30591/. It is sweet as a nut!

Luco