Four Celtic Poems

Abstract

Four Celtic Poems Translated by Tony Hoagland (bio) and Martin Shaw (bio) Midhir’s Invitation to the Fair Land Fair woman, will you go with me to the high landwhere sweet music is? One’s hair is like the primrosethere and the folk have bodies white as snow. In the high land, there is neither thine nor mine.The women’s teeth are white; the men’s eyes are black and clear. Every cheek is the pink of fox glove. The meadows of Ireland are fair to see—but they are like a desert when you have seen the high land; Irish ale is fine to drink—but in the high landthe wine they serve will turn your head into a cloud. In the place I tell of, the young do not die before their time;they serve the old ones, who are wiseand shield the young in turn. Sweet streams flow always through the fair landand the minds of the people are clear as skin with no blemish,as a child’s face in the virgin morning. When we walk together there, you will seethese men and ladies, you will see them on all sides, tall and fair and kind.But they will not see us. For the dark of Adam’s trespass is around us like a cloakand it means we cannot be seen, or counted one of them. Irish, ninth century, author unknown [End Page 160] Lament for Reilly As I walked by the strand one fine evening,whom did I see but my fair-haired Reilly? His cheeks were flushed and his brown hair all curlyand I felt that his death was rushing right through me. My God, Reilly, were you not the king’s son-in-law,meant to be dressed in the finest gold cloth? with bright white curtains around where you lay,and a beautiful lady combing your hair? The shipwright who made the boat for your journey,may his two hands crumble like old brown cork. May the faulty plank in the hull of that boatbe burnt alive in a fire. May the cold sea that entered through the hole in the plankbe jailed, found guilty, and hanged. May the priest who prayed on the deck, and failed,go to no heaven. If I had been out that night with my nets all ready,by God, Reilly, I would have saved you. You looked good on your slender white horse that summer before,blowing your horn, with your hounds all around. God made me alone so young; I hear themrepeating that Reilly is dead, my Reilly is dead again. You should have heard their voices that night;excited to know there would be not a wedding, but a wake;and a brand new widow. Irish, traditional folk song [End Page 161] The Girls ofLlanbadorn Since I was young I have been mad for girls.One dozen times a day I fall in love. No Sunday has passed but that I am in the pews at Mass,in my feathered hat, my eyes turned keen across the congregation.But in this parish a curse from God has ruined me. Neither gentle lass, nor lonely wife, nor cankered hagwill sport with me. Among themselves, the women say, “View his face;He has the look of one who knows sin well.” There never was a spell so persistent as this. My neck has grown cricked from looking left and right,and still no mate. I am no more close to winning one of themthan if I was their enemy. And I must give up these fantasiesand become a hermit, or even worse, a saint. Welsh, fourteenth century, Dafydd ap Gwillym [End Page 162] Senility Wooden staff, it is autumn, the bracken is red;the stubble of fields is pale yellow. Wooden staff, it is winter; men are boisterousover their drink. Wooden staff, it is spring; the cuckoos are brown;there is light at the evening meal. Wooden staff, it is summer, the furrow is red; the young corn is...