SOVEREIGN

Saturday, January 10, 2009

A Tribute: Shanahan’s Last Stand

Shanahan’s Last Stand

Here is a poem I wrote in honor of Michael Shanahan, who was fired as the head coach of the Denver Broncos on the last day of 2008. I tried to evoke not just the man, but also his name in history, some of his achievements and demise. Not all in classical ‘Deibhidhe’ meter.

“Quando cadit Coliseus; cadet et Roma...” – Bede the Venerable

True the glorious tale, behold...

Of Shanahan, strictly good and bold!

Cosrach, brother of Cineadh;

Cosrach of Donchadh, well-bred

Donchadh Cuan, son of Seanchan

Paragons of Mother Shannon.

Clan Ui Bloid of the Dal gCais

Of Thomond, Munster: good grace

The Tordealbhaigh, O’Briens...

With MacNamara’s battle reigns.

Then Limerick, Cork, Waterford;

Bodyke, Feakle, Clare’s fair ward

Omulled the East, sweet Carlow

Wexford: Thro’ sun, wind, and snow.

The stronger kin grows ever strong;

Til famine is the lands’ sad song

Sept and Clans move far away

To prover their worth, earn their pay.

To foreign lands labour sought;

Wild geese in distant ports no doubt

In ships ‘cross oceans, another world

From Dublin to seek New York’s gold.

New Irish, of American breed;

Prospectors yearn to succeed

The ‘old-ways’ now reinvented

By émigré’s on prairie homesteads.

From Windy City’s Oak Park;

A son of Eire, green birthmark

Born of a dream, guided right

Stream of sparks, full of light.

Youngsters play to catch and run;

Chicago Bulls: All games hard won

Leyden High School to Illinois

Spirit of a sporting boy.

Lumberjacks and Gophers Gold;

College titles: the athlete bold

Watching, running, learning play

Reaching to tackle day by day.

Field-crushed and kidney lost;

Hard the red blood, dear the cost

Too near to death, feeling pain

Bleeding is a joyless strain.

From Quarterback to coaching;

With Raiders on an Angel’s wing

To green of St. Francis’ field

A lightening rod, spearhead, shield.

Denver Bronco’s: The best man;

Success: San Diego and Miami Clan

In nineteen ninety eight and nine

Green Bay Packers hear a victors rhyme.

All effort in discipline

Focus is a sharpened thing

Preparation: true battle plan

Men controlled by a tough man.

Soul of Leadership, of laurels

Of crowns won on hard hills

Never sleeping: tight-lipped and worn

Never faded, your loss we mourn

Thus the Man’s tale told so far...

Perhaps he leaves for another shore?

Thursday, January 1, 2009

Compass of the Winds

Compass of the Winds, a poem by Lord Carville, Ollamh-Draoi

These few verses were inspired by the words of Angus the Culdee in the 'Saltair na Rain' (translated by Whitely Stokes in 1883). In the first section of the manuscript (dated to 985 - 1061 CE) he discusses the various Druidic winds in relation to creation, perhaps a remnant of an older Celtic creation myth with east as the purple wind, south as the white wind, west as the dun/gray wind and north as the black wind.

Dawns' love pierces dark sky blue,

Suns' gold in Eastern purple hue;

The womb of births': illuminating days...

Earth warmed by Royal; flames, fine rays.

Fair hand, the good and right,

Noble Spirit of purest white;

Virtue and honor, bless'd South...

Ever-best, fortune of a sweet mouth.

Haze of West is death devotion,

Dun-gray, brown, dusk-wind ocean;

Consumed, beneath waves, of drowning...

Grave sound of distant mourning.

Hard bitter North looms at left,

Black frost of souls lost, bereft;

Frozen Her of ill renown...

Dark cells never saw the light of dawn.

Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Michael Phelps, & An Uninvited Guest - Two Cinquains

Michael Phelps Commemorative

I wanted to write a poem about the year passing and got to thinking about time lost and gained... no sooner do we believe that we have gained and won - then we are old and forlorn, and barely capable of getting by without a mechanical aid. Nut this thought led me to think of sportsmen - forever chasing time, and then Michael Phelps came to my mind... a man who has been described as the greatest Olympian ever, winning eight gold medals at the Olympics in Beijing. I decided to apply the cinquain format to a tributary poem , with the fourth line of eight syllables as the anchor in honor of a swimming genius!

Baltimore Bullet

Dolphin,

Flips on a dime...

Against time: Butterfly

Eight gold medals: one mighty span,

Fast man.

On the theme of an uninvited guest

My uninvited guest was a small and irritating seasonal visitor who decided to really get up my nose and cause me no end of irritation... to the point where I was forced to consult my physician, and here is the poem:

'Aflucination'

Cough in

Rough rhino prose.

Dose of disease, foggy

Bug, nose squatter - evil flu-dream

Cold scream

Saturday, December 20, 2008

Aeturnus: The Feast of Ages

Golden threads of light nurture ancient aether,

Woven dreams playing ‘cross bleak Northern shores;

Glowing in blind-black storms of frosted weather...

A snow-owl thro’ halo’s of heaven soars.

Roar of Boreas: swart screams into bitter cold,

Thro’ limbs of death dancing hawthorn, greenest pine;

Aurora’s ribbons flowing: lucent on bold blue...

Spectral hues streaming in waves thro’ space and time.

Polaris: stellar regent pearl, in guiding strong,

Thro’ sleep and years, navigating the knowing soul;

Sov’reign Arcticus chants a celestial song...

Willow’s bear revolves ‘round the crown of the pole.

Three flames: Magi charting the brightest star,

Caspar, Melchior, Balthazzar set on sure path;

Compassing desert, mountain, sea and lands afar...

Wisdom in the quest for the prophecy of true faith.

Gold, frankincense, myrrh: blossoms of Mother’s Earth,

Honour-gifts for the divine birth, new hope springs;

Treasure-balm: the warm spirit of Heaven’s hearth....

Word of Glory revealed: Angel Gabriel sings.

Vibrant echoes thrum deep in a church of stones,

Wicks flicker praise on shadow’d walls: songs lift a veil

Psalms adore in faith, love’s vision inspiring tones...

Welcome brighter bliss to vales of ghostly pale.

The tender prayer of worth is ever burning,

In shrines revered: shines eternal in dim-lit night

Breath of every dawn emerging, each Yule a yearning;

The feast of All-Ages... For the Prince of All-Light.

Friday, September 19, 2008

Sionnach: The Hawks Tale of Tadghan the Fox

Sionnach: The Hawks Tale of Tadghan the Fox, Poem by Lord Carville

In this 'conachlonn' (a simple Bardic form of chain verse) I have tried to evoke the path of life that revolves in and around a forest footpath with the main characters of the fox and the hawk. Various activities are seen in sharp, penetrative glimpses, sounds and colors. I have also included some alliteration and linking cross rhymes.

Harrow'd tale of Prince Todd unlocks;

Foxs' dark damp earthen burrow,

Durrow's forest of mighty oaks.

Rooks perch black in cawing sorrow,

Follow the path by trickling brook

Drunk the trout in silver'd shallow

Fallow deer in soft shadows lurk -

Stark glimpse of fierce snapping horror,

Sparrows rise in wild frightened flock,

Work is hardest hunting hallowed,

Hollow echoes of far distant barks

Dark is deaths' intention t'morrow

Borrowed life for life sustaining spark,

Fork through leaves the killer glowered...

Billowed strength and the final crack

Smack of sharpest teeth; poor fellow,

Willows curtain hides the sneaky rake,

Drake tastes of fine feathered tallow,

Mellow now; a placid reddish lake,

Snakes whistle b'tween furnish yarrow,

Yellow speckled dawn of sun's sparks

Larks chant choral in dappled meadows

Narrow path to his hearth he walks,

Stalks now sweet dreams in mossy slumber,

Summer'd eye of the sensuous hawk;

Talk of trails well harrow'd.

Saturday, August 9, 2008

A Sonnet in Praise of Solitary Pissers

Hark! What wond’rous muse echoes thro’ pale walls?

Tinkling streams slip murmurs ‘cross yonder vales,

Whistling to world’s end; swift waterfalls,

Sweet liquors flow in glistening amber trails.

From deepest caves concealed in fleshy silks,

Dams break wild in passions wet farewell kiss,

Nature’s purpose; to sprinkle golden milk;

Jewel crusted cunt and curly cock in bliss.

Chosen praise; true athletic aim is bound,

Each crotch in careful urine rhyme resorts

Ripe fruit slashed, juice flows from blessed mound;

On thrones at home, abroad, all fine exotic ports.

A common prayer to vast oceans expanse –

Lonesome pissers assume the holy stance...!

Sunday, July 6, 2008

Caim: The Soul of My Child

This is a poem I wrote in tribute of the daughter of a dear friend, Paul, who died of cancer aged only 21 years. It professes my belief that death is not the end of existence but an ‘ever-flowing’ continuum. I have tried to establish the feeling of joy, fragility and sorrow which accompanies the death of a child (similarly the death of our Samuel, our own boy) – but in this case the demise of a dearly beloved young lady with immense potential. The structure of the poem is based on the Gaelic concept of ‘caim’ – which means a ‘circle’ and I have employed it in terms of a revolving and flowing life, a circle of family members and friends and a wholeness, a connected spirit of being.

Caim

The child of my soul was an apple seed

Composed in bliss, an eternal kiss on the eve;

Summer’s honey; fragrant exchange of passion

Two became one in rapture.

Gentle breath from a slowly arising sun,

Her tender limbs grew into empty rooms, life

Love, laughter, and joy, the whistle of leaves

Wind delicate mosaic of music.

A melodious heart with transparent wings

Beautiful but fragile form of aspirations

Diadem of moon; silent and solemn witness

Sharpened teeth of a violent black storm.

Astringent clouds swirling down, maleficent

Before her first blossoming, cut and snatched

And complete silence now, an empty room

Space beyond the grasp of our fingertips.

Deep longing for one more warm embrace

A yearning for confirmation of essence

Which is now but an echo, lost in faraway

Flickering light in the bosom of the west.

A despair that trembles in tides, and out

Tears flowing from the oceans’ depths

The core of an apple reveals the seed

The memory of her...

Which is the soul of my child.