Thursday, June 18, 2009
Women of Ireland
The song below is in honor of Dale, Brendon and their four Irish wolfhounds. In the picture above young Brighid is making John feel right at home.
Mna na h Eireann
versions: Sinead O'Connor; Kate Bush; The Chieftains (instrumental); The one in Barry Lyndon
Ta bean in Eirinn a phronnfadh sead damh is mo shaith le n-o
'S ta beann in Erinn is sa binne leithe mo rafla ceoil no seinm thead
Ata bean in Eirinn is niorbh fhearr le beo
Mise ag leimnigh no leagtha ! gcre is mo tharr faoi fhod
Ta bean in Eirinn a bheadh ag ead, liom mur bhfaighinn ach pog
0 bihean ar aonach, nach ait an sceala, is mo dhaimh fein leo
Ta bean ab fhearr lom no cath is cead dhiobh nach bhfagham go de
Is ta cailin speiruil ag fear gan bhearla, dubghranna croin
Ta bean a dearfaidh da siulainn leithe go bhfaighinn an t-or
Is ta bean 'na leine is is fearr a mein no na tainte bo
Le bean a bhuairfeadh baile an mhaoir agus clar thin eoghaln
Is ni fhaicim leigheas ar mo ghalar fein ach scaird a dh'ol
Women of Ireland
There's a woman in Ireland who'd give me a gem and a pint,
There's a woman in Ireland to who likes my song not strings
There's a woman in Ireland who'd like me better leaping
Than laid in the clay and my belly under the sod
There's a woman in Ireland who'd grudge me a kiss
From a woman at a fair, strange! The love I have for them...
There's a woman I'd shun an army for, and 100 I'll never get
While a swarthy man with no English has a beautiful girl.
There's a woman who'd promise gold if I walked with her
And one in a nightdress whose mien beats herds of cows
With a woman who'd deafen Ballymoor and Tyrone
And I see no cure for my disease but to give up the drink
more about "Mná na h-Éireann"
(yes, I don't know what it's all about either)
Monday, June 15, 2009
He Calls That Religion
See/Hear Video
Well, the preacher used to preach
To try to stay atoned
But now he's preachin'
Just to buy jellyroll*
Well, he calls that religion
Yes, he calls that religion
Well, he calls that religion
But I know he's goin' to hell when he dies
It was at a church last night
Had desire to be
The old preacher
Was tryin' to take my wife from me
Oh, he call that religion
Yes, he call that religion
Well, he called that religion
I know he's goin' to hell when he dies
Preacher always
He was a mighty true man
He gives his commence
And he couldn't understand
Well, he calls that religion
Yes, he called that religion
Well, he called that religion
but I know he goin' to hell when he dies
(guitar & fiddle)
Oh yes, he calls that religion
He will swear he's keepin'
God's command
Have women fussin' 'n fightin'
All over land
And then he call that religion
Well, he calls that religion
Well, he called that religion
But I know he's goin' to hell when he dies
Therein the people
Stopped goin' to church
They know that preacher
Was tryin-a do too much
But still he called that religion
Still, he called that religion
Well, he called that religion
But I know he's goin' to hell when he dies
Old Deacon Jones
He was a preachin' King
They caught him 'round the house
Tryin-a shake that thing
Oh, he called that religion
Yes, he called that religion
Well, he called that religion
But I know he goin' to hell when he dies
'Oh yeah, he calls that religion'.
*Jelly roll is Harlem slang of the 1930s, a picturesque term for 'vagina'.
Image is taken from Wikipedia
Thursday, June 11, 2009
A Modest Proposal
There is no better way to know us
Than as two wolves, come separately to a wood.
Now neither's able to sleep -- even at a distance
Distracted by the soft competing pulse
Of the other; nor able to hunt -- at every step
Looking backwards and sideways, warying to listen
For the other's slavering rush. Neither can make die
The painful burning of the coal in its heart
Till the other's body and the whole wood is its own.
Then it might sob contentment toward the moon.
Each in a thicket, rage hoarse in its labouring
Chest after a skirmish, licks the rents in its hide,
Eyes brighter than is natural under the leaves
(Where the wren, peeping round a leaf, shrieks out
To see a chink so terrifyingly open
Onto the red smelting of hatred) as each
Pictures a mad final satisfaction.
Suddenly they duck and peer.
And there rides by
The great lord from hunting. His embroidered
Cloak floats, the tail of his horse pours,
And at his stirrup the two great-eyed greyhounds
That day after day bring down the towering stag
Leap like one, making delighted sounds.
Bridestones
Scorched-looking, unhewn -- a hill-top chapel.
Actually a crown of outcrop rock --
Earth's heart-bone laid bare.
Crowding congregation of skies.
Tense congregation of hills.
You do nothing casual here.
The wedding stones
Are electrified with whispers.
And marriage is nailed down
By this slender-necked, heavy-headed
Black exclamation mark
of rock.
And you go
With the wreath of weather
The wreath of horizons
The wreath of constellations
Over your shoulders.
And from now on
The sun
Can always touch you
With the shadow of this finger.
From now on
The moon can always lift your skull
On to this perch, to clean it.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Call Boy
Git out o' bed, you rascals,
Take it up from de covers,
Bring it to de strawboss
Fast as you can;
Down to de railroads
De day is beginnin',
An' day never waited
Fo' no kinda man.
Sun's jes a-peekin'
Over top o' de mountains,
An' de fogclouds a-liftin'
Fo' de break of day;
Number Forty-four's pantin',
Takin' on coal an' water,
And she's strainin' ready
Fo' to get away.
Leave yo' wives and yo' sweethearts,
Yo' pink and yo' yaller,
Yo' blue black and stovepipe,
Yo' chocolate brown;
All you backbitin' rascals,
Leave de other men's women,
De night crew from de roundhouse
Is a-roundin' roun'.
O you shifters and humpers,
You boiler washers,
You oilers and greasers
Of de drivin' rods,
You switchers and flagmen,
Tile layers and tampers,
Youse wanted at de Norfolk
And Western yards.
You cooks got to cook it
From here to Norfolk,
You waiters got to dish it
From here to Tenessee,
You porters got to run
From here to Memphis,
Gotta bring de man's time,
Dontcha see, dontcha see?
De air may be cold an'
Yo' bed may be easy,
Yo' babe may be comfy
An' warm by yo' side;
But don't snore so loud
Dat you can't hear me callin',
Don't ride no nightmare,
Dere's engines to ride.
Git up off o' yo' shirt-tails,
You dumb lazy rounders,
Think I'm gonna let you
Sleep all day?
Bed has done ruint
Dem as can't leave it,
You knows you can't make it
Actin' datway...
Sterling A. Brown
Strawboss: A worker who acts as a boss or crew leader in addition to performing regular duties.
Roundhouse: workplace consisting of a circular building for repairing locomotives .
Stovepipe: ? [one Urban Dictionary definition is "a white woman who sleeps with black men."]
Blueblack: African American with very dark skin.
Shifter: A switcher in the terminology of the Pennsylvania Railroad
Humper: [Not sure but a hump yard is a yard where railcars are rearranged by rolling down a hill into a series of tracks. [http://www.vnerr.com/news/slang.html]
Oilers and greasers: oil and grease moving parts of friction surfaces of mechanical equipment (eg driving rods)
Check out this website for old Harlem Slang:
http://aalbc.com/authors/harlemslang.htm
Image taken between 1909-1932.
Obtained from http://www.old-picture.com
Monday, March 23, 2009
The Dracula Vine
People on the moon love a pet.
But there's only one pet you can get --
The Dracula Vine, a monstrous sight!
But the moon-people like it all right.
This pet looks like a climbing plant
Made from parts of elephant.
But each flower is a hippo's head
Endlessly gaping to be fed.
Now this pet eats everything --
Whatever you can shovel or fling.
It snaps up all your old cardboard boxes
Your empty cans and your stuffed foxes.
And wonder of wonders! The very flower
You have given something to devour
Sprouts on the spot a luscious kind of pear
Without pips, and you can eat it there.
So this is a useful pet
And loyal if well-treat.
But if you treat it badly
It will wander off sadly
Till somebody with more garbage than you
Gives its flowers something to do.
The Earth-Owl and Other Moon-People was dedicated to Frieda and Nicholas Hughes
and published in 1963, the year of Nicholas's birth. Nicholas committed suicide on March
23rd 2009.
This reminds me of a poem in Crow. I think it's called The Love Pet?
Monday, March 9, 2009
The Socialists of Vienna
The rain is falling
steadily. Two by two,
a column of policemen marches
in the twilight. (Revolution!
Against our boots
strike,
flickering tongues!)
A company of soldiers
with machine-guns,
squad by squad, turns within a square
and marches down a street. (Revolution!
We are the greyhounds --
unleash us! --
to hunt these rabbits
out of the fields. Listen to me,
my two wives,
I have killed a man!)
Workingmen troop down the stairs
and out into the rain;
hurrah!
Revolution! (The gentleness of the deer
will never persuade the tiger from his leap.
Strong as a million hands,
what Bastille or Kremlin withstands us
as we march, as we march?)
Who minds the rain now?
How bright the air is;
how warm to be alive!
No children
in the hallways;
the stores closed,
not a motor car;
except for the rain,
how quiet.
Revolution!
Hurry to the power-house;
let the water out of the
boilers! The wires of the lamps burn dimly,
the lights in the houses
are out. Tie the red flag to the chimney,
but do not go through the streets,
where the steel -helmets have woven nets
of barbed wire;
bring guns and machine-guns
through the sewer
to each beleaguered house;
and send couriers throughout the land.
Arise, arise, you workers!
Revolution!
Put on your helmets;
troopers, tighten the straps
under your chins;
strap on revolovers;
tighten your belts,
and mount your horses; mount!
Send bullets flying through the panes of glass --
forward, trot!
I am Fey,
I am Prince Starhemberg;
behind me is The Empire --
the princes of Austria
and the captains of Germany,
armored tanks and armored aeroplanes,
fortresses and battleships;
before us only workingmen
unused to arms and glory!
The bones in his neck part as they hang him,
and the neck is elongated;
here is a new animal
for the zoo in which are
mermaid, centaur, shynx, and Assyrian cherub --
the face human, like their faces,
but sorrowing for a multitude,
hands and feet dangling
out of sleeves and trousers become too short,
and the neck a giraffe's --
as the neck of one who looks away from the patch of grass at his feet
and feeds among clouds should be.
Tell of it you who sit in the little cafes,
drinking coffee and eating whipped cream
among the firecrackers of witticisms;
tell of it you who are free to gallop about on horseback
or to ride in automobiles, or walk in gardens,
who say, Do not speak of despondency --
or any ugliness;
"Wie herrlich leuchtet
Mir die Natur!
Wie glaenzt die Sonne,
Wie lacht die Flur!"*
Karl Marx Hof, Engels Hof,
Liebknecht Hof, Matteotti Hof --
names cut in stone to ornament a house
as much as carving of leaves or fruit,
as any bust of saint and hero;
names pealing out a holiday among the ticking of clocks! --
speak your winged words, cannon;
shell with lies, radios,
the pleasant homes --
the houses built about courtyards
in which were
the noise of trees and of fountains,
the silence of statues and of flowers;
cry out, you fascists,
Athens must perish!
Long live Sparta!
Charles Reznikoff
Separate Way
image Mahnmal gegen Krieg und Faschismus
(Monument against War and Fascism)
photographed by sculptor Alfred Hrdlicka
http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Alfred_Hrdlicka
*How splendidly Nature is alight before me! How the sun is shining, how the meadows laugh! -- Goethe
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