1. |
Daybreak
02:39
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As blazes forth through clouds the morning sun,
So shines your soul, and I must veil my sight
Lest it be stricken to eternal night
By too much seeing ere my song be done,
And I must sing your body’s clouds that run
To hide you with their crimson, green and white
At sunset dawn and noon—and then the flight
Of stars that chant your praise in unison.
But I beneath the planetary choir
Still as a stone lie dumbly, till the dark
Lifts its broad wings—then swift as you draw nigher
I raise Memnonian song, and all must hark,
For you have flung a brand, and fixed a spark
Deep in the stone, of your immortal fire.
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2. |
Love Letter
02:48
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I am not writing this letter for you to read, that would be impossible because I know we cannot go back to before the irrevocable happened. But just to ease my heart where this has so often been written; if a new kind of pain can be called ease (I think it can)
I never said rightly what I meant; I just made blind rushes at speaking and got all tangled. I am not doing much better now but the hopelessness seems to make it easier to be clear and anyway my failure this time won’t make tragedy.
It is not six months since I left my country, home, friends, and you for your sake? Have I not even abstained from writing from you? What greater works could love have done than these?
You would not stand accused to yourself of having led me to my hurt – you would give me no encouragement. Did you then know so little of love as to think it needed encouragement? Did you not know that love devours famine like a flame? That it follows lack as air fills a vacuum? And if encouragement were needed was there not yourself, sweeter and more dreadful than any rose.
It was my misfortune; it is my despair that the only hope for me lay beyond your understanding, buried in what was to you a foreign tongue. Only in my poems is there anything worthy of your love, and even the celestial glories of which I have written I seem to have obscured with my own murky personality.
But I can at least praise god that I have seen his glory in you and not kept silent.
I loved your beauty while you slept
And wept that you should wake to pain
While brain and heart the vigil kept
Stepped lightly that your dreams remain.
Joseph Mary Plunkett, Sept 21st 1915, New York
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3. |
Clouds
04:40
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I do not know how you can shun
His sight who sees himself a clod
Whose blindness still outstares the sun
And gazes on the hidden God.
I do not know how you can hate
A heart so set about with fire,
A sword so linked with heavy fate
And broken with unknown desire.
I see your eyes with glory blaze
And splendour bind your dusky hair,
And ever through the nights and days
My soul must struggle with despair.
Your beauty must forever be
My cloud of anguish, and your breath
Raise sorrow like the surging sea
Around the windy wastes of death.
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4. |
We Only Want The Earth
03:41
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Some men, faint-hearted, ever seek
Our programme to retouch,
And will insist, whene’er they speak
That we demand too much.
’Tis passing strange, yet I declare
Such statements give me mirth,
For our demands most moderate are,
We only want the earth.
“Be moderate,” the trimmers cry,
Who dread the tyrants’ thunder.
“You ask too much and people fly
From you aghast in wonder.”
’Tis passing strange, for I declare
Such statements give me mirth,
For our demands most moderate are,
We only want the earth
Our masters all a godly crew,
Whose hearts throb for the poor,
Their sympathies assure us, too,
If our demands were fewer.
Most generous souls! But please observe,
What they enjoy from birth
Is all we ever had the nerve
To ask, that is, the earth.
The “labour fakir” full of guile,
Base doctrine ever preaches,
And whilst he bleeds the rank and file
Tame moderation teaches.
Most generous souls! But please observe,
What they enjoy from birth
Is all we ever had the nerve
To ask, that is, the earth
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5. |
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White Dove of the wild dark eyes
Faint silver flutes are calling
From the night where the star-mists rise
And fire-flies falling
Tremble in starry wise,
Is it you they are calling?
White Dove of the beating heart
Shrill golden reeds are thrilling
In the woods where the shadows start,
While moonbeams, filling
With dreams the floweret’s heart
Its dreams are thrilling.
White Dove of the folded wings,
Soft purple night is crying
With the voice of fairy things
For you, lest dying
They miss your flashing wings,
Your splendorous flying
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6. |
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7. |
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Brón ar an mbás, ‘s é dhubh mo chroíse.
D’fhuadaigh mo ghrá is dfhág mé cloíte,
Gan caraid gan compánach fá dhíon mo thíse
Ach an léan seo im’ lár, is mé ag caoineadh’
Ag gabháil an tsléibhe dom tráthnóna
Do labhair an éanlaith liom go brónach,
Do labhair an naosc binn ‘s an crotach glórach,
Ag faisnéis dom gur éag mo stórach
Do ghlaoigh mé ort is do ghlór ní chualas,
Do ghlaoigh mé arís is freagra ní bhfuaras,
Do phóg mé do bhéal, is a Dhia, nárbh fhuar é!
Och, is fuar í do leaba sa gcillín uaigneach.
‘S a uaigh fhódghlas ‘na bhfuil mo leanbh.
A uaigh chaol bheag, ós tú a leaba,
Mo bheannacht ort, is na mílte beannacht
Ar na fódaibh glasa atá os cionn mo pheata.
O green-sodded grave in which my child is,
Little narrow grave, since you are his bed,
My blessing on you, and thousands of blessings
On the green sods that are over my treasure.
Brón ar an mbás, ní féidir a shéanadh,
Leagann sé úr is críon le chéile –
S a mhaicín mhánla, is é mo chéasadh
Do cholainn chaomh bheith ag déanamh créafóig’
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8. |
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Sé do bheatha, a bhean ba léanmhar,
Do b’ é ár gcreach thú bheith i ngéibheann,
Do dhúiche bhreá i seilbh méirleach,
Is tú díolta leis na Gallaibh.
Óró, sé do bheatha ‘bhaile,
Óró, sé do bheatha ‘bhaile,
Óró, sé do bheatha ‘bhaile
Anois ar theacht an tsamhraidh.
Tá Gráinne Mhaol ag teacht thar sáile,
Óglaigh armtha léi mar gharda,
Gaeil iad féin is ní Frainc ná Spáinnigh,
Is cuirfidh siad ruaig ar Ghallaibh.
A bhuí le Rí na bhFeart go bhfeiceam,
Mura mbeam beo ina dhiaidh ach seachtain,
Gráinne Mhaol agus míle gaiscíoch,
Ag fógairt fáin ar Ghallaibh
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9. |
Fornocht Do Chonaic Thú
08:08
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Fornocht do chonac thú,
A áille na háille,
Is do dhallas mo shúil
Ar eagla go stánfainn.
Do chualas do cheol,
A bhinne na binne,
Is do dhúnas mo chluas
Ar eagla go gclisfinn.
Do bhlaiseas do bhéal
A mhilse na milse,
Is do chruas mo chroí
Ar eagla mo mhillte.
Do dhallas mo shúil,
Is mo chluas do dhúnas;
Do chruas mo chroí,
Is mo mhian do mhúchas.
Do thugas mo chúl
Ar an aisling do chumas,
‘s ar an ród so romham
M’aghaidh do thugas.
Do thugas mo ghnúis
Ar an ród so romham,
Ar an ngníomh do-chim,
‘s ar an mbás do gheobhad
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10. |
Lux in Tenebris
05:16
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f the dread all-seeing stars,
Ringed Saturn and ruddy Mars
And their companions all the seven,
That play before the lord of Heaven,
fall at my feet and worship me,
Endow me with all sovranty
Of their wide kingdom of the blue
Yet I would not believe that you Could love me
I fought unknown inhuman foes
And left them in their battle-throes,
Hacked a way through them and advanced
To where the stars of morning danced
In your high honour, there I stood
To see you, till the morning-flood
Burst from the sky—but your sunrise
Striking my unaccustomed eyes
In heart and eyes a drunken flame
That sang and clamoured out your name,
And woke a madness in my head.
The enemies I had left for dead
Surrounded me with gibbering cries
And mocked me for my blinded eyes.
I curst them till they rose in rage
And flung me down a battle-gage
I took the challenge straightaway
And leaped—and that was yesterday
Or was last year, but every hour
For weary years to break their power
Still must I fight, but now a gleam
Of hope comes to me like a dream,
To-day, though dimly, I do see,
My vision has come back to me.
I searched, my vision held above,
For green oasis of your love.
My heart’s dry desert, hot and wide,
Bounded by flames on every side,
So dim and old no song can tell,
Covers the tombs where dead kings dwell:
Now demons dance upon their tombs,
Shut with the seals of lasting dooms,
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11. |
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He shall not hear the bittern cry
In the wild sky, where he is lain,
Nor voices of the sweeter birds,
Above the wailing of the rain.
Nor shall he know when loud March blows
Thro’ slanting snows her fanfare shrill,
Blowing to flame the golden cup
Of many an upset daffodil.
But when the Dark Cow leaves the moor,
And pastures poor with greedy weeds,
Perhaps he’ll hear her low at morn,
Lifting her horn in pleasant meads
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Lorcan Mac Mathuna Dublin, Ireland
From the cradle Lorcán Mac Mathúna was surrounded by traditional irish music. Sean-Nós singing was the soundscape of his
youth, the air he breathed.
Drawing on the deep roots of Sean-Nós he has brought the fundamentals of this ancient tradition into contemporary collaborations and compositions. He is truly a modern singer who sits comfortably with ancient tradition and the avant-garde.
... more
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