Poetry | Irish American Mom

If I Were A Lady …. I’d Wear A Hat

May 1, 2015 by Irish American Mom 10 Comments

It’s Kentucky Derby weekend, and the people of Louisville are donning their finest attire for a day at the races. Ornate hats will balance atop the heads of well-heeled ladies, as they watch the Run for the Roses tomorrow.

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These fashion statements of Churchill Downs may be relics of the past, yet Kentucky racegoers embrace this tradition with gusto each year.

Although my home is in Louisville, I have not yet attended our famous race, but someday I hope to don a wide brimmed, lavishly festooned head piece, to sip mint juleps, as I place my bets at Churchill Downs.

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Every year as I admire the beautiful hats of the Kentucky Derby, I am reminded of a poem I learned in Ireland many years ago.

If I Were A Lady was written by Percy French (1854 ~ 1920), a balladeer and songwriter from County Roscommon.

The first lines of his poem go like this:

“If I were a lady I’d wear a hat

That all the street would be lookin’ at.”

And every year at Derby time I just can’t help but say in my head …..

If I were a lady I’d wear a hat,

That all the Derby’d be lookin’ at.

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This poem is one of my favorite party pieces. It’s recited in a true Dublin accent, where the ~g at the end of every ~ing word is dropped. The lady of our poem probably lived in one of Dublin’s tenement buildings, and she dreamed of being a lady.

I love the wit and nuance of this comedic yet insightful poem. Here it is in it’s entirety. I hope you enjoy this poem as much as I do …..

A quick note for reading – the word satine is pronounced sateen, and rhymes with bombazine pronounced bombazeen, when said in a very Dublin accent. Bombazine was a silk and wool blend, and would have been considered far less “posh” than a silky, satin fabric.

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If I Were A Lady

By Percy French

“If I were a lady I’d wear a hat,

That all the street would be lookin’ at.

I’d have a ladies maid, do ye mind,

Who’d button an’ fasten me dress behind.

A dress that was made o’ the finest satine,

…..None of yer bits of bombazine.

An’ the girls would envy and grind their teeth,

As they heard it rustlin’ underneath.

If I were a lady, but sure then I’m not,

These oul’ rags are the decentest rags I’ve got.

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If I were a lady, I’d drive to the play

And I’d lift up me opera glasses and say …

“Oh, I’ve seen this silly review before,

The leading lady’s an awful bore,

Lets all get up when she starts her song,

And go and eat cakes in a restaurant.”

Then a powder puff on me nose I’d dab,

An’ drive off home in a taxi cab.

If I were a lady, but sure then I’m not,

For a ticket to the gallery is all I’ve got.

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If I were a lady, a regular swell,

With a hairy boa and a silk umbrell,

‘Tis me that’d walk into the Shelbourne Hotel

And order me dinner, “Some pork an’ beans,

And whatever you’ve got in them soup tureens.

Both the sweets an’ a hunk of cheese,

Oh, an’ a bottle of porter please.”

Then I’d call for me bill, and settlin’ it,

I’d hand the waiter a thru’penny bit.

If I were a lady, but sure then I’m not,

My dinner comes out of the stirabout pot,

Still, there’s an awful lot of show an’ sham

Maybe I’m better off the way I am!”

And so again this year as I thought about the fine hats to be proudly worn at the races, I started to say to myself ….. “if I were a lady…..”

And then I kept going, and created a little verse in the same style as Percy French’s classic poem, which I dedicate to all the Kentucky Derby spectators who will end up watching this fabulous race from the comfort of their own couches tomorrow …..

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If I were a lady I’d wear a hat,

That all the Derby’d be lookin’ at.

I’d sit in a box and review the crowd,

Sippin’ mint juleps and lookin’ so proud.

I’d study the form and wager me bet,

Pickin’ the horse we’ll never forget.

And all the girls would scream and shout,

As we passed around the big shareout.

Ah still, Derby tickets are like pure gold,

So it’s TV racin’ that I’ll behold.

Wishing everyone a great day at the races tomorrow. May the best horse win. And to all the ladies who will be sporting a masterpiece atop their head, I hope you’ll be wearing the hat that all the Derby’ll be lookin’ at.

Slán agus beannacht!

(Goodbye and blessings)

Irish American Mom

Finnegan’s Wake, With An Apostrophe – In Memory of Irish Poet Paddy Finnegan

April 1, 2015 by Irish American Mom 4 Comments

Each year on Saint Patrick’s day the Irish literati assemble on the banks of the Grand Canal in Dublin to commemorate one of Ireland’s greatest poets, Patrick Kavanagh. This year there was one poet missing, Paddy Finnegan.

In today’s guest post, Mattie Lennon, writer and folklorist, remembers his friend, sharing some beautiful memories of this Irish poet and artist.

Finnegan’s poem, Post from Parnassus, was inspired by the annual Saint Patrick’s Day commemoration of Patrick Kavanagh.

Post From Parnassus (after Patrick Kavanagh)

by Paddy Finnegan

Here by my seat the old ghosts meet.

Here, the place where the old menagerie

Relentlessly soldiers on

Remembering the old green dragon, me,

On the feast of the Apostle of Ireland.

Ye greeny, greying catechumens

Will cease to stage this ceremony

Only on the command of Sergeant Death.

Then break not the heart of poet past

Nor that of preening poet present:

But know, ye prodigies of prosody

That multitudes in times to be

Will listen to my lays

And look askance

While cods forever fake

Their own importance.

Finnegan’s Wake:

Dublin Lord Mayor, Christy Burke, put the Oak Room of the Mansion House at the disposal of the Paddy Finnegan Memorial Committee on Wednesday 12^th September.

The event “Finnegan’s Wake,” attracted a full house (about 50 people were turned away.)

Poet Paddy Finnegan passed away, unexpectedly, on 16^th July 2014.

Paddy Finnegan:

Paddy was born “between two years” either in the dying moments of 1941 or just after midnight on New-year’s day 1942. Like everywhere else in rural Ireland at that time, clocks weren’t all that accurate in Kilkerrin, County Galway.

Paddy received a Scholarship to St Jarleths College in 1956 and continued his formal education in UCD. Paddy had a fantastic knowledge of the English language, was fluent in all dialects of Gaeilge and had a good grasp of Greek and Latin.

His versatility was increased in the year he spent in Wolverhampton as one of “the men who built Britain”. He became an expert on how to fry steak on the head of a shovel.

He joined the Irish Civil Service in 1962 but office work wasn’t for Paddy. Apart from being on a higher mental plane than most of his colleagues he was an open- air man.

During his stint there I’m sure Sigersun Clifford’s line often went around in his head….

“They chained my bones to an office stool

and my soul to a clock’s cold hands.”

He later worked as a bus conductor with CIE (the Irish transportation company) for many years.

When I got a job as a bus-conductor in 1974 I was sent to Donnybrook garage. I didn’t ask who was the most intelligent person in the garage, but if I had, the reply would have been concise, “Paddy Finnegan.”

As a conductor he could reply to any criticism from an irate passenger; in several languages if necessary. During this period Paddy and a few of his fellow intellectuals would assemble in a city center flat which was known a Dáil Oíche. It was a later edition of “The Catacombs” as described by Anthony Cronin in Dead as Doornails. With such a collection of intelligentsia you can imagine (or can you?) the topics under discussion.

He lived for many years in Lower Beechwood Avenue, Ranelagh. If ever a house deserved a Blue Plaque its Paddy’s former residence.

Paddy Finnegan in Grafton street — Paddy Finnegan in Grafton Street

Finnegan’s Poetry:

He brought out a collection of his poetry, sadly now out of print, titled Dactyl Distillations. I know dear erudite reader that you know the meaning of dactyl but I had to look it up. It is, “a foot of poetic meter in quantitave verse.”

More recently he recorded a, limited edition, CD, Fion Ceol agus Filíoct. I hope that somebody will now bring out an “unlimited” edition. In his later years he was a familiar sight selling the Big Issue outside Trinity College and more recently at Bewleys on Grafton Street.

I asked his brother James if there were poets in their ancestry. He said no, that their father was a farmer but, in the words of Seamus Heaney, “By God, the old man could handle a spade.”

The soil of Kilkerrin will lie lightly on Paddy; didn’t his friends drop it gently on his coffin. Such a scene was described by his friend Dermot Healy who pre-deceased him by a couple of weeks,

” . . . shovels work like oars, rowing the dead man from this world.”

A big thank you to Mattie for sharing this little piece about his good friend, whose life and words enriched the lives of many. May he rest in peace.

Slán agus beannacht,

(Goodbye and blessings)

Irish American Mom

Images and text graciously provided by, and published courtesy of, Mattie Lennon.

A Rose For William Butler Yeats

March 30, 2015 by Irish American Mom 4 Comments

This year, 2015 is the 150th anniversary of the birth of William Butler Yeats, Ireland’s renowned and beloved poet. To mark the occasion the good folks at The Secret Gardens of Sligo are launching a brand new Irish rose to be named in his honor.

William_Butler_Yeats_by_John_Singer_Sargent_1908 — Public Domain – Portrait of William Butler Yeats by John Singer Sargent, 1908

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Why Name A Rose For Yeats:

Naming a rose is a very special privilege, one that Yeats truly deserves. A beautiful red rose has been chosen which eloquently reflects Yeats’ lines:

‘Red rose, proud rose…Rose of all my days!’

This is a flower that will be a timeless legacy to Ireland’s most distinguished poet.

“Surely thine hour has come, thy great wind blows,

Far-off, most secret, and inviolate Rose?”

~ The Secret Rose, by WB Yeats

Yeats referred to roses in many of his works, making it all the more fitting that this rose, named in his honor, be launched in Sligo, Yeats’ ‘Land of Heart’s Desire”.

http://www.irishamericanmom.com/2013/05/24/foggy-ben-bulben/ — County Sligo

The Rose As A Symbol Of Ireland:

Roses are often associated with England, not Ireland, but in a previous post I explored this misconception, and hopefully firmly established the rose as a symbol of Ireland.

In centuries past The Black Rose was sometimes used as a code word for Ireland, when English law prohibited direct references to Ireland as a nation.

http://www.irishamericanmom.com/2014/06/16/the-rose-as-a-symbol-of-ireland — Wild Roses In Ireland

Even Yeats drew upon the Irish cultural symbolism of roses and rose trees …..

.. ‘But where can we draw water,’

Said Pearse to Connolly,

“When all the wells are parched away?

O plain as plain can be

There’s nothing but our own red blood

Can make a right Rose Tree.’”

~ from ‘The Rose Tree’ by WB Yeats

Creating A New Rose:

I am a rose-lover, but I confess I knew little about how they are bred until I was contacted by the Secret Gardens of Sligo to introduce me to this project. I was surprised to learn it takes eight years to develop a new rose.

Not every attempt is successful, with failure adding to the expense of the process.

WB Yeats Rose:

Yeats’ rose has been bred by Dickson’s Rose Nursery, in Newtownards in Couty Down, and I’m delighted to report it has passed all its initial trials with flying colors.

It has even been awarded a Certificate of Merit by the Hague International Rose Trials, a Trials Ground Certificate by the Royal National Rose Society and, just recently, a Gold Medal by the RNRS.

Kudos to the developers. A prize winning rose is surely what our Nobel prize winning poet deserves.

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According to the developers ….

“The rose to be named for WB Yeats is a scarlet floribunda with bright golden stamens. It is disease resistant and will flower all season long. Each individual bloom on its multi-headed stems opens semi-flat to form a spectacular show.”

WB Yeats roses can be ordered in advance, but availability will initially be limited because it is a new variety.

Those ordering roses can expect delivery in autumn 2016. Inquiries can be sent by e-mail sent to:

anirishroseforyeats@gmail.com

A Little Help For Yeats’ Rose

This is Yeats Year, and to help launch his rose, donations towards the cost of this brand new, specially bred rose are greatly appreciated. As The Secret Gardens of Sligo say …..

“Every fiver helps!”

You can also help by sharing their Facebook page with your friends!

They also have a Facebook page specifically dedicated to this project called An Irish Rose For Yeats.

Details of how to donate are on their website.

Thank You:

I wish to extend my gratitude to all who have worked on this wonderful project. This beautiful rose is the culmination of years of planning and fund raising, and it’s wonderful to see this magnificent flower blooming in this special year in which we remember Yeats.

Wishing you every success as you complete your dedicated work.

Slán agus beannacht,

(Goodbye and blessings)

Irish American Mom

To Ireland’s Far-Flung Exiles / A Poem By Irish American Mom

July 10, 2014 by Irish American Mom 15 Comments

Ruined stone cottages lie dotted across the Irish landscape, permanent reminders of Ireland’s emigrants, forced to leave their homes by famine, and eviction. Over one million people left Ireland in the years of the Great Hunger from 1845 to 1850, and in the decades after many more followed.

Every time I see the old shell of a stone cottage I think of Ireland’s diaspora. In today’s post I thought I would share a poem I wrote dedicated to Ireland’s exiles, who made their new homes in America.

To Ireland’s Far-Flung Exiles

by Mairéad Geary

They left these shores carting their memories of Irish summers:
Nettles drooping under the weight of glittering raindrops,
Wild blackberries beckoning on thorny bushes;
Yellow furze, purple heather, the colors of rural childhoods;
Lingering twilights, soft rains, rugged cliffs with secret caves,
Unceasing waves, bronzed for hours by the rays of the setting sun.

On Ireland’s furrowed shores, I explore their untamed territory,
Discovering abandoned ruins, eerie memorials in barren fields;
Roofless shells with tumbling chimneys and spiritual hearths,
Systematically overgrown by nature’s wild abandon;
Eternal reminders of far-flung exiles, and their children’s children,
Dreaming of Ireland from some place far away.

I stand alone in green fields, gazing skyward at contrails
Pointing the way toward a western watery horizon.
My thoughts turn to refugees, viciously ousted,
Nothing but rags shrouding gaunt, emaciated bodies,
Silently trudging to port, in search of virulent vessels;
Some long forgotten, lost forever in their salty oblivion.

Through melancholy mists and harrowing storms, some survived
The wretchedness of ocean crossing and mountain crossing,
Only to be scattered like rain drops upon thousands of valleys,
Where they learned to hope anew, paying tribute to their homeland
In sweat and tears; toiling to the rhythm of their songs;
Whilst laying the foundations for the winding roads of your dreams.

And when those deep-seated recollections haunt you,
Echoing from the land where your forebears sleep
Beneath enduring lunar stones, listen to the bleak cry of time.
Come wade through rain-drenched grass, in praise of summer days.
Let Ireland’s gentle breezes polish your scars, and the light of home
Illuminate the ties that bind you to a new and ancient world.

To all those with Irish roots who will visit Ireland this summer, may you feel a warm welcome in your ancestral home. I wish you safe travels. May you feel a deep and meaningful connection to the land of our forefathers.

Slán agus beannacht leat!

(Goodbye and blessings)

Irish American Mom

The Rose As A Symbol Of Ireland

June 16, 2014 by Irish American Mom 26 Comments

The rose is not widely known as a symbol of Ireland, the shamrock being more famously associated with the Emerald Isle. However, in centuries past The Black Rose was sometimes used as a code word for Ireland, when English law prohibited direct references to Ireland as a nation.

I was browsing through my albums, and came up with the idea of sharing some rose photos while examining the symbolism of the rose in Irish culture, literature, and song.

Many readers may think I’m getting very mixed up, and am talking about the wrong country or the wrong flower altogether. The rose is closely associated with England, but in today’s post I’ll explore why roses may also represent Ireland.

And so, here are my top ten reasons why roses make me think of Ireland……

1. The Rose of Tralee:

I suppose the most famous of all Irish roses is The Rose of Tralee. This international festival is a global celebration of Irish culture, with the heart of the festival being the selection of a Rose from amongst young women of Irish descent from all over the world.

The festival was inspired by an old Irish song bearing the same name.

“She was lovely and fair as the rose of the summer,

Yet ’twas not her beauty alone that won me;

Oh no, ’twas the truth in her eyes ever dawning,

That made me love Mary, the Rose of Tralee.”

I’m not a supporter of beauty pageants in general, but this festival is great. Emphasis is on having a bit of fun, with personality rather than beauty being the most important factor for winning the prize. A nice smile and a warm heart goes a long way with the judges.

2. Joseph Mary Plunkett:

As a school girl in Ireland in the 1970’s I learned the words of Joseph Mary Plunkett’s poem I See His Blood Upon The Rose. To this very day the lines of the first verse reverberate through my mind, every time I see a red rose in bloom.

I See His Blood Upon The Rose

By Joseph Mary Plunkett

“I see His blood upon the rose

And in the stars the glory of His eyes,

His body gleams amid eternal snows,

His tears fall from the skies.”

3. Róisín Dubh or My Dark Rosaleen:

Use of the rose as a partiotic symbol for Ireland dates back to the 16th century. Róisín Dubh (pronounced Ro-sheen Dove in the south of Ireland and Ro-sheen Doo in Ulster) literally means Little Black Rose, and is one of Ireland’s most widely known political ballads.

This Gaelic language song supposedly originated in the Irish soldier camps of Red Hugh O’Donnell in the late 16th century, with a Black Rose being used as a metaphor for Ireland. Here’s James Clarence Mangan’s translation from the early 19th centruy.

Dark Rosaleen

by James Clarence Mangan

“Oh my Dark Rosaleen,

Do not sigh, do not weep!

The priests are on the ocean green,

They march along the deep.

There’s wine from the royal Pope,

Upon the ocean green;

And Spanish ale shall give you hope,

My Dark Rosaleen!

My own Rosaleen!

Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,

Shall give you health and help, and hope,

My Dark Rosaleen.”

4. The Druids:

In ancient Ireland the Druids held sway, ruling the country from a place called Ériu, near Brú na Bóinne. Supposedly these Druids wore long black and red robes, embellished with a black rose.

Whether this is fact or fiction is beyond my knowledge. Perhaps we learned of rose wearing druids from ancient manuscripts or perhaps it is a romantic poetic creation of 19th century Gaelic scholars.

5. Aubrey de Vere:

Aubrey de Vere, a Limerick born poet, once again used a black rose to represent Ireland in his 1861 work The Little Black Rose. Despite his aristocratic, English heritage de Vere was highly influenced by Irish nationalistic sentiments. In this poem, what de Vere’s little black rose, a representation of Ireland, needs to turn red is blood sacrifice.

from The Little Black Rose

by Aubrey de Vere

“The Little Black Rose shall be red at last,

What made it black but the March wind dry,

And the tear of the widow that fell on it fast,

It shall redden the hills when June is nigh.”

6. William Butler Yeats:

Yeats, Ireland’s most famous poet, used rose symbols in his early poetry. The Rose, a collection of twenty-two poems, was first published in 1893.

For Yeats, the rose represented unwavering beauty, since they never go out of fashion, yet he acknowledged individual roses live for a very short time. Yeats used the rose to symbolize women and Ireland, in the same nationalistic vein as his predecessors.

from The Rose Tree

by William Butler Yeats

“‘Maybe a breath of politic words

Has withered our Rose Tree;

Or maybe but a wind that blows

Across the bitter sea.’…….