Lá Fhéile Padraig Agaibh

(I think that's right.)

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

May your troubles be less

And your blessings be more

And nothing but happiness

Come through your door

Top o' the Morning!

             And Happy St. Patrick's Day to You.

Allow me to introduce Poetry Ireland, an organization dedicated to developing, supporting and promoting poetry throughout Ireland. They produce two regular publications, Poetry Ireland Review and Poetry Ireland News. Both are well worth checking out, and there is much more on offer, so hop on over.




In the meantime, how about some poetry.

She wears the Sky

- Medbh McGuckian

The horizon line embraces the drowsy river docks:
The deep peacock patch of water reaching the dark
Blends with it.

The hills pick up a saintly pallor
From the skin of one doing penitence.
The swallows linger on, as if they forgot.

I gaze into the sealed eyes of my mother,
Seen, not visited, not forgotten,
In the centre of her own picture,
Who wove her own background
With no Martha-work to be done,
As women look when they return to their places
Errorless after Communion.

In her rare low moods
She remembers the next five days as twelve
And compares an unheard of number of things
To be abreast of the incurable
Having no choice but to return
To the end of thought.

In the evenings I can switch the light on from indoors
To illuminate the shroud
Of irises over the urn of jasmine.

And may the saddest day of your future be no worse than the happiest day of your past.

Top of the Morning to You!

And a Happy St. Patrick's Day

McQuillan walked into a bar . . .

 . . . and ordered martini after martini,

each time removing the olives and placing them in a jar. When the jar was filled with olives and all the drinks consumed, he started to leave.

"S'cuse me," said a customer, who was puzzled over what McQuillan had done. "What was that all about?"

"Nothing," he replied, "my wife just sent me out for a jar of olives." 

Rath Dé ort!

They dye the Chicago river green for St. Patrick's Day.

Did you know that? I didn't.

The things you can learn

on the interwebs!

Look! 

Rochester, N.Y. too!

 Want to learn to speak like a native?

  Go HERE.

ON A MORE SERIOUS NOTE:

I ran across a few pages explaining how to make Leprechaun traps. 

I imagine that in this economy the little guys are in more danger than ever before. They might even make it on the endangered list. 

For obvious reasons, I'm not including the links. Although here are a few pictures of the things, HERE.

WHY, YES I AM.

 

A WORTHY SENTIMENT FROM THE NEW YORK TIMES

"On this day of all days in the Irish-American calendar, when ethnic pride swells, let’s raise a toast: Here’s to the Irish, and here’s to the rest of us. May we never forget where we came from. Nearly all of us were Mexicans once. That is: the new immigrants, poor and reviled, propelled by hope and hunger into America’s prickly embrace."

Sláinte

READ THE REST OF the NYT Editorial, San Patricio

HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY

May the road rise up to meet you,
May the wind be always at your back,
May the sun shine warm on your face,
the rains fall soft on your fields,
and until we meet again
may God hold you in the palm of his hand.

Long, long ago the Irish pulled off a remarkable feat:

They saved the books of the Western world and left them as gifts for all humanity.

But they did more than this: they managed to infuse the emerging medieval world with a playfulness previously unknown. In the margins of the books they copied, the Irish scribes drew little pictures, thickets of plants, flowers, birds and animals. Human faces occasionally peek through the tangle, faces of childlike delight and awe.

from NYT Op-Ed Turning Green With Literacy by Thomas Cahill

Perhaps this explains the love of books passed down in my family and the steadfast commitment to literacy maintained throughout generations. Happy reading, all!

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

by W. B. Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.