19 - 25 April 2001
Issue No.530
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Al-Ahram Weekly On-line 19 - 25 April 2001 Issue No.530 |
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Plain Talk
Last week I had quite a feast of Irish literature and art as I read through an omnibus edition of 1000 Years of Irish Poetry, an 800 page anthology which traces Irish poetry from ancient times until the 20th century. Three hundred pages of it are devoted to Gaelic poems, translated into English, from pagan times until the 15th century, while the rest of the book gives us a selection of Anglo-Irish poetry.
Going through the anthology I came across some poems by Oliver Goldsmith, Jonathan Swift and Richard Sheridan -- three Irish writers who are often mistakenly thought to be English. These three poets were part of my curriculum at university. Goldsmith is so intertwined in my mind with my time at university that every time I read his "The Deserted Village" I remember my student days. The first few lines continue to echo in my mind.
Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain;
Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease.Certainly this image stands in stark contrast with the present day English village plagued with the foot and mouth disease.
This beautifully produced anthology -- presenting a 1000 year panorama showing the many facets of the Irish poetic genius: lyrics, elegies, songs, street ballads, satires, patriotic hymns, dramatic epics, odes and sonnets -- is full of unexpected, surprising treasures. One such surprise was the following humorous poem by the same author who produced Gulliver's Travels, Jonathan Swift -- a revolutionary literary rebel who was at the same time capable of writing a series of short humorous poems including the following:
Come buy my fine wares
Plums, apples and pears,
A hundred a penny,
In conscience too many;
Come, will you have any?
My children are seven,
I wish them in heaven,
My husband a sot,
With his pipe and his pot,
Not a farthing will gain them,
And I must maintain them.This anthology also provides a vast sample of old Gaelic poetry, a familiarity with which is essential if one is to comprehend such early 20th century Irish writers as Yeats, Synge and Lady Gregory. A 13th century anonymous poem included in the anthology, "Hospitality in Ancient Ireland," reminds me of the open house of the Egyptian peasants.
Oh king of stars!
Whether my house be dark or bright,
Never shall it be closed against any one,
Lest Christ close His house against me,
If there be a guest in your house
And you conceal aright from him,
T'is not the guest that will be without it,
But Jesus, Mary's son.I would like to conclude my column on a humorous note, with lines from a 17th century poem, "The Careful Husband," by an unknown author:
I am told, Sir, you're keeping an eye on your wife,
But I can't see the reason for that, on my life.
For if you go out. O most careful of men,
It is clear that you can't keep an eye on her then.
Even when you're at home and take every care,
It is only a waste of your trouble, I swear.
For if you for an instant away from her nook,
She'll be off into some inaccessible nook.
If you sit close behind here and don't let her move,
By the flick of an eyelid she'll signal her love.
If you keep her in front of you under your eye,
She will do what she likes and your caution defy
When she goes out to mass, as she'd have you suppose,
You must not stay a minute, but go where she goes.
You must not walk in front of her yet too far behind her
But she's got such a start that I doubt that you'll find her.
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