Invitation to O Reilly's pub session tonight

Y'all are all invited to the O Reilly's pub session tonight, 6:30-9:00pm, just north of the corner of 18th and Buddy Holly in the Depot District. As long as you don't order whisky, you can be under 21 and still attend.

Slan.

Another shot at the pre-first assignment.

Shannon

After 3 failed attempts to post this, I am going to try again. The blog site keeps telling me that it posts successfully, and then later emails me that I am not a member. Hopefully this works.

I chose this photo after not being able to locate a specific picture of my great-grandfather at his home in Ireland. This Irish home, near Killarney (in the south of Ireland), reminds me very much of the picture. The house and landscape are simple, clean, and beautiful.

Part 2:

An Irish Airman Forsees His Death
by William Butler Yeats
I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My county is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.

Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.


This poem by William Butler Yeats is about an Irish Airmen in WW1. Yeats has always been one of my favorite poets, though I am generally not a fan of poetry. The emotion and nationalism evident in the poem is something I find fascinating, particularly the lines "My county is Kiltartan Cross,/My countrymen Kiltartan's poor," one of Yeat's most famous quotes.

Part 3:

Why am I in this class? Well, I am nearly a quarter Irish (And come from family with several Irish names; my mother is Kelly, and my brother and sister are Sean and Sheridan). All of the stories I have heard from family about Ireland are that it is a warm (not physically), comforting place that seems significantly less stressful than life in America. Aside from genealogical reasons, I've always been fascinated with Irish culture, particularly music. I would like to gain a better understanding of the culture and eliminate any stereotypes I may have developed.

Comments posted

Folks:

Good first session today. Feel free to contact me on WebCT email if you have questions or problems. Please take some time to read my comments posted after each of the "pre-First Assignments". As a general rule, plan to visit the blog and read new comments at least once a day.

Slan.

Preassignment ramblings

New Ireland and old Eire all in one... the past, present and future of Ireland... the picturesque combined with the practical... viewing how Ireland is really caught inbetween two worlds... How to reconcile the two?


"Into The Twilight"

Out-worn heart, in a time out-worn,
Come clear of the nets of wrong and right;
Laugh, heart, again in the gray twilight,
Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn.

Your mother Eire is always young
Dew ever shining and twilight gray;
Though hope fall from you and love decay,
Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue.

Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill:
For there the mystical brotherhood
Of sun and moon and hollow and wood
And river and stream work out their will;

And God stands winding His lonely horn,
And time and the world are ever in flight;
And love is less kind than the gray twilight,
And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn.

W.B. Yeats (1865-1939)

I have had this poem saved on my computer for quite some time. I don't know what website I found it on originally; I only remember that it was placed in concordance with other poems and stories the website used to describe fairies and other magical characters. However, I looked up the author and discovered that he is an Irish poet and dramatist who won the 1923 Nobel Peace Prize and is often considered the greatest poet of his time. He is also known for his leadership of the Irish Literary Revival, a movement of the late 1800s and early 1900s responsible for generating fresh interest in traditional Irish literature. (I do not know which of his publications this poem happens to appear in.)
I was struck by this poem because the descriptive language Yeats uses evokes the unique perception of Ireland as a country caught between worlds. Though Irish culture is firmly rooted in its historical and mythological background, I am struck by the idea of the very same culture attempting to come to terms with the twenty-first century while still maintaining its long-established traditions. The more I read about Irish culture, the more I recognize how difficult such a process must be - trying to share one's culture without distorting or changing it so that the world does not receive a skewed and incorrect understanding of where such a culture comes from and the history/tradition it is based upon. I also feel like Yeats is trying to point out that Ireland (Eire) is representative of a purity which can only be found when one casts off the ugliness of the world at large. In short, it is like a "shining beacon" which calls one home.


As soon as I saw the email describing this course, I knew I wanted to take it. I have a very slight Irish heritage somewhere among my family mix, so I have always wanted to learn about that part of my background. Likewise, as a child I did extensive reading of literature based on Irish culture/myths and more recently hunted down several collections of Irish folklore and mythology to try and better understand the concepts I came across as a child. Moving beyond influences of the past, I have quite simply always been fascinated with anything Irish, from the country down to the way people dress, talk to each other, and go about their daily lives. Ireland is a country with a rich heritage that is peopled with influence from all walks of life and from all times. I hope that sometime in my future I will be able to travel to Ireland, as well as other countries, and be able to devote time toward fully experiencing and participating as best I can in a culture that is so different from the one I have grown up in.

The Giants Causeway

The Giants Causeway, found in County Anterim at the very North of Ireland, is one of the most striking wonders of the natural world. There are nearly 40,000 of these mostly hexagonal stone columns that begin at the foot of a cliff and continue into the sea. These basalt stones were formed through the quick crystallization of lava from volcanic eruptions. However, as legend would have it, a famed Irish giant named Fionn Mac Cumhail is said to have built the causeway as stepping stones so that his lover could get to him from Scotland to Anterim without getting her feet wet. Hence the name “The Giants Causeway.”

PART II

The Man and His Boots
By: William Butler Yeats

There was a doubter in Donegal, and he would not hear of ghosts or faeries, and there was a long house in Donegal that had been haunted as long as man could remember, and this is the story of how the house got the better of the man. The man came into the house and lightened a fire in the room under the haunted one, and took off his boots and set them on the hearth, and stretched out his feet and warmed himself. For a time he prospered in his unbelief; but a little while after the night had fallen, and everything had gotten very dark, one of his boots began to move. It got up off the floor and gave a kind of slow jump towards the door, and then the other boot did the same, and after that the first boot jumped again. And thereupon it occurred to the man that an invisible being had got into his boots, and was now going away in them. When the boots reached the door they went upstairs slowly, and then the man heard them go tramp, tramp round the haunted room over his head. A few minutes passed, and he could hear them again upon the stairs, and after that in the passage outside, and then one of them came in at the door, and the other gave a jump past it and came in too. They jumped along towards him, and then one got up and hit him, and afterwards the other hit him, and then again the first hit him, and so on, until they drove him out of the room, and finally out of the house. In this way he was kicked out by his own boots, and Donegal was avenged upon its doubter. It is not recorded whether the being was a ghost or one of the Sidhe, but the fantastic nature of the vengeance is like the work of the Sidhe who live in the heart of fantasy.

This excerpt came from a book I found at a used book store a while ago called “Mythologies,” which is a compilation done by Yeats’ wife of his works regarding mythology or fantasy. It’s split into 5 different sections or categories, this excerpt was from the first section called “The Celtic Twilight.” It’s a great book if you have the time to read it.

I chose this excerpt because I thought it was funny. When I was reading the book it was one of my favorites. It’s short, simple, ironic, and descriptive. I really enjoy Yeats’ writing because it’s easy for me to follow. The folklore and fantasy side of Ireland has always interested me and I felt that this example was great because it treats the myth as a moral.


Part III

I wanted to take this class for several reasons. I’ve got some Irish blood (not a whole lot, but some). I, of course, am a fan of William Butler Yeats and his beautiful writing. Irish traditional music occupies a gig or two on my iPod. I’ve attended two of Dr. Smith’s slow sessions in the past, but due to my crazy schedule was unable to go to more. It was VERY interesting and I learned a LOT. It is definitely something I want to know more about and how to do. The performance practice is what is most fascinating to me. I also did a brief amount of research on Ireland's medieval music history for a research paper last semester. It was very interesting reading about bards and the like. I have a friend in Cork as well. Unfortunately for him, he gets a lot of really annoying questions from me on a very frequent basis. It works out well for me, though, because he sends me BEAUTIFUL online pictures of places that I can’t even imagine seeing in person.

Preliminary Assignment

Shannon

Part 1: After making many attempts to locate a specific picture of my great grandfather, who was born and raised in Ireland, I chose this photo of a live Irish band. The musicians look happy and excited to be creating this music, and the spectators seem to be thoroughly enjoying the performance. This, while perhaps stereotypical, is the mental picture I have when I think of traditional Irish music.


THERE is grey in your hair.
Young men no longer suddenly catch their breath
When you are passing;
But maybe some old gaffer mutters a blessing
Because it was your prayer
Recovered him upon the bed of death.
For your sole sake - that all heart's ache have known,
And given to others all heart's ache,
From meagre girlhood's putting on
Burdensome beauty - for your sole sake
Heaven has put away the stroke of her doom,
So great her portion in that peace you make
By merely walking in a room.
Your beauty can but leave among us
Vague memories, nothing but memories.
A young man when the old men are done talking
Will say to an old man,
"Tell me of that lady
The poet stubborn with his passion sang us
When age might well have chilled his blood.
'Vague memories, nothing but memories,
But in the grave all, all, shall be renewed.
The certainty that I shall see that lady
Leaning or standing or walking
In the first loveliness of womanhood,
And with the fervour of my youthful eyes,
Has set me muttering like a fool.
You are more beautiful than any one,
And yet your body had a flaw:
Your small hands were not beautiful,
And I am afraid that you will run
And paddle to the wrist
In that mysterious, always brimming lake
Where those
What have obeyed the holy lawpaddle and are perfect.
Leave unchanged
The hands that I have kissed,For old sake's sake.
The last stroke of midnight dies.
All day in the one chair
From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme
I have ranged
In rambling talk with an image of air:
Vague memories, nothing but memories.

This is a William Butler Yeats poem entitled "The Broken Promise" William Butler Yeats, an Irish writer, has always been my favorite poet.

Part 3:

I am in this class primarily for genealogical reasons, because my mother's family comes from Ireland. I am also fascinated by Irish culture, particularly music and food. I look forward to experiencing a variety of different aspects of Irish culture in this class.

Great!

Terrific stuff from 'most everyone so far--very inspiring for me. Do make a point of reading one another's submissions--it's a great way to get to know one another and to get new ideas for one's own work in HONS3304. Remember also to look at the "Comments" under various posts--I will try to make a point of commenting regularly (though I'm a bit behind right now due to a laptop crash).

Remember that we meet Thursday 1.12.06 9:30am in Admin245 (SW corner of the building). See you soon!

Slan.

session and beyond

this is to me a very accurate picture of an irish music session. i can see the photographer making the people in the now empty chairs to move so the picture could be made. it reminds me of everything i learned and and experienced my last time in ireland and all the questions i had that went unanswered.



ok, sorry, i thought the three parts were to be three different posts. ha. ok, here we go. here's my writing excerpt:

In the town of Scariff the sun was shining in the sky
When Willie Clancy played his pipes and the tears welled in my eyes.
Many years have passed and gone since the times we had there
But my heart's tonight in Ireland in the sweet County Clare.

My heart tonight is far away across the rolling sea
In the sweet Miltown Malbay, it's there I'd love to be
So long ago and far away but nothing can compare
My heart's tonight in Ireland in the sweet County Clare.

That August in Kilrush when the rain was lashing down
And our hotel was that hay barn on the outskirts of town.
We were all sick and feverish and Dolan had the flu
But Johnny produced some whiskey and the sun came smiling through.

Those nights in Sixmilebridge when the songs and music flowed
And when it came to closing time sure the lights were turned down low
And the sergeant from Kilkishen he would buy us all one more
And we never left that pub before the clock was striking four.

Lahinch and Ennistmon, Liscannor and Kilkee
But best of all was Miltown when the music flowed so free
Willie Clancy and the County Clare I'm ever in your debt
For the sights and sounds of yesterday are shining memories yet.

My heart tonight is far away across the rolling sea
In the sweet Miltown Malbay it's there I'd love to be
So long ago and far away but nothing can compare
My heart's tonight in Ireland in the sweet County Clare.
In the days of Sweeney in the sweet County Clare.

This is actually a song written by Andy Irvine, an amazing irish bazouki player and singer, while he was in an Australian hospital remembering fond days in Ireland. This song came from (please forgive me if i mess up some of the facts, because it is a perfectly wonderful story, and i couldn't find it anywhere online) once when Mr. Irvine was at a music camp called "Willie Week" in memory of Willie Clancy, which is an enormous affair, so i'm told. anyway, they were tired of the great big productions that the sessions had become, and Irvine and some others went searching for another session and came to find Willie Clancy, himself, playing on the street for a few onlookers, being there was no room in the crowded session Irvine had left, and that memory was what later inspired the song. i told this story, even though i don't tell it as well as who told me first, because i love it. it almost seemed disrespectful to tell what i loved about this song and leave out a bit of the history that went into the writing. for me, it's almost as good as the song itself. it's one of those things that make the song and the tradition what it is. it's not about big crowds and productions and stages and stars, like what that crowded session seems to me. it's about playing what you love with great people that all respect the music and the tradition the way you do. like willie clancy, at a camp that bears his namesake, choosing to play on the street rather than fighting his way through a crowd to be the center of an attention that he probably didn't want anyway. and a few people who stumble upon that remember that years later; it had that much of an effect. it's just such an incredible thing to me.

I chose this piece because it says exactly what i feel about Ireland and the music and the people. It's very hard for me to find the words that capture what i love and think about Ireland, but THIS does it, with words and music combined. there's just something about the way it's written that brings back the best of memories, even though they are different than those of the narrator in the song. I have never been to willie week, but when i hear this song, i am immediately sitting in a pub, smelling of a combination of smoke and european guinness, at one in the morning, talking politics and jokes with, although complete strangers, absolute kindred spirits, trading off playing tunes, and loving every minute. it makes me almost cry, just thinking about it, and that's what i get from that song. and it's so much better than i could ever figure out how to say.




what brings me to this class? i don't know whether we were supposed to just pick one subject, or not, but i know i would never be able to do that. i love ireland, and most everything about it. i want to know more about the people, customs, how they think, priorities, language. it fascinates me the differences between being raised in america and anywhere else. i cannot even begin to imagine how they're thinking, and yet we can sit down in a session and be on common ground with the tunes. except, of course, that i have a lot to learn to sound traditional. which is another thing that brings me here. the music is a source of constant amazement to me. how something can be (relative to, say, classical music) simple, and so beautiful and expressive. it's not easy to get right, don't mistake me, but simple on the surface. i love literature, and history, of almost all forms, and comparing american to irish is another fascination and hobby of mine. when we, as americans, think back to "olden days," we think gold rush to California and pioneer days. people in ireland think on "old days" as being before christianity came to the island, or when st. patrick ran all the snakes off the island. they also have an established way of "story telling" that was taught, and that was how history was passed down for a time. There is also no where as beautiful to me as ireland is. i have pictures from my first trip that i brought back, and, after showing a friend of mine from ireland, he said, "where's the people? you just took pictures of rocks and trees and hills. i've seen that stuff!" but it's such beautiful rocks and trees! it's the only place i've been where the ruins of old buildings, and there are plenty of 'em, contrive to make themselves look like an unwritten poem, and where people aren't constantly tearing them down to build new ones. if i've left anything out, i'm sure i want to learn that, too; i've just forgotten it for the moment.

Part 3: Why Ireland?

Ireland. The mere mention of the name brings my heart to a place of mystic beauty and eternal longing. I have always seen images of the Irish hills and cliffsides. These images help me to realize how lovely God has made His creations because even amidst the fiercest storms, these lansdscapes show a perfect harmony and peace. I have a little of Irish blood in me, and in my family you can definitely discern that due to our stubborn ways. However, as I have observed several instances in history when the Irish have been persecuted, I see that family bonds are rarely broken. I also love Irish music! In fact, I am an Irish step dancer with a group here in Lubbock called the High Plains Irish Dancers (there is a Gaelic name, but I can't spell it.) My whole family is musically inclined, but the main genre they preform is classical guitar. I think one of the most prominent reasons I enjoy Irish music so much is because even though some songs can be overwhelming with polyphonic melodies, one can still distinguish the true rhythm and ultimate melody. It is like life! If you really know what you believe in, then when everything around seems to rise above your understanding, in your heart you will still have the truth and the faith to know what's important in this world.

This is a picture of a horse-drawn milk cart in Adare, Ireland. I cannot tell what kind of building is in the background, but looks to be like some kind of church perhaps. This picture makes me wonder about how the man guiding the cart carries out his everyday life. What hardships has he gone through? Why does he still use a horse-drawn cart to carry out his work? Most of all, this picture makes me think of how cultures can differ from each other. To me, it would be rare to find something like this in the United States. Does this man preserve the traditions of the past and also find a way to embrace advancements? The man to the far left looks on the cart as if he had never seen one before. It’s almost as if he would feel more at home in a big city. How does technology mix with the customs of older cultures?


Part 2:

“The Lake Isle of Innisfree” by William Butler 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 dayI hear the 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.

“The Lake Isle of Innisfree” was published in W.B. Yeats’s second collection of poems in 1893 called The Rose. In his autobiography Yeats identifies this poem as a significant one, his “first lyric with anything in its rhythm of [his] own music.” The poem is written largely in hexameters and has its own unique, tranquil rhythm.

I chose this poem largely because of the feelings that it evoked when I first read it. When the writer says that he will go to Innisfree, he implies that he wishes to go back to his home; he wants to return to simpler times. The images that come to me when I read this poem reinforce my current perceptions of Irish culture: a reverence for the simplicities in life itself and a deeper appreciation of existence. When I found the rhythm of the poem, it reminded me of water, or rather “water lapping with low sounds by the shore.”

Part 3:

I was greatly interested in joining this class from the very start. As a child, I would listen to a radio program called the “Thistle N’ Shamrock” with my father. I cannot remember if that is the correct name, but I was always fascinated by the music in this program. It sounded so different from the Beethoven, Bach, and Mozart that I was used to hearing. I believe the host of the program was Irish, and I would sit by the radio listen to her voice inflections and her unique accent. It was from this point that my fascination with Irish music began to grow. Although, it has always been one of my great interests, I have never really tried a focused study on the subject. When I learned about this class, I naturally jumped at the chance to learn more about Ireland and Irish music.

Over the years, my fascination with music from Ireland has expanded to include the culture as well. I have always had a dream of someday being able to travel to Ireland and observe the language, the people, and experience the culture firsthand. Now, I have a chance to fulfill that dream and make it into a reality.

Poem: The Open Rose

Open Rose
The moon is my second face, her long cycle
Still locked away. I feel rain
Like a tried-on dress, I clutch it
Like a book to my body. His head is there when I work,
It signs my letters with a question-mark;
His hands reach for me like rationed air.
Day by day I let him go Till I become a woman, or even less,
An incompletely furnished house
That came from a different century
Where I am guest at my own childhood.
I have grown inside words
Into a state of unbornness,
An open rose on all sides
Has spoken as far as it can.

Transcribed poem:
"I understand the moon and rain each with their own forms of reticency.
There is a man whom my heart desires, yet there also is a distance that separates us.
Whether you call it time or age it makes no difference, we long for each other with no avail.
Our distance creates doubt in me, and I wonder if fate will never allow our unity.
Will I gain knowledge of inexplicable restrictions, or worse, will I become a woman with a heart full of questions as to the reasons why fate wouldn't allow?
I feel out of place with these ideas in my mind.
Perhaps I should have been born at a different time when others would've understood.
For now, my whole nature is like a rose that has bloomed as much as it can,
Trying to reveal to the garden the beauty and pain within."

Source: I've never heard of Medbh McGuckian before, but after reading a few of her poems, I found that I relate to a few of the deep passions she describes. She was born in 1950 in Belfast and educated a convent as well as Queen's University. One critic proclaimed that McGuckian had a way of revealing a "feminine sensibility." I absolutely agree that she knew how to capture the fiery emotions within women, especially with the poem I chose, Open Rose.

When first reading over the Open Rose, I couldn't decide if the speaker was describing her loss of a lover or the forbidance to one. I resolved the poem to reflect the latter mentioned scenario. Even though this writing does not blatantly mention much of the landscape, history, or culture of Ireland, reading between the lines showed me an abundance of the trials faced by the Irish as well as every other culture. The depiction of this young woman who has deep convictions for the one she loves leads the reader to realize the similar convictions of brave countrymen who would love and die for their homeland. Ireland experienced many civil unrests yet there have always been those who wouldn't back down to protect their freedoms. Just as this young woman is at a moment in her life to decide whether she must proclaim her love or let it wither away, the martyrs of many countries including Ireland also faced this same question. Would they die for what they believed in, or would they let the outer forces pressure them into conformity only to cause a more severe suffering of watching their heart's dreams being trampled on by apathists declaring all should "move on?" My interpretation of this poem by McGuckian draws a serious aspect in me to admire the Irish. Some may say they are too proud, yet the impetus that drives them to never back down is what make the Irish such a wonderful people.

Sean nos mpeg posted on WebCT

Folks:

Following up on Alex's post (about the Galway hookers) and a comment I made on that post, I've uploaded a short mpeg of sean nos ("old style") singing on board such a boat over on our WebCT site.

Here's how to find the clip:

Login to webct.tltc.ttu.edu
Click on "HONS3304".
Click on "Materials - Week 01 - Links"
Click on the highlighted description of the video. It should open in a new window (using whatever is your default media player: Windows Media Player, RealPlayer, QuickTime, etc).

Have fun!

Slan.

BBC news story about bog discoveries in Ireland

BBC news story about bog discoveries in Ireland (warning: prehistoric Irish were not always very nice to those they sacrificed for fertility). Compare this news story to Seamus Heaney's famous poem "The Tollund Man" (about a visit to a similar prehistoric site in Denmark):

The Tollund Man

I

Some day I will go to Aarhus
To see his peat-brown head,
The mild pods of his eye-lids,
His pointed skin cap.

In the flat country near by
Where they dug him out,
His last gruel of winter seeds
Caked in his stomach,

Naked except for
The cap, noose and girdle,
I will stand a long time.
Bridegroom to the goddess,

She tightened her torc on him
And opened her fen,
Those dark juices working
Him to a saint's kept body,

Trove of the turfcutters'
Honeycombed workings.
Now his stained face
Reposes at Aarhus.

II

I could risk blasphemy,
Consecrate the cauldron bog
Our holy ground and pray
Him to make germinate

The scattered, ambushed
Flesh of labourers,
Stockinged corpses
Laid out in the farmyards,

Tell-tale skin and teeth
Flecking the sleepers
Of four young brothers, trailed
For miles along the lines.

III

Something of his sad freedom
As he rode the tumbril
Should come to me, driving,
Saying the names
Tollund, Grauballe, Nebelgard,

Watching the pointing hands
Of country people,
Not knowing their tongue.

Out here in Jutland
In the old man-killing parishes
I will feel lost,
Unhappy and at home.

[Find an audiofile of Heaney reading the poem here.]

Seamus Heaney