Irish Blog Whacked

Saturday, November 24, 2007

Galway Bay

My Other feed went down, so I am borrowing this !

After I finished and published the Israel article, my other feedburner feed went down two days ago, so if you people don't mind I will borrow the Irish Blog for a while !.

Is the Kelly 'wan' from Ballymena ?

Thursday, November 22, 2007

D'Unbelievables - How Much Are Dem?

The erosion of free speech


W. B. Yeats' Epitaph - as penned by himself

Cast a cold eye
On life, on death,
Horseman, pass by!

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Storytelling: Celtic Tales Part I: Who is a storyteller?

JINX LENNON from the border

Sinead O'Connor - Wounded left Behind

Christy Moore - Finnegan's Wake

U2 Bono Bono's pastiche of Beckett's

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The Boys Are Back In Town - Thin Lizzy

Horse Racing Ireland


Cluiche as Gaeilge

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

James Larkin by Ronnie Drew & Dubliners

Irish, Brits, Colonialism and Revolution

The Lake Isle of Inisfree by WB Yeats

Stolen Kiss

Christy Moore & Shane MacGowan(pogues) Spancil HILL

Lord Of the River Dance Battle

Tommy Tiernan- Irish Mass

Flann O'Brien

Love Affair with a Prostitute-Raglan Road

Failte, this is my favourite song, its by Patrick Kavanagh. His poetry is famous, among other things, for explaining the power, the Catholic Church had over every aspect of people's lives. This is a love song of a man who fell in love with a prostitute.

Raglan Road

On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.

On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge,
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay -
O I loved too much and by such and such is happiness thrown away.

I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that's known
To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say.
With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May

On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay -
When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day.

-- Patrick Kavanagh