Dare any of you lovers out there, forget that St. Valentine’s Day, is on Tuesday next, February 14th.
Talking of people in recent history, who fell in love, let’s not forget the sadly unrequited* love story of that great Irish poet, Patrick Kavanagh (1904-1967), and Ms Hilda Moriarty in 1944.
* Unrequited love occurs when one person yearns for unconditional love, from another individual who doesn’t always feel the same way.
It was sometime in the Autumn of 1944, while living on Raglan Road, in Ballsbridge, Co. Dublin, that the poet Kavanagh spotted Ms Hilda Moriarty, herself a native of Co. Kerry, as she wended her way to attend Dublin City University, where she was studying to become a medical doctor.
Ms Moriarty was then 22yrs old, while Kavanagh was some 20 years her senior. For Kavanagh, it was love at first sight, and though she would regarded him as a close friend, her true feelings toward him were never of a romantic nature.
In 1947 Hilda would marry the handsome Mr Donogh O’Malley, a rugby union player, who later served as Parliamentary Secretary to the then Minister for Finance (1961 to 1965); Fianna Fáil Minister for Health (1965 to 1966), and Minister for Education (1966 to 1968). It was the same O’Malley who first announced the notion of free education for Irish students, on September 10th, 1966, unknown to his cabinet colleagues; thus updating Ireland’s antiquated educational system, same unchanged since Irish independence.
Sometime later, Kavanagh was inspired to write the poem, that we refer to, today, as, “On Raglan Road”, published in the Irish Press in 1946, under the title, “Dark Haired Miriam Ran Away”. Kavanagh’s poem was later set to the melody of an old Irish song called, “Fainne Gael an Lae”; (Irish loose translated, “The Dawning of the Day”).
ON
OnRaglan Road.
Lyrics: Irish Poet and Novelist, Patrick Kavanagh(1904-1967). Vocals: Singer, Folk Musician, Banjoist and Actor, the great Luke Kelly(1940 – 1984).
On ‘Raglan Road’ of an Autumn day, I saw her first and knew, That her dark hair would weave a snare, That I might one-day rue. I saw the danger and I passed, 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 a deep ravine where can be seen, The worth of passion play. The Queen of Hearts still making tarts, And I not making hay. Oh, I loved too much and by such, by 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) without 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 loved, 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.
No more I seek sweet paradise, Or absolute truth and beauty rare; I see my heaven in your eyes, And in the shining of your hair. No more I seek in sonnet, song, Or music’s sweetest, deepest sound, That part of me so lost for long, Which in your being I have found. No more I wander through the hours Fearful, lonely, without cheer. For you, oh fairest of the flowers, Are here my love, sweet love, are here. My every sense now wildly soars, To joy beyond this transient earth, Sweet scented life, oh beauteous bower, Oh, bright and light my happy heart. I wish and you are always there. My light, my courage and my soul, You are enchantment everywhere You bless, embolden and enthral, And so not death nor worldliness, Shall keep us two, now one, apart. Oh, magical our happiness, Eternal our united heart.
END
Tom Ryan, “Iona”, Rahealty, Thurles, Co. Tipperary.
Lyrics: American folk singer and social activist Peter Seeger. Vocals: British-Irish singer-songwriter and instrumentalist Chris de Burgh.
Where Have All The Flowers Gone?
Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing, Where have all the flowers gone, long time ago, Where have all the flowers gone, picked by young girls every one. When will they ever learn? When will they ever learn?
Where have all the young girls gone, long time passing, Where have all the young girls gone, long time ago, Where have all the young girls gone, gone to young men every one, When will they ever learn? When will they ever learn?
Where have all the young men gone, long time passing, Where have all the young men gone, long time ago, Where have all the young men gone, gone to soldiers every one, When will they ever learn? When will they ever learn?
Where have all the soldiers gone, long time passing, Where have all the soldiers gone, long time ago, Where have all the soldiers gone, they’ve gone to graveyards every one, When will they ever learn? When will they ever learn?
Where have all the graveyards gone, long time passing, Where have all the graveyards gone, long time ago, Where have all the graveyards gone, gone to flowers every one, When will we ever learn? When will we ever learn?
The poem hereunder describes the true realities for those forced to go to war to protect their country. The poem tells of the suicide of a young man sent off to war, while attacking the often “smug-faced crowds” who group together to greet returning soldiers.
Siegfried Loraine Sassoon
The poem is by English war poet, writer, and soldier, Siegfried Loraine Sassoon, (1886 – 1967); [Most Excellent Order of the British Empire, (CBE); Military Cross(MC)July 27th 1916].
“Suicide In The Trenches”
I knew a simple soldier boy, Who grinned at life in empty joy, Slept soundly through the lonesome dark, And whistled early with the lark. In winter trenches, cowed* and glum, With crumps* and lice and lack of rum, He put a bullet through his brain. No one spoke of him again. You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye Who cheer when soldier lads march by, Sneak home and pray you’ll never know, The hell where youth and laughter go.
END.
*Cowed – Frightened. * Crumps – Loud thudding sounds made by exploding bombs or by detonating shell fire.
You bought it yourself on our holidays The two piece playsuit in navy and white, Quite fashionable for the time, On that warm and sunny afternoon, With Mam and Mary and Deirdre, In Shaws, the shop in Dungarvan. Oh, but you looked, quite suddenly, back then, More than a little girl. Time casts spells, And you proud-strode in it, beautiful and happy, With Deirdre your cousin from Killiney. I had always thought of my mother In a bright new summer dress, Printed and floral and clean, As the sun on a Sunday, lazily stole, Through the window of our summer kitchen, When I was a boy and innocent, And joy seemed an ever thing. And so you too, daughter of my heart. Parading with your flair in the sunshine, Will mayhap too recall, To the last lovely day on earth A dress of an idyllic time, Bought in a shop on a long lost summer, On that day of our joy in Dungarvan.
END.
Tom Ryan, “Iona”, Rahealty, Thurles, Co. Tipperary.
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