The Blackbird Of Derrycairn


Spooky Morning Crows, originally uploaded by ::: Davey :::.

Stop, stop and listen for the bough top
Is whistling and the sun is brighter
Than God's own shadow in the cup now!
Forget the hour-bell. Mournful matins
Will sound, Patric, as well at nightfall.

Faintly through mist of broken water
Fionn heard my melody in Norway.
He found the forest track, he brought back
This beak to gild the branch and tell, there,
Why men must welcome in the daylight.

He loved the breeze that warns the black grouse,
The shouts of gillies in the morning
When packs are counted and the swans cloud
Loch Erne, but more than all those voices
My throat rejoicing from the hawthorn.

In little cells behind a cashel,
Patric, no handbell gives a glad sound.
But knowledge is found among the branches.
Listen! That song that shakes my feathers
Will thong the leather of your satchels.

Written by Austin Clarke

THE RAVEN (Poe House in Philly)

"The Raven" is a narrative poem by the American writer Edgar Allan Poe, first published in January 1845. It is noted for its musicality, stylized language, and supernatural atmosphere. It tells of a talking raven's mysterious visit to a distraught lover, tracing the man's slow descent into madness. The lover, often identified as being a student, is lamenting the loss of his love, Lenore. The raven, sitting on a bust of Pallas, seems to further instigate his distress with its constant repetition of the word, "Nevermore". The poem makes use of a number of folk and classical references.

Poe claimed to have written the poem very logically and methodically. His intention was to create a poem that would appeal to both critical and popular tastes, as he explains in his 1846 follow-up essay "The Philosophy of Composition". The poem was inspired in part by a talking raven in the novel Barnaby Rudge: A Tale of the Riots of 'Eighty by Charles Dickens.

The first publication of "The Raven" on January 29, 1845, in the New York Evening Mirror made Poe widely popular in his lifetime. The poem was soon reprinted, parodied, and illustrated. Although critical opinion is divided as to its status, it remains one of the most famous poems ever written.

The Crow (A poem by Dennis Siluk)



Originally uploaded by mindazonaltal
Heavy he leans his feathered head
Gazing at the blood red mist
Tired, -- his face shows time has past
And on his tarnished-gray wings-
The world rests...
Has God forsaken you-?
To grief and pain:
To love the sparrow instead?
Are you not the largest of the perching birds?
Crowned with a grayish hood-;
Or are you just a crow...the farmers hate
(or should)...?
Your breath has left you
My feathered friend...
Too week to lift your head again?
What separates you from man?
Is it the sky and land?
Or the road each must go?
Each unto his own...!
It seems to me,
Life's a test for you as well?
But man must ponder on,
And Reason.
What is the question you ask?
I see, within the stare
Of your silent dark eyes:
"Who are these masters who rule the land-?
Give back to me the sky!"
However,--will you fly again?
Touch the heavens?
Light your wings on fire
From the scorching sun?
Glide with the wind until dawn?
You are the mystery that cries
Within...but then, you are not made in His Image,
My Friend...!

((See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com))

The Cornish Chough (poem) by John Harris

THE CORNISH CHOUGH. WHERE not a sound is heard But the white waves, O bird, And slippery rocks fling back the vanquish'd sea, Thou soarest in thy pride, Not heeding storm or tide; In Freedom's temple nothing is more free. 'T is pleasant by this stone, Sea-wash'd and weed-o'ergrown, With Solitude and Silence at my side, To list the solemn roar Of ocean on the shore, And up the beetling cliff to see thee glide. Though harsh thy earnest cry. On crag, or shooting high Above the tumult of this dusty sphere, Thou tellest of the steep Where Peace and Quiet sleep, And noisy man but rarely visits here. For this I love thee, bird. And feel my pulses stirr'd To see thee grandly on the high air ride, Or float along the land, Or drop upon the sand, Or perch within the gully's frowning side. Thou bringest the sweet thought Of some straw-cover'd cot, On the lone moor beside the bubbling well, Where cluster wife and child, And bees hum o'er the wild: In this seclusion it were joy to dwell. Will such a quiet bower Be ever more my dower In this rough region of perpetual strife? I like a bird from home Forward and backward roam; But there is rest beneath the Tree of Life. In this dark world of din, Of selfishness and sin, Help me, dear Saviour, on Thy love to rest; That, having cross'd life's sea, My shatter'd bark may be Moor'd safely in the haven of the blest. The Muse at this sweet hour Hies with me to my bower Among the heather of my native hill; The rude rock-hedges here And mossy turf, how dear! What gushing song! how fresh the moors and still! No spot of earth like thee, So full of heaven to me, O hill of rock, piled to the passing cloud! Good spirits in their flight Upon thy crags alight, And leave a glory where they brightly bow'd. I well remember now, In boy-days on thy brow, When first my lyre among thy larks I found, Stealing from mother's side Out on the common wide, Strange Druid footfalls seem'd to echo round. Dark Cornish chough, for thee My shred of minstrelsy I carol at this meditative hour, Linking thee with my reed, Grey moor and grassy mead, Dear carn and cottage, heathy bank and bower. (Poem by John Harris)