You’ll find no green beer here
Or stories with a jeer here
about shamrock socks
or leprechaun jocks;
The Irish won’t get a smear here.
I pass along this fantastic
idea, not sarcastic,
not as a joke
about wee folk,
But with thought enthusiastic:
Storytelling is an art
that makes the Irish a part
of words unfurled
joining the world
To one growing literary chart.
Copyright 2015 Brenda Davis Harsham
Note: The foregoing are my limericks three, to frame my respect for my Irish heritage. The shamrock is a work in progress by my daughter and I. To celebrate St. Patrick’s Day, here are few treasures by Irish authors:
While mantling on the maiden’s cheek
Young roses kindled into thought.
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 honeybee,
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 day
I hear 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.
My body was like a harp and her words and gestures
were like fingers running upon the wires.
― James Joyce, Araby
Of the things which nourish the imagination,
humour is one of the most needful,
and it is dangerous to limit or destroy it.
I think of the bog as a feminine goddess-ridden ground,
rather like the territory of Ireland itself.