William Butler Yeats @150
William Butler Yeats: Irish prose writer, dramatist and poet; Nobel Prize for Literature in 1923. 1865-1939; compiled the Oxford Book of Modern Verse. My favourite Irish author would have been 150 years today. Ireland, myself included, celebrates a man so talented, his words still touches people today. Two years ago, and on my birthday, I visited Yeats’s grave in Drumcliffe, County Sligo, Ireland. Because he was one of my favourites since my teenage years, it was a bucket-list moment that was finally realized! I wished I was in Sligo this weekend, but I’m sure I will go back before too long, especially since his house, Thoor Ballylee, has finally been opened to the public, something many fans had been asking for a very long time.
So many books, so little time!
Yesterday morning – rain, wind, a slight chill in the air – I walked totally wrecked and at snail pace towards the bookshop. Voucher in hand, lots of titles written down on paper just in case my memory checks out on me again. For a while now I had been looking at certain books, longing to buy them someday. That day came yesterday. Proud as a turkey and all dolled up, I went to Chapters in Dublin and kept pushing the elevator buttons to speed up to deliver me the second-hand part of the shop. As I left the elevator, right in front of my eyes stood Friedrich Nietzsche. He looked proud and dapper in a new jacket, and I had to agree he looked better than I did. I ran towards…
Worstward Ho, by Samuel Beckett
“Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.” (from Worstward Ho, 1983; Samuel Beckett 1906 – 1989) Irish Writer, best known for his play Waiting for Godot in 1952 and winning the Noble Prize Literature in 1969. ©Willeke Van Eeckhoutte and Ireland, Multiple Sclerosis & Me, 2011-2013. Unauthorised use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Willeke Van Eeckhoutte and Ireland, Multiple Sclerosis & Me with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
Erin, by Thomas Moore
Erin! the tear and the smile in thine eyes Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies, Shining through sorrow’s stream, Saddening through pleasure’s beam, Thy suns with doubtful gleam, Weep while they rise. Erin, thy silent tear never shall cease, Erin, thy languid smile ne’er shall increase, Till, like the rainbow’s light, Thy various tints unite, And form in heaven’s sight One arch of peace! Thomas Moore (28 May 1779 – 25 February 1852) © Willeke Van Eeckhoutte and Ireland, Multiple Sclerosis & Me, 2011-2013
Haunting Joyce
Words. Letters strung together to form sentences filled with thoughts, ideas and emotions. I thrive on them, books and communication in general included. I am a true bibliophile. After library studies, I ended up working in libraries for years before moving to Ireland. Books were my life as a kid, a teen, a young adult and they are still my life right now. I cannot begin to guess how many books I have read or how many I handled while working in a library and each one was special. According to Wikipedia, a bibliophile is someone who “loves to read, admire and collect books, often amassing a large and specialized collection. Bibliophiles do not necessarily want to possess the books they love; an alternative would be to admire them in old libraries.”…
Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven, W.B. Yeats
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. (William Butler Yeats) © Willeke Van Eeckhoutte and Ireland, Multiple Sclerosis & Me, 2011-2012.
The Harp That Once Through Tara’s Halls
The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory’s thrill is o’er, And hearts that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more! No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells; The chord alone that breaks at night, Its tale of ruin tells. Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives. (poem by Irish poet Thomas Moore 1779-1852) (for more info: http://www.knowth.com/tara.htm) © Willeke Van Eeckhoutte and Ireland, Multiple Sclerosis & Me, 2011-2012.