The most beautiful and moving poem I've read or heard for many years. The equal of Kavanagh or Heaney at their best. Thank you Moya. Long may you continue.
*Carrying the Songs* for Tríona and Maighréad Ní Dhomhnaill _Those in power write the history, those who suffer write the songs._ *Frank Harte* It was always those with little else to carry who carried the songs to Babylon, to the Mississippi - some of these last possessed less than nothing did not own their own bodies yet, three centuries later, deep rhythms from Africa, stowed in their hearts, their bones, carry the world’s songs. For those who left my county, girls from Downings and the Rosses who followed herring boats north to Shetland gutting the sea’s silver as they went or boys from Ranafast and Horn Head who took the Derry boat, who slept over a rope in a bothy, songs were their souls’ currency, the pure metal of their hearts, to be exchanged for other gold, other songs which rang out true and bright when flung down upon the deal boards of their days.
So lovely. Thank you for such a fine recitation.
The most beautiful and moving poem I've read or heard for many years. The equal of Kavanagh or Heaney at their best. Thank you Moya. Long may you continue.
Lovely poem and intresting Introduction.
Such a moving poem, beautifully read and true. Thank you, Moyà, I shall look for more of your books.
thank you.. lovely.
*Carrying the Songs*
for Tríona and Maighréad Ní Dhomhnaill
_Those in power write the history, those who suffer write the songs._
*Frank Harte*
It was always those with little else to carry
who carried the songs
to Babylon,
to the Mississippi -
some of these last possessed less than nothing
did not own their own bodies
yet, three centuries later,
deep rhythms from Africa,
stowed in their hearts, their bones,
carry the world’s songs.
For those who left my county,
girls from Downings and the Rosses
who followed herring boats north to Shetland
gutting the sea’s silver as they went
or boys from Ranafast and Horn Head
who took the Derry boat,
who slept over a rope in a bothy,
songs were their souls’ currency,
the pure metal of their hearts,
to be exchanged for other gold,
other songs which rang out true and bright
when flung down
upon the deal boards of their days.
“Bring me a song”
‘Bhfuil Gaeilge agat Moya?
Excuse me, Moya, do you have any connections to the Cannons of Lettermacaward, Donegal?