I picked up Human Chain today. It's a book of poetry written by Séamus
Heaney. I picked it from my bookshelf where it had been sitting for a few
months. I'm not a big reader.
Though I do enjoy poetry. Once in a while. It enriches words again and, in
doing so, enriches and clarifies the passing of time. Poetry is well-thought
meaning-rich words. Talk is cheap these days. It's always been. Though, it
seems to be getting cheaper with every advertisement, and every figure who has
said too much.
Here's one of his poems from 'Human Chain' to reinvest the meanings to
words that are, like nearly everything in this financially-vacuous state, in
need of reinvestment:
‘Colum Cille Cecinit’
1. Is scíth mo chrob ón scríbainn
My hand is cramped from penwork.
My quill has a tapered point.
It's bird-mouth issues a blue-dark
Beetle-sparkle of ink.
Wisdom keeps welling in streams
From my fine-drawn sallow hand:
Riverrun on the vellum
Of ink from green-skinned holly.
My small runny pen keeps going
Through books, through thick and thin,
To enrich the scholars' holdings -
Penwork that cramps my hand.
II. Is aire charaim Doire
Derry I cherish ever.
It is calm, it is clear.
Crowds of White angels on their rounds
At every corner.
III. Fil súil nglais
Towards Ireland a grey eye
Will look back but see
Ever again
The men of Ireland or her women.
