Profound Writers

I have one word to say upon the subject of profound writers, who are grown very numerous of late; and I know very well the judicious world is resolved to list me in that number. I conceive therefore, as to the business of being profound, that it is with writers as with wells; a person with good eyes may see to the bottom of the deepest, provided any water be there; and often, when there is nothing in the world at the bottom, besides dryness and dirt, though it be but a yard and half under ground, it shall pass however for wondrous deep, upon no wiser a reason than because it is wondrous dark.

Jonathan Swift, A Tale of a Tub


The Epochs’ Sentinel

Proudly stands the ancient Rock, the epoch’s sentinel
Resolute upon the running fields
Once home to primal, angry mangonels
And men of arms with glinting claimhte and clashing shields
Where prayers were said in whispers and in hallowed song
Where worship rose a scented smoke upon the lifting breeze
Where stones have stood through seasons changed and long
Through countless lives of men and aged trees
A place where death is laid to lasting rest
The rotted frames in dust awaiting second life
Until that day the stones and grass anticipate the final quest
The land to be released from sin and bloody strife
The Rock is standing still
The epoch’s sentinel


Why I Came to Ireland

Surely it was not without God, or simply out of human motives, that I came to Ireland! Who was it who drove me to it? I am so bound by the Spirit that I no longer see my own kindred. Is it just from myself that comes the holy mercy in how I act towards that people who at one time took me captive and slaughtered the men and women servants in my father’s home? In my human nature I was born free, in that I was born of a decurion father.  But I sold out my noble state for the sake of others – and I am not ashamed of that, nor do I repent of it. Now, in Christ, I am a slave of a foreign people, for the sake of the indescribable glory of eternal life which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.


–  Saint Patrick, from “A Letter To The Soldiers Of Coroticus

Rhythmic Poetry

Tara’s Lasting Memories

They whisper still on Tara’s Hill, the lasting memories
Of men and beasts, of rain and wind, of ages run to die
They whisper of the highest kings, resplendent in their dress
Brought-forth from waring clans upon the Isle of the Green
They whisper of the strains of men, in fellowship arrayed
They whisper of the streams of blood
That’s borne upon the mighty River Boyne unto the thirsty sea
They whisper of the sumptuous feasts, where mead and laughter flowed
They whisper of the druids dark, King-Makers in the ancient land
They whisper in their silent tears for all the Island’s children dear
Who’ve mourned and suffered in their sordid history
They whisper still, on Tara’s Hill, these lasting memories