COLUMKILLE THE WRITER
(from the Irish)
My heart is jacked from writing.
My sharp quill shakes.
My thin pen spills out
blood from my stormy lakes.
A stream of God's own wisdom
flushes my hand.
It blesses the waiting page.
It blesses where holly is found.
My thin pen is a traveller
in a world where books are waiting.
Who dares to see? Say? Who bothers to listen?
My heart is jacked from writing.
--Brendan Kennelly
WHAT ELSE?
Be with me Brendan of Ardfert when I
Question words. Song and speech like mine were cast
Aside when, stung by treachery,
You killed a man. Brendan, was it remorse
Made you confront the problematic sea,
The gruff distraction of the wind until
You breathed the cold air of sanctity?
I see you searching with a passionate will
The changing waste at feet and head,
The constant abyss. What reassured you?
Glint of leaping fish? Arrogance of birds?
The sea's tempers? All that has been said
About your lonely strength and rage is true.
What else subdues the sea or masters words?
--Brendan Kennelly
