September 2013 - W.B. Yeats

September 1913 

W.B. Yates

What need you, being come to sense,
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
You have dried the marrow from the bone;
For men were born to pray and save;
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Yet they were of a different kind,
The names that stilled your childish play,
They have gone about the world like wind,
But little time had they to pray
For whom the hangman's rope was spun,
And what, God help us, could they save?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Was it for this the wild geese spread
The grey wing upon every tide;
For this that all that blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitzgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,
All that delirium of the brave?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Yet could we turn the years again,
And call those exiles as they were
In all their loneliness and pain,
You'd cry `Some woman's yellow hair
Has maddened every mother's son':
They weighed so lightly what they gave.
But let them be, they're dead and gone,
They're with O'Leary in the grave.

In one of his most celebrated works, Yeats laments the death of Ireland's nobility and honour; seemingly replaced by a less tangible and decidedly less moral materialism. 

This poem was written to mark the occasion of the Dublin Lockout (details of the centenary in the Independent HERE) and to protest the Dublin Corporation's refusal to house a collection of art belonging to Sir Hugh Lane (for more details see this excellent article on the Irish Times site HERE). 

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Table of Contents - A Poetry Moment

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Table of Contents - Full

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Canongate Book 5 - Dream a little dream of me...

After some delay; the next book in the LeedsBookClub Canongate Challenge was Dream Angus by Alexander McCall Smith. 

A huge fan of Alexander McCall Smith (Please read his wikipedia page - he is fascinating); I discovered the No 1 Ladies Detective Agency a few years ago and read about six books in the series over one weekend, so enchanted by the world and characters described. I deliberately left this book until I had written a less than glowing review as I knew that this would be just fantastic and accessible. 

Additionally, Aengus is one of *ours* - an Irish myth - and one of the most beautiful, magical and transformative of them all. As frivalous cruel and thoughtless gods go; Aengus is a cuddily cuddily teddy bear.   

Background to the Myth -  Wandering Aengus

Usually in this section; I clarify the myth, so that the modern telling has a comparative base. I'm half tempted not to do so in this case.

True McCall Smith mixes the modern with the mythical - wandering in directions not consistent with the original story. However the broad strokes he makes are very in tune with the stories I grew up hearing and reading.

It's a dilemma!

Aengus is the child of the Dagda (I shall keep the definitive article thank you!). The Dagda deceived the water spirit Boann, tricking her to take advantage of her. Both were part of the ancient race known as the Tuatha de Danann - the magical children of the goddess Danu. However; the Dagda couldn't quite conceive and run. Boann's husband Nechtan would have been furious and kicked up all sorts of fuss - so the Dagda froze time; leaving the sun still in the sky for nine months. Aengus was therefore conceived and born in a single day. Granted, a long day; but still just the one.

Upon his birth; the Dagda tore the baby from his mothers arms and dumped him on one of his other sons, Midir. Boann was heartbroken but unable to act without raising the suspicions of her husband. Midir - thankfully - was a decent and honourable god who raised the boy in a warm and loving home. He was honest with him about his parentage though Aengus never had any reason not to love his step father.

Aengus was a happy child, smart and resourceful. As he grew; he was handsome and brave. Though deeply loyal to Midir - he was also pretty disgusted at the behaviour of his real father. Upon reaching his maturity; he conned the Dagda - pretty much as described in the book; so I won't ruin it for you - and took over his domain.

However; the reason that he is the god of dreams relates to his own love life. Aengus was a bit of a looker; friendly and open with more than his fair share of charm. Women flocked to him - knowing that although he would never commit to them - he would bring good fortune and love their way.

One night however, Aengus had a dream more vivid than any he had ever experienced. He was visited by a woman so beautiful that she took his breath away. After many months of interacting with her only in his sleep; Aengus became morose and introverted. His mother and father both searched Ireland for a year before they tracked this elusive maiden down. Even then Aengus had to identify her out of 150 other women, and defeat a curse, and transform himself into a ....

See; protecting you from spoilers again. 

Long story short; Aengus was one of those gods with a fingers in a lot of different mythical pies. His influence and his magic can be seen throughout Irish lore; interacting with (or related to!) most of the Tuatha de Danann. 

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The Review 

*****SPOILERS***

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*****SPOILERS***

The book can be broken into two. On the one hand; there is the life story of Angus - from conception to marriage. On the other; his influence in more contemporary life stories. 

I can't fault the story of Angus at all. It's all here - and McCall Smith breathes life and humour into his characters - from father Dagda to duped mother Boann with a light and simple touch that feels utterly in line with the oral tradition from which the story emerged. I  occasionally found the dialogue to be a little stilted; but ultimately I very much enjoyed his take on this old story. 

Between the recitation of Angus' life are snippets in time - this time the timeline is our everyday world. Angus walks amongst us, unrecognised but still performing his ageless tasks. 

He gives sweet dreams for sweet resolutions; promotes true love; highlights that decency towards any living being (PIGS!) demonstrates an inherent good will and proving that for the right reasons; people will cross any line to protect the one they love - be that love sexual, romantic or fraternal.

It's funny. I've always loved Aengus/Angus. He is one of my favourite mythical characters. I loved his sly way of looking at the world; his odd solutions to seemingly insurmountable problems. I still do. 
But... But...
McCall Smith manages to capture the essence of the original tales and transpose these into an up to date setting. However; the amortily of the gods; their callous and cold thought processes are jarring in the contemporary. 
Whlie the style of the writing is breezy and the stories are - on the surface of it - light and fluffy; there is a bite in the tale. Just like in the best fairytales there is a sinister edge that creeps over your subconscious. I wasn't even aware of it unil I put the book down. Then little flashes of creepy would make me shiver.

What's that line from the musical? 'Dreams come true, not free'...

A fantastic read. 

Go.

Read.

Now!!


  

Perhaps the best known version of Aengus was written by W.B. Yates - see poem here. 

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Canongate

Book 08 - Weight - Jeanette Winterson
Book 07 - Ragnarok - AS Byatt
Book 06 - Where Three Roads Meet
Book 05 - Dream Angus - Alexander McCall-Smith

Book 04 - The Helmet of Horror - Victor Pelevin

Book 03 - Binu and the Great Wall - Su Tong

Book 02 - Girl Meets Boy - Ali Smith

Book 01 - The Penelopiad - Margaret Atwood

Book List

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Ongoing Challenges - Table of Contents

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Full Table of Contents 

The Song of the Wandering Aengus - W.B. Yates

The Song of the Wandering Aengus 

W.B. Yates

I WENT out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

 

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire a-flame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And some one called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

 

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun. 

 

1899

Please find below a version by Christy Moore - one of Ireland's best known folk singers and songwriters. 

Mike Scott of the Waterboys has also used this poem as the basis for a song - but there doesn't appear to be a youtube link for that...yet!

 

Table Of Contents - Poetry

 

The Lake Isle of Inishfree - W.B. Yates

The Lake Isle of Inishfree

I WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart's core.

1888

I have an aunt who will competitively recite this with her brother after a night on the tear. They go faster and faster till one of them makes a mistake!

Ah we're great craic really. 
Honest...


Please listen to it being read by the author below.

Table Of Contents - Poetry

The Stolen Child - WB Yates

The Stolen Child

WHERE dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.

1899

This is my favourite poem...ever. I love Yates anyway, but this poem (and the song linked above that introduced it to me)is so evocative and powerful, that it takes me to a fantastical world, where faeries and elves and strange old magicks still exist.

Based on an Irish myths and legends about the Changelings - these are faeries who kidnap children leaving either faery folk or enchanted objects in their place(for an absolutely fantastic reading experience, try 'The Stolen Child' - inspired by the poem - written by Keith Donohue)- I have always imagined a sort of between world that a child slips into in dreams, where they are offered a choice - to stay or to go away from their families, tempted by magical people.

What I love most about this poem are the flashes of mundanity that are the real world (the kettle on the hob) and the power than these simple items have to compel a person to want to stay in the real world, despite the hardships that we all endure.

Table Of Contents - Poetry

He wishes for the clothes of Heaven - W.B. Yates

He wishes for the clothes of Heaven

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.

1899



One of my favourite renditions of this oft abused and misused poem.

Table Of Contents - Poetry