'The Emigrant Irish'
Like oil lamps, we put them out the back——
of our houses, of our minds. We had lights
better than, newer than and then
a time came, this time and now
we need them. Their dread, makeshift example:
they would have thrived on our necessities.
What they survived we could not even live.
By their lights now it is time to
imagine how they stood there, what they stood with,
that their possessions may become our power:
Cardboard. Iron. Their hardships parceled in them.
Patience. Fortitude. Long-suffering
in the bruise-colored dusk of the New World.
And all the old songs. And nothing to lose.
Copyright ©1990 by Eavan Boland from Outside History
Photographs copyright©irisheyesjg2012.
Click on photographs to view larger version.
Jennifer,
ReplyDeleteMy husband and I had the privilege of seeing the Cliffs of Moher about a year and a half ago. It was wonderful. We took a boat out to the base and looked up. We were going to return the next day for the view from the top, but it was pouring down rain that day. We made the decision to move on to the Dingle Peninsula. I wish we had seen the view from the top. Your picture shows me why. Thanks for remembering our immigrant ancestors who suffered so greatly.
Hi Jennifer,
ReplyDeleteI've been researching my Irish line and wanting to know about the crossings they had to endure. I ran across an article written by a gentleman who had made the crossing and survived. I wept. I now have such admiration, appreciation and love for my ancestors who suffered much. It is no wonder why the Irish songs stir me to my depths. Genetic memory perhaps. Someday I hope to "go home" to Ireland carrying my ancestors with me.
Regards,
Cheri
Hello Kathy and Hello Cheri,
ReplyDeleteThank you for your comments; it is really nice to hear from each one of you.
Kathy, it is funny you should mention the boats that come to the base because I've always visited the Cliffs from above. I was thinking I would try the boats this year.
Also, I love the Dingle Peninsula. I have wonderful memories of my brother Michael, with a new hurly bat, bashing the ball to my dad down the length of a deserted beach on the Dingle Peninsula. I feel as though the sound of the crack of the ball against that bat is forever mixed in my brain with the sound of the roaring sea.
Cheri,
In me you'll find a true believer in genetic memory, although I'm grateful that my genes don't have to travel back so very far. I do hope you go home someday.
Cheers to each one of you,
Jennifer