Pól Ó Lorcáin
Paul Larkin

Chroniclers are privileged to enter where they list, to come and go through keyholes, to ride upon the wind, to overcome in their soarings up and down, all obstacles of distance, time and place.
Charles Dickens - Barnaby Rudge, Chapter The Ninth

Guardian diarist Simon Hoggart’s “liberal” version of Bloody Sunday

The Guardian's Simon Hoggart - We are not worthy ...

Guardian diarist Simon Hoggart is a clever chap. Or at least he is clever, and actually quite funny, when he sticks to writing about what middle class English scribblers seem to excel at – jokes about bodily functions, lewd innuendo and verbal faux pas. You know transvestism and all that – chortle, tee hee as Simon Hoggart goes all Billy Bunter and Beano! on us. He is a one man Carry On team for middle class Guardian readers - their thinking man’s Les Dawson. And that’s fine as far as it goes. A bit of froth and public school gossip after a hard week can be quite entertaining.
Léigh an t-alt uilig - Read Full Article....

Six Winters Tomas Tranströmer in translation

Six Winters

A translation of Tomas Tranströmer's "Sex Vintrar"

In the black hotel a child sleeps.
Outside: the winter night
where monster eyed dice tumble.

An elite of dead knights is turned to stone
in Katarina graveyard
where the wind rattles in its armour from Svalbard.

One war-winter when I lay sick
a colossal icicle grew outside my window.
Bystander and harpoon, inexplicable memory.

Ice hangs down from the edge of the roof.
Icicles: the upside down Gothic cut.
Weird cattle, udders of glass.

In a shunting, an empty train carriage.
Poised. A lion rampant
The journey in its claws.

Tonight snow-mist, moonlight. The moonlight jellyfish herself
hovers over us. Echoes of our laughs
on the way home. Enchanted path.

@Paul Larkin
Mí Eanáir 2012

(Source text Tomas Tranströmer - Samlade Dikter - 1954 1996)

The Northern Light - The Eternal Self

Cnoic Dhoire Bheatha - The Derryveagh Mountains - Tír Chonaill

A léitheoirí, comrádaithe agus cairde
Dear readers, comrades and friends

The winter, and in particular the Christmas and New Year period, have always been sacred times. Times for inner reflection. Any man who says he has no time for meditation and wondering about life and why we are here is either a fool or a liar, or more likely both.

Below I present a poem I wrote over the Christmas just past. I was writing my own Northern Lights if you like. Below that again is my translation of a very short extract of Søren Kierkegaard's Either/Or from the original Danish. It is a very brief passage but it is the absolute epicentre of Kierkegaard's thought. I am grateful to the Danish author Lise Søelund for reminding me just how breathtaking this passage is - at least for those who finally dare to make that existential leap into themselves.
Léigh an t-alt uilig - Read Full Article....

The 1981 Hunger Strikes - Who will speak of the sectarian state that was “Northern Ireland”

Remarkable image of Margaret Thatcher's handwriting as she edited
what became the verbal offer sent to SF and IRA leadership on the 6th of July 1981

(Under the 30 year release rule, Britain’s national state archive at Kew has now released at least some of the documents covering the 1981 Hunger Strikes. This has provoked widespread debate here in Ireland and elsewhere. I beg the forbearance of readers in making this blog longer than usual to consider this crucial period in our history)

One thing that strikes me forcefully about the discourse surrounding the present discussion of the Hunger Strikes is that the rancour and finger pointing of a small but vociferous group of people and their “supporters” in the press is aimed exclusively at the leadership of Sinn Féin. I find that remarkable.
Léigh an t-alt uilig - Read Full Article....


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