Conference tallis::celt

1368.0. "Blasket Islands" by SIOG::OSULLIVAN_D (B� c�ramach, a leanbh) Thu Apr 14 1994 13:11

	Time for a poem!  The following poem describes the way 
    	of life on the Blasket Islands, off the west coast of 
    	Kerry.  The Blaskets were abandoned in 1953 and are now
    	a national park.   
    
    
    
Pity the Islanders, Lucht an Oile�in   by   David Quin.


for they dwelt on a rock in the sea and not in a shining
  metropolis
and lived off the pick of the strand, the hunt of the hill, the
  fish in the sea,
the wool off sheep, and packets full of dollars; for they ate
  black pudding,

drank sleada� squeezed from seaweed, treated themselves on 
  Good Fridays
to tit-bits from the shore, and thought a man rich if he
  possesed two cows;
for they stuffed their pillows with puffins' feathers, and the
  sea roared

in their right ear and the north wind moaned in their left; for
  they were full
of sunlight and mist, wind and stone, rain and rock, but the
  Atlantic ocean
would not pay them a regular salary; and they did not fret
  about tumble driers    

or grouse about the menu, for the wind would not let them
  strut, the
rain made them meek and the waves kept them low; for they
  feared vain glory
and the evil eye, chewed bits of seaweed and prayed to the
  mother of God;

for their enemies were baliffs, big fat trawlers, mainland
  shopkeepers
and crows after hens; for they made nothing fit for museum
  or art gallery
and uttered proverbs that came up from Cro Magnon man;
  for they lived

before Descartes, Newton, Freud, de Sade and Marx,
  invented no novel machine
or vice, and never discovered the multiple orgasm; for they
lacked ambition,
built into the earth not the sky, and did not rob and plunder
  or scatter

corpses in their wake; for they lived before the age of trivia
and never made it to the age of anxiety, and did not suffer
  ennui because
there was turf to be cut; for they did not rush into the future,

leaving their hearts behind them, becasue they had no future.
Praise the islanders, lucht na Oile�in, for they were a fair
  people
who pelted the stranger with blessings and the baliffs with
  volleys of stones;

for they were a gentle people, who twisted puffins' necks,
  patted babies' heads
and split the skulls of seals; for they were like the children of
  one mother with twenty
steps between each house; for they were a quiet people, who
  never

stopped talking, full of malice and affection, whose delights
  were tea
and tobacco, a big ship on the waves, a donkey on the loose,
  a battle
of tongues, a boatful of rabbits, a dance, a story, a song in the
  dead of night;

for they were as mournful as wet sheep and as bright as
  gannets,
were pagans who trusted in God, rubbed seal oil on their
  wounds,
welcomed wrecks but prayed for the corpses, and loved to fill
  their bellies

with the breeze that flows from the west; for they broke their
  backs with loads
of fish and sand, turf and lobsters, and leant on walls to bask
  in the sun;
for their stage was not the city, nation or world, but the
  village, this land

and the neighbouring parishes, which are about the right size
  for a human being.
When they strolled beneath the Milky Way their laughter did 
  not pollute the night,
for they kept their boats high on the waves and their roofs
  low to the ground

and were grateful for seals when God withheld pigs. 

    Good poem.  Was this originally done in Gaeilge Dermot?
    Many of the Blasketians emigrated to Springfield Mass.
    (a major city in the western part of Massachusetts). There
    was a small community of them.  One of them here wrote a book
    about his life on the Blaskets. I can't remember his name
    offhand but I've read excerpts.

    I've read 3 great books about life on the Blaskets.  The Islandman,
    Peig and The Westernmost Island.  Oh there's 4.  I forgot Twenty Years
    a-growing.  I picked up a copy of Thomas O'Crohan's diary this summer,
    but I havn't read it yet.  I read these 4 books back to back, and
    promised myself that someday I would get out there.  Is there anything
    left of the village?  
    
    Julia

    Cad e/ sleada/i a Dhiarmuid?
    
    /g

    George
    
    Don't know but the poem reads as if it was written in english.  
    
    Sleada�: the best translation I can find is 'Sea lettuce'  I asked my
    father (from the Dingle penninsula) and he had never heard of it. 
    
    By coincidence, just last week a Blasket Heritage Centre was opened in
    D�n Chaoin, which is on the mainland.  Hopefully I'll get to visit it
    this year.