Friday, June 14, 2013

The Fisherman by William Butler Yeats

Day 5 construction was put on hold for the afternoon, due to the high winds and rain.  Even though it is summer, one can see why the Romans named Ireland Hibernia for the Latin word for winter (like the French hiver).

So, the group is now hibernating back at their respective B& is a perfect afternoon to sit by a peat fire and curl up with a little dog named Precious, a cup of tea, and a book of poetry.  Here is an appropriate selection for our island, since fishing is so local man W.B Yeats, and written about 100 years ago, but as relevant for our time as for his:

The Fisherman

Although I can see him still—
The freckled man who goes
To a gray place on a hill
In gray Connemara clothes
At dawn to cast his flies—
It's long since I began
To call up to the eyes
This wise and simple man.   
All day I'd looked in the face   
What I had hoped it would be   
To write for my own race   
And the reality:   
The living men that I hate,   
The dead man that I loved,   
The craven man in his seat,   
The insolent unreproved—
And no knave brought to book   
Who has won a drunken cheer—
The witty man and his joke   
Aimed at the commonest ear,   
The clever man who cries   
The catch cries of the clown,   
The beating down of the wise   
And great Art beaten down.

Maybe a twelve-month since
Suddenly I began,
In scorn of this audience,
Imagining a man,
And his sun-freckled face
And gray Connemara cloth,
Climbing up to a place
Where stone is dark with froth,
And the down turn of his wrist
When the flies drop in the stream—
A man who does not exist,   
A man who is but a dream;   
And cried, “Before I am old   
I shall have written him one   
Poem maybe as cold   
And passionate as the dawn.”
Source: Poetry (February 1916).

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