From small begginings story poem for M'lady Ernestine
.
A cairn of stones that’s added to
By travellers who pass this way.
Although today they’re very few.
Few realise the cairn exists
Now no one can remember why
But the custom still persists
Originally the cairn was built
to mark the spot where someone died.
Perhaps assuaging a sense of guilt.
The killing was an accident
a blow which was in anger struck.
There was no murderous intent
He killed his friend and he confessed
The man was truly penitent.
So obviously that he impressed.
The learned judge who heard the case.
Who ruled that he was innocent
of murder but that he still must face.
A whole life sentence of regret
and that was punishment enough.
This old legend lingers yet.
Each time he passed the spot
he placed a stone upon the cairn.
Which whilst he lived grew quite a lot.
It towers now some eight feet high.
As people added their tribute
although no one remembers why.
Although it’s off the beaten track
one day you might just pass this way
and add your pebble to the stack
It has become a monument
a cairn of stone sure to impress.
Yet it began by accident
12/10/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Related quotes
Aghadoe
There's a glade in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
There 's a green and silent glade in Aghadoe,
Where we met, my love and I, Love's fair planet in the sky,
O'er that sweet and silent glade in Aghadoe.
There 's a glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
There 's a deep and secret glen in Aghadoe,
Where I hid from the eyes of the red-coats and their spies,
That year the trouble came to Aghadoe.
O, my curse on one black heart in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
On Shaun Dhu, my mother's son in Aghadoe!
When your throat fries in hell's drouth, salt the flame be in your
mouth,
For the treachery you did in Aghadoe!
For they track'd me to that glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
When the price was on his head in Aghadoe:
O'er the mountain, through the wood, as I stole to him with food,
Where in hiding lone he lay in Aghadoe.
But they never took him living in Aghadoe, Aghadoe;
With the bullets in his heart in Aghadoe,
There he lay, the head, my breast keeps the warmth of where 'twould
rest,
Gone, to win the traitor's gold, from Aghadoe!
I walk'd to Mallow town from Aghadoe, Aghadoe,
Brought his head from the gaol's gate to Aghadoe;
Then I cover'd him with fern, and I piled on him the cairn,
Like an Irish King he sleeps in Aghadoe.
O, to creep into that cairn in Aghadoe, Aghadoe!
There to rest upon his breast in Aghadoe!
Sure your dog for you could die with no truer heart than I,
Your own love, cold on your cairn in Aghadoe.
poem by John Todhunter
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Shane O’Neill’s Cairn
TO U. J.
When you and I on the Palos Verdes cliff
Found life more desperate than dear,
And when we hawked at it on the lake by Seattle,
In the west of the world, where hardly
Anything has died yet: we'd not have been sorry, Una,
But surprised, to foresee this gray
Coast in our days, the gray waters of the Moyle
Below us, and under our feet
The heavy black stones of the cairn of the lord of Ulster.
A man of blood who died bloodily
Four centuries ago: but death's nothing, and life,
From a high death-mark on a headland
Of this dim island of burials, is nothing either.
How beautiful are both these nothings.
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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Tourist attraction. for M' lady Denise
A hanging stone on the high tor.
Is balancing precariously.
A well known curiosity
Which may well last for evermore.
It has defied the elements.
We think for many centuries
and barring any accident
It will remain place to tease.
The pessimists who are quite sure
The day will come when it must fall.
The hanging stone is a treasure
Which belongs to one and all.
The hanging stone on the high tor
A monument you can’t ignore.
Sunday,18 July 2010
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Ossian’s Grave
PREHISTORIC MONUMENT NEAR CUSHENDALL
IN ANTRIM
Steep up in Lubitavish townland stands
A ring of great stones like fangs, the shafts of the stones
Grown up with thousands of years of gradual turf,
The fangs of the stones still biting skyward; and hard
Against the stone ring, the oblong enclosure
Of an old grave guarded with erect slabs; gray rocks
Backed by broken thorn-trees, over the gorge of Glenaan;
It is called Ossian's Grave. Ossian rests high then,
Haughtily alone.
If there were any fame or burial or monument
For me to envy,
Warrior and poet they should be yours and yours.
For this is the pure fame, not caged in a poem,
Fabulous, a glory untroubled with works, a name in the north
Like a mountain in the mist, like Aura
Heavy with heather and the dark gray rocks, or Trostan
Dark purple in the cloud: happier than what the wings
And imperfections of work hover like vultures
Above the carcass.
I also make a remembered name;
And I shall return home to the granite stones
On my cliff over the greatest ocean
To be blind ashes under the butts of the stones:
As you here under the fanged limestone columns
Are said to lie, over the narrow north straits
Toward Scotland, and the quick-tempered Moyle. But written
reminders
Will blot for too long a year the bare sunlight
Above my rock lair, heavy black birds
Over the field and the blood of the lost battle.
Oh but we lived splendidly
In the brief light of day
Who now twist in our graves.
You in the guard of the fanged
Erect stones; and the man-slayer
Shane O'Neill dreams yonder at Cushendun
Crushed under his cairn;
And Hugh McQuillan under his cairn
By his lost field in the bog on Aura;
And I a foreigner, one who has come to the country of the dead
Before I was called,
To eat the bitter dust of my ancestors;
And thousands on tens of thousands in the thronged earth
Under the rotting freestone tablets
At the bases of broken round towers;
And the great Connaught queen on her mountain-summit
The high cloud hoods, it creeps through the eyes of the cairn,
We dead have our peculiar pleasures, of not
Doing, of not feeling, of not being.
Enough has been felt, enough done, Oh and surely
Enough of humanity has been. We lie under stones
Or drift through the endless northern twilights
And draw over our pale survivors the net of our dream.
All their lives are less
Substantial than one of our deaths, and they cut turf
Or stoop in the steep
Short furrows, or drive the red carts, like weeds waving
Under the glass of water in a locked bay,
Which neither the wind nor the wave nor their own will
Moves; when they seem to awake
It is only to madden in their dog-days for memories of dreams
That lost all meaning many centuries ago.
Oh but we lived splendidly
In the brief light of day,
You with hounds on the mountain
And princes in palaces,
I on the western cliff
In the rages of the sun:
Now you lie grandly under your stones
But I in a peasant's hut
Eat bread bitter with the dust of dead men;
The water I draw at the spring has been shed for tears
Ten thousand times,
Or wander through the endless northern twilights
From the rath to the cairn, through fields
Where every field-stone's been handled
Ten thousand times,
In a uterine country, soft
And wet and worn out, like an old womb
That I have returned to, being dead.
Oh but we lived splendidly
Who now twist in our graves.
The mountains are alive;
Tievebuilleagh lives, Trostan lives,
Lurigethan lives;
And Aura, the black-faced sheep in the belled heather;
And the swan-haunted loughs; but also a few of us dead
A life as inhuman and cold as those.
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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The best laidplans gang aft agley Storypoem
I planned her demise carefully
I was quite sure that it would be
accepted as an accident.
Which left me looking innocent.
I thought I had made no mistakes
but I made one that’s all it takes.
One single shred of evidence
destroyed my claim to innocence.
I should have sued for a divorce
that would have been the wisest course.
Though it would not have satisfied
the hatred festering inside
Caused by the mental cruelty
to which she had subjected me
So I devised the perfect plan
to rid myself of this woman.
My only thought revenge is sweet.
I truly thought in my conceit
That I would get away Scott free.
But fate had other plans for me.
My home is temporarily
a hospital I am not free.
I can still smile I am content
her punishment is permanent.
I was adjudged incompetent
of forming murderous intent
The lawyer who defended me
convinced the judge successfully.
That though I caused my wifes demise
I was too ill to recognise
That killing her would be a crime.
My mind abnormal at that time.
I have no reason to complain
I know that I am not insane
That very soon the powers that be
will certify my sanity.
Although my plans went all awry.
The price I pay is not too high
At last I am well rid of you.
It was well worth it in my view.
18/07/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Inscriptions Written with a Slate Pencil upon a Stone
THE LARGEST OF A HEAP LYING NEAR A DESERTED QUARRY, UPON ONE OF THE ISLANDS AT RYDAL
Stranger! this hillock of mis-shapen stones
Is not a Ruin spared or made by time,
Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Cairn
Of some old British Chief: 'tis nothing more
Than the rude embryo of a little Dome
Or Pleasure-house, once destined to be built
Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle.
But, as it chanced, Sir William having learned
That from the shore a full-grown man might wade,
And make himself a freeman of this spot
At any hour he chose, the prudent Knight
Desisted, and the quarry and the mound
Are monuments of his unfinished task.
The block on which these lines are traced, perhaps,
Was once selected as the corner-stone
Of that intended Pile, which would have been
Some quaint odd plaything of elaborate skill,
So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush,
And other little builders who dwell here,
Had wondered at the work. But blame him not,
For old Sir William was a gentle Knight,
Bled in this vale, to which he appertained
With all his ancestry. Then peace to him,
And for the outrage which he had devised
Entire forgiveness!--But if thou art one
On fire with thy impatience to become
An inmate of these mountains,--if, disturbed
By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn
Out of the quiet rock the elements
Of thy trim Mansion destined soon to blaze
In snow-white splendour,--think again; and, taught
By old Sir William and his quarry, leave
Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose;
There let the vernal slow-worm sun himself,
And let the redbreast hop from stone to stone.
poem by William Wordsworth
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Fairies
Maiden-poet, come with me
To the heaped up cairn of Maeve,
And there we'll dance a fairy dance
Upon a fairy's grave.
In and out among the trees,
Filling all the night with sound,
The morning, strung upon her star,
Shall chase us round and round.
What are we but fairies too,
Living but in dreams alone,
Or, at the most, but children still,
Innocent and overgrown ?
poem by Francis Ledwidge
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Reggae Accident
Reggae accident
By: lucas p. gravell
1993
-- spoken:
Okay now, get ready heres your part. now listen to me.
It was a reggae accident
I said a reggae accident
I cant here you
A reggae accident
A reggae accident
A reggae accident
Now make room for the band
A reggae accident
Here they come here they come
A reggae accident
I say make room for them
A reggae accident
Ha ha, look out now
It was a reggae accident
A reggae accident
This is not a political statement
Nor is it a farce
In the land of the great bald bird
The rasta man is sparse
He does not like our urban jungle
Or our capitalistic nightmare
He does not believe in auto insurance
Mon I dont believe that is fair
It was a reggae accident
Four rastas in a rambler
A reggae accident
They came from out of nowhere
A reggae accident
They were smoking some spliff cigars
A reggae accident
They totaled out my car
I lost the case that sealed my fate
Last week in municipal court
The judge ruled for rasta restitution
Of a most peculiar sort
Now theres four stoned faces at my dinner table
And my wife wonders how come
She does not mind the extra mouths to feed
As much as she minds those after dinner drums
We sing was a reggae accident
Four rastas eating pasta
A reggae accident
Pass the parmesan please
A reggae accident
How does a rasta spell relief
A reggae accident
No problem mon, pass the spliff
Oh reggae down...
Now the sun shines on the isle of jamaica
As its done since time began
No problem says the rasta mon
When I asked to join his band
You see I sold my house I quit my job
I left that narrow-minded wife
And I moved to the island of jamaica ya
Just to live that rasta life
It was a reggae accident
Four rastas in a rambler
A reggae accident
They came from out of nowhere
A reggae accident
They were smoking some spliff cigars
A reggae accident
Now Ive become a rasta star
It was a reggae accident
Look out world
A reggae accident
You know the harder they come
A reggae accident
The harder they fall one and all
A reggae accident
It was just an accident one day
A reggae accident
A reggae accident
A reggae accident
A reggae accident
-- spoken:
Come back, come back to jamaica
Come back to the way things used to be
Ya, ya lets play some dominoes now mon
Come on...
song performed by by Jimmy Buffett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sunday morning Pests.
Two thousand years or so ago.
Three criminals were crucified.
And yet today we claim we know
One was the son of God and died.
We cannot prove that this true
there’s very little evidence.
But we are still expected to
give these stories full credence.
By word of mouth they were passed down.
Translated from old Aramaic.
They came from sources now unknown
Could they free from all mistake.
When they written finally
Although no doubt with good intent
Were they translated properly
or were they changed by accident.
By accident or purposely.
Perhaps a mixture of the two
To claim divine authority.
To me it simply will not do.
To tell me that I must believe.
What may or may not be true.
Is something which you won’t achieve.
There’s very little you can do.
I can’t accept on faith alone.
Until you can prove the things you teach.
are truths that stand up on their own.
Consider me beyond your reach.
Christianity could very easily
have flourished for a while and died.
It owes its popularity.
To information men supplied.
Who had some private axe to grind
Men who stood to benefit.
Perhaps you think I am unkind
that I can’t prove a word of it
I can’t deny that it is so
I don’t expect you to agree.
But I believe you do not know
The whole truth any more than me.
I can respect what that you believe
I do not find it difficult
But I’m not willing to receive
Indoctrination by some cult.
So please don’t knock upon my door
Attempting to convert me to your view
Because I’ve heard it all before
and I’ve got better things to do.
Than listen to the likes of you.
02/09/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Justifiable? ?
All men can gain the mark of Cain
If they’re provoked sufficiently.
Fury overcasts reasons reign
and he strikes out impulsively.
He kills almost by accident
There is no malice aforethought..
Does this still merit punishment?
Perhaps but of a different sort.
Unlike those men who kill for gain.
Sheer anger renders them insane.
I am quite sure most men could be
afflicted by insanity.
Protecting child hood innocence
from paedophiles. Needs no defence.
14-Sep-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Gideon Scheepers (Terzanelle)
To form a cairn, I write these words about a remarkable man,
commandant Gideon Scheepers, executed in gross neglect
who was seen by the British as a rebel and partisan
and they treated him without any decency or respect
when in the veldt they captured an ill man as a prisoner of war.
Commandant Gideon Scheepers, executed in gross neglect
proofed himself at the battle of Magersfontein before
gathering more men, blowing away train tracks,
when in the veldt they captured an ill man as a prisoner of war
who acted against armed blacks
who stopped them from pillaging farms, raping, killing and looting,
gathering more men, blowing away train tracks,
the British executed him, with a firing squad shooting
a brave man, who acted fearless
who stopped them from pillaging farms, raping, killing and looting
and they buried him in an unmarked grave, rather careless.
To form a cairn I write these words about a remarkable man,
a brave man, who acted fearless
who was seen by the British as a rebel and partisan.
[References: The rank of Commandant is equivalent to that of Lieutenant Colonel. The heroic story of Gideon Scheepers during the second Anglo-Boer war, who was captured while being ill in the veldt as a normal combatant, but treated like a rebel and shot by the British, who buried him in a unmarked hole in the ground.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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Final solution
The countless dead unburied lay beneath a covering of clay.
The good earth turned to dark red mud mixed with the best of soldier’s blood.
It mattered not how many died for death could not be satisfied.
Brave men who fought for their country. Death chose amongst them randomly.
I lived although my comrades died. Death often took them from my side.
Why did I live? So I can tell the world about the living hell
wich we endured knee deep in mud. I think it fitting that I should.
So many died on either side. Involuntary suicide
To fight a war they could not win, to no more see their kith and kin
Like every war it proved to be a total waste, a mockery
The cream of Europe’s fighting mem would never see their homes again.
What did it prove the First World War? Nothing we had not known before!
Though we remember those who died. The lessons learned are not applied
for men still battle constantly to prove superiority.
It seems mankind can’t live in peace, that wanton killing will not cease
Until death has added to his score the last man and there are no more.
I think that then and only then the world will be at peace again.
16/04/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Trespasser for M lady Chitra
Lost deep in thought my footsteps strayed
And brought me to a woodland glade.
Wherein there stood an altar stone
erected to some God unknown
Erected in pre history.
The stone will stand eternally
as evidence of worship here
of some forgotten deity..
The altar stone is still pristine
It’s surface completely free
of lichens which should have been
thriving on it visibly.
Perhaps the worshippers still meet
Creep through the woods on silent feet
to carry out their ancient rites.
Beneath the moon on summer nights
When new gods drive he old gods out.
I am convinced I have no doubt
There still remains a faithful few
who worship as they used to do.
Perchance they still worship here
That is the reason that the stone is clear.
Quite suddenly I feel oppressed
and I decide its for the best.
To take again my homeward way
hurriedly without delay.
I feel that I must leave this place
and quicken up my walking pace
I wonder still uneasily
did I offend some deity.
Albeit inadvertently
who might decide to punish me
Though years have passed I’m still afraid.
I trespassed in that woodland glade.
Although in fact by accident
perhaps I earned some punishment.
Perhaps I’m being paranoid.
I try my hardest to avoid
Walking woodland paths alone
they might lead to that altar stone.
10/10/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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A happy accident
A happy accident
Alone. Alone always alone
The warmth of love I’d never known.
Conceived upon a one night stand
and then abandoned out of hand.
Nobody ever wanted me.
It seemed I was condemned to be
unloved unwanted and alone
My heart grew cold and turned to stone.
I could not love, no one showed me
affection: I could not see
that to receive I had to give.
And so I lived in misery.
I grew up in an orphanage
until I had attained the age.
When they considered I should be.
Grown up enough to be set free.
Not their responsibility
and that is how I came to be.
A dweller in bed sitter land.
Nobody seemed to understand.
Just how lonely life can be
I knew that no one cared for me.
I thought that no one ever would
nor could I see why they should.
Until one day I found a friend
my loneliness was at an end.
She was an orphan just like me
and had endured the misery.
Of feeling that she was alone
unwanted too by anyone.
I needed her she needed me
We learned together we could be.
Good friends who earned each others trust
and very slowly to adjust.
Adopt a different point of view
and realise it was not true.
That we were not unlovable
and that we were quite capable
of giving and receiving love
A treasure which we rate above.
All of the trapping of success
To suffer no more loneliness
To love and be loved in return
A lesson that we had to learn.
Which banished all our misery.
Now we are married happily.
And have two children of our own
Deep love has from a friendship grown.
11-Oct-08
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Blind Luck for Joe Poewhit
Some can foresee what is to be
Fleeting images which quickly pass,
on which they base their prophecy.
When they employ their scrying glass.
Still others can review the past.
Reality not history,
enabling them to overcast
false hypotheses and theory
But most cannot and they must deal
with what is happening here and now.
The things we see and hear and feel.
The most nature will allow
are hunches and presentiments.
You act upon if you are wise.
Sometimes as if by accident
you know more than you realise.
Your mind reacts unconsciously
To what it sees may be a threat.
It observes subliminally
And very often you forget
The reason that you changed your mind
And thus avoided tragedy.
Perhaps you left your keys behind
and had to return hurriedly.
You don’t believe in E.SP.
Although you are willing to
accept your hunches easily.
I am quite sure most people do.
10/10/2009
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Monentary aberration.
A brief encounter innocent
Of any forethought or intent
We touched almost by accident
and yet I must confess it meant.
A sudden pang of discontent
Which quickly came and quickly went.
A moment that devil sent
To tempt me was his sole intent.
It was a failed experiment.
My love for you is permanent.
It would be to my detriment
to give my assent or consent.
To any plot he could invent.
I hold all cheats beneath contempt.
Monday,29 March 2010
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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A Parodist's Apology
If I've dared laugh at you, Robert Browning,
'Tis with eyes that with you have often wept:
You have oftener left me smiling or frowning,
Than any beside, one bard except.
But once you spoke to me, storm-tongued poet,
A trivial word in an idle hour;
But thrice I looked on your face and the glow it
Bore from the flame of the inward power.
But you'd many a friend you never knew of,
Your words lie hid in a hundred hearts,
And thousands of hands that you've grasped but few of
Would be raised to shield you from slander's darts.
For you lived in the sight of the land that owned you,
You faced the trial, and stood the test:
They have piled you a cairn that would fain have stoned you:
You have spoken your message and earned your rest.
poem by James Kenneth Stephen
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Somebody's son.
A bloated corpse floats on the flood
But who he was nobody knows.
He was intent that no one should
Removed the labels from his clothes.
Made sure he carried no I.D
He had his reasons I suppose
to choose anonymity.
I must admit it baffles me.
He’s just another suicide
another tragic incident.
He’ll never be identified.
Unless perhaps by accident
He died voluntarily
and left behind a mystery.
Monday,29 March 2010
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Least said soonest mended.
Least said soonest mended.
In the anger of the moment.
We react instinctively
Harsh words spill out by accident
Which we regret immediately.
Anger looses inhibitions
We do not think before we speak.
The spoken word can’t be unsaid
However much we may regret.
Although our anger’s long since fled
Those we offend do not forget.
Anger loosens inhibitions.
We do not think before we speak.
Old friends become new enemies.
Misunderstandings on both sides
Exchanging apologies
may help but bitterness abides.
Anger loosens inhibitions
We do not think before we speak.
Reacting to a perceived slight.
Something we are prone to do.
We forget to be polite.
It’s unfortunate but it’s true.
Thursday,13 October 2011
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poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Pandemic
The symptoms strike so suddenly
A headache and a runny nose.
Not serious apparently
you have no reason to suppose.
That you have contracted something new
that you will die in agony.
A mutant strain of common flu
an ever changing enemy.
A virus which we can’t contain
because it spreads so easily
An ancient plague has struck again
Invariably fatally
There’s no escape nowhere to run.
Out breaks occur spontaneously
We’re doing all that can be done.
At home and internationally.
Although some victims do survive
we do not know the reason why
What keeps the lucky few alive.
We have no choice we have to try.
To find a cure for this disease
Which some see as a punishment
inflicted by a god displeased
and others as an accident..
We’ve seen it happen once before
The death toll from the Spanish flu
killed more than died in the Great War.
Nature produces something new.
When mankind’s numbers grow too high.
She knows the world can not sustain
too many people some must die
to reach a balance once again.
She does not flinch or hesitate
She knows exactly what to do
she has to act before too late.
So she creates a mutant flu.
Mans tendency to overbreed
Means Mother Nature will decide
there are too many mouths to feed.
The time has come to override.
The wishes of humanity
Reduce their numbers savagely
A task she does efficiently
although perhaps reluctantly.
What seems to be wanton cruelty
can be a blessing in disguise.
There’s every possibility
The race of man will realise.
The time has come to exercise
his free will much more sensibly.
and that in truth the answer lies
in acting more responsibly.
The earths resources are finite
we have to change our wasteful ways.
Or else give in without a fight
and see the end of mankinds days.
26/04/2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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