West Wind Blows 1dec2024

This program is sponsored by Bounce Back Recycling, offering an affordable and sustainable way to dispose of old furniture and matches. The program is dedicated to the poetry of WB Yeats, considered one of the greatest poets in the English language. It provides information about Yeats' life, including his birth, marriage, and death. The program features readings of Yeats' poems, including "The Lake Isle of Nisfri," "When You Are Old," and "The White Birds." It also mentions Maude Gonne, a great love of Yeats' life. The program concludes with a reading of "In Memory" by Dennis Craven. This program is kindly sponsored by Bounce Back Recycling. Say goodbye to your old furniture and matches in an affordable, convenient and sustainable way. Call 091-760-877. Hello again and welcome to the West Wind Blows, a weekly program of poetry, song and story. My name is Kathleen Faherty and Bridie Cashin is producer and technician for the program. We're dedicating this program to the poetry of WB Yeats. Some might say that he's the greatest poet in the English language since Shakespeare. He was born in Sunday, Mount Dublin, on the 13th of June, 1865. He moved to London and later returned to Ireland. He spent many holidays in Sligo, lived for some years in his tower at Ballylee near Gort in County Galway. He won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1923. In 1917, then 62 years old, he married 25-year-old Georgie Hyde-Leve. They had two children, Anne, born in 1919, and Michael, born two years later. WB Yeats died in France on the 28th of January 1939 and at his own request, he's buried in Lrimcliffe churchyard, a few miles from Sligo town. We begin with a dreamy escapist poem, The Lake Isle of Nisfri, written by Yeats when he was 25 years old. In this poem, you see the young romantic Yeats. By romantic, I mean he dreams of a perfect world. Just listen to the hypnotic rhythm and you'll be transposed to The Lake Isle of Nisfri yourself. Where midnight's all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow, and evening full of the linen's wings. Colleen Carden will read The Lake Isle of Nisfri. A few years back myself and my daughters travelled to Sligo for a family holiday and we came across a little village called Drumcliffe, which is about eight kilometres or five miles north of Sligo town and it's on a low gravel ridge between the mountain of Ben Bulben and Drumcliffe Bay. What I didn't know at the time was that Drumcliffe is the final resting place of the poet W.B. Yeats, who is buried in the graveyard of St. Columba's Church of Ireland church. And it was only when we came across the headstone that it got me thinking about William Butler Yeats and his poetry. And it's because of this that I have recorded one of my favourite William B. Yeats poems, The Lake Isle of Nisfri. I will arise and go now, and go to Nisfri, And a small cabin build there, of clay and waffles made, Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the vales of the morning to where the cricket sings. There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, An evening full of the Lynette's wings. I will arise and go now, for always night and day, I hear lake-water lapping, with low sounds by the shore, But I stand on the roadway, or on the pavement's grey, I hear it in the deep heart's core. I've met some folks who say that I'm a dreamer, And I ain't no doubt they're true in what they say. But should a body's bound to be a dreamer, When all the things he loves are far away, And special pains are dreams to an exile, They take him o'er the land, across the sea. Especially when it happens he's in exile, From that dear lovely island in H.C. And when alone I peep across the roof now, Of this great city, wondrous so it be, My spirit can feel the magic or the beauty, I'm once again back home in H.C. I wander o'er green hills and dreamy valleys, And find a peace no other land could know. I hear the birds make music fit for angels, And watch the rivers lapping as they flow. And then unto a humble shack I wander, My own dear home, and tenderly behold, The folks I love around the church fire gather, On bended knees the rosary is told. But dreams don't last, though dreams are not forgotten, And soon I'm back to surf reality. And though they paint the footpaths here with gold, Oh, I still would choose the island in H.C. The Isle of Anisfree was sung by Paddy Flaherty, with Lee Maspell on accordion, and this is taken from the Connemara Community Radio CD, Come by the Hills. Maud Gonne was the great love of Yeats's life. She was nearly six feet tall and reputedly the most beautiful woman in Ireland. He met her in 1889 and loved her ever since. However, it was unrequited love. But Yeats loved her intensely, and as she grew into old age, he loved the sorrows of her changing face. Mary Ruddy will read When You Are Old. I chose the following W.B. Yeats poem, When You Are Old, because it brings to mind a dear friend of mine, Mary Cafferkey, who had an illustrated copy of this poem hanging in her kitchen, where I spend many a happy evening. Mary died in 2002, and a line from this poem, Loved the Pilgrim's Soul in You, is on Mary's headstone. When You Are Old When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, Sit down this book and slowly read, And dream of the soft look your eyes had once, And of their shadows deep. How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim's soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face. And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled, And paced upon the mountains overhead, And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. The sun is down, the moon is blue, I think they know that I'm missing you. But time will heal this heart that pains, As soon as I see you again. The sun is down, the moon is blue, I think they know that I'm missing you. But time will heal this heart that pains, As soon as I see you again. I see an island, you're on it here, I see you crying in the misty air. You look so lonely, and there's no one near, Which I can call, wish you were here. The sun is down, the moon is blue, I think they know that I'm missing you. But time will heal this heart that pains, As soon as I see you again. I see an island, you're on it here, I see you crying in the misty air. You look so lonely, and there's no one near, Which I can call, wish you were here. Look out your window, when you're feeling blue, You'll see a bluebird looking at you. Lay down your tears, let yourself be free, Take in your deepest breath, and sing to me. The sun is down, the moon is blue, I think they know that I'm missing you. But time will heal this heart that pains, As soon as I see you again. I see an island, you're on it here, I see you crying in the misty air. The White Birds White Birds by W.B. Yeats was inspired by Maude Gonne, a love of his life. One day as they walked by the sea cliffs, Maude Gonne idly remarked if she were a bird, she would choose to be a seagull. The White Birds by W.B. Yeats I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea. We tire of the flame of the meteor, before it can fade and flee. And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim of the sky, Has awakened in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that may not die. A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew-dabbled, the lily and rose. I dream not of them, my beloved, the flame of the meteor that goes, Or the flame of the blue star that lingers, hung low in the fall of the dew. For I would we were changed to white birds, on the wandering foam, I and you. I am haunted by numberless islands, and many a donned shore, Where time would surely forget us, and sorrow come near us no more. Soon far from the rose and the lily, and fret of the flames would we be, Were we only white birds, my beloved, buoyed out on the foam of the sea. And I were a blackbird, I twist so and sing, And I follow the ship, that my true love sailed in. And on the top rifting, I ferret my nest, And I pillow my head, on this sinking white breast. I am a young angel, and my story is sad, For once I was courted, by a brave sailor lad. He courted me truly, by night and by day, But now he has left me, and gone far away. And I were a blackbird, I twist so and sing, And I follow the ship, that my true love sailed in. And on the top rifting, I ferret my nest, And I pillow my head, on this living white breast. He promised to take me, to darn me for fair, To buy me red ribbons, to tie up my hair, And when he'd return from the ocean so wide, He'd take me and make me his own loving bride. If I were a blackbird, I twist so and sing, And I follow the ship, that my true love sailed in. And on the top rifting, I ferret my nest, And I pillow my head, on this living white breast. His parents say slightly, and will not agree, That I and my sailor boy, are really to be. But when he comes home, I will greet him with joy, And I'll say to my bosom, my dear sailor boy, If I were a blackbird, I twist so and sing, And I follow the ship, that my true love sailed in. And on the top rifting, I ferret my nest, And I pillow my head, on this living white breast. If I were a blackbird If I were a blackbird If I were a blackbird If I were a blackbird If I were a blackbird If I were a blackbird If I were a blackbird If I were a blackbird If I were a blackbird If I were a blackbird If I were a blackbird If I were a blackbird If I were a blackbird If I were a blackbird If I were a blackbird If I were a blackbird If I were a blackbird If I were a blackbird Even in the dim and the dark cloths, Of night and light and half-light, I would spread the cloths under your feet, But I, being poor, have only my dreams. I would spread my dreams under your feet, Thread softly, because you thread on my dreams. A Star Fell From Heaven A star fell from heaven Right into my arms A brighter star, I know I Never see Then I found out that it was only you And all your charms Who came into my life To fill a dream A fallen star That's what you are A twinkle in your eye Came from the sky You must have strayed From the milky way A fallen star That's what you are A fallen star That's what you are That twinkle in your eye Came from the sky You must have strayed You must have strayed From the milky way A fallen star That's what you are A fallen star Two Beautiful Sisters, Eva and Constance Dennis Craven will read In memory of Eva Gorebooth and Con Markievicz In memory of Eva Gorebooth and Contus Markievicz This is a beautiful memory poem by Yeats He wrote this in 1927 And the two girls in the poem The two Gorebooth girls are dead One of them has died in 1926 And the other has died in 1927 And Yeats, who knew those two girls A way back in 1894 and 1895 When he used to visit this Adele house in Sligo Is remembering them long ago It's a beautiful memory poem It's also about the ravages of time About the destructive power of time The setting of the poem You all know Lissadell House There are beautiful pictures here And there's a beautiful metaphor here Of a raving autumn Sheers blossom from the summer's wreath A beautiful metaphor to convey The whole transience of youth and beauty And the destructive power of time The light of evening Lissadell Great windows open to the south Two girls in silk kimonos Both beautiful One a gazelle But a raving autumn Sheers blossom from the summer's wreath The older is condemned to death Pardoned Drags out lonely years Conspiring among the ignorant I know not what the younger dreams Some vague utopia And she seems When withered, old and skeleton-gaunt An image of such politics Many a time I think To seek out one or the other And speak of that old Georgian mansion Mix pictures of the mind Recall that table and the talk of youth Two girls in silk kimonos Both beautiful One a gazelle Dear shadows, now you know it all All the folly of a fight With the common wrong or right The innocent and the beautiful Have no enemy but time Arise and bid me strike a match And strike another till time catch Should the conflagrations climb Run till all the sages know We the great gazebo built They convicted us of guilt Bid me strike a match and blow 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la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la I remember singing songs and drinking wine while your eyes played games with mine On days like these I wonder what became of you Maybe today you're singing songs with someone new Questi giorni quando viene il bel sole la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la jeremy wilder will read broken dreams as we get older we of course have more memories and when we get even older we have even more memories this poem by yates is called broken dreams there is gray in your hair young men no longer suddenly catch their breath when you're passing but maybe some old gaffer mutters a blessing because it was your prayer recovered him upon the bed of death for your soul's sake that all heartache have known and given to others all heartache from meager girlhoods putting on burdensome beauty for your soul's sake heaven has put away the stroke of her doom so that her portion in that peace you make by merely walking in a room your beauty can but leave among us vague memories nothing but memories a young man when the old men had done talking will say to an old man tell me of that lady the poet stubborn with his passion sang us when age might well have chilled his blood but in the grave all all shall be renewed the certainty that i shall see that lady leaning or standing or walking in the first loveliness of womanhood and with the fervor of my youthful eyes has set me muttering like a fool you are more beautiful than anyone and yet your body had a flaw your small hands were not beautiful and i'm afraid that you will run and paddle to the wrist in that mysterious always brimming lake where those that have obeyed the holy law paddle and are perfect leave unchanged the hands that i have kissed for old sake's sake the last stroke of midnight dies all day in the one chair from dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme i've ranged in rambling talk with an image of air vague memories nothing but memories the violets were standing when i first said i loved only you you and you said you loved only me me through the glades nora the robin sang loud from the tree when i first said i loved only you you you love only me the golden rose is when i first said i loved only you you and you you love only me the birds in the trees sang a song of how that i loved only you nora and you said you loved only me our hopes they have never come true nora our dreams were never to be seen since i first said i loved only you and you said you loved only me and that was johnny mackavoy with nora yates as we know spent many holidays in sligo his mother's native place so he had been very familiar with all the stories and lore of fairy folk and legends about children being lured away to fairyland from a world more full of weeping than you can understand mary faherty will read the stolen child the poem the stolen child is one of yates more notable early poems and is about fairies tempting a child to come away with them i've always loved the childhood imagery in the poem it shows the world to be a very exciting vibrant place and i remember as a child trying to visualize fairyland and the fun the child would have had there the stolen child by william butler yates where it dips the rocky highland of sleuthwood in the lake there lies a leafy island where flapping herons wake the drowsy water rats there we've hid our fairy vats full of berries and of reddest stolen cherries come away oh human child to the waters and the wild with a fairy hand in hand for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand where the wave of moonlight glosses the dim gray sands with slight far off by furthest drosses we footed all the night weaving old incenses mingling hands and mingling glances till the moon has taken flight to and fro we leap and chase the frothy bubbles while the world is full of troubles and anxious in its sleep come away oh human child to the waters and the wild with a fairy hand in hand for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand where the wandering water gushes from the hills above glencar in pools among the rushes that scarce could bale a star we seek for slumbering trout and whispering in their ears give them unquiet dreams leaning softly out from ferns that drop their tears over the young streams come away oh human child to the waters and the wild with a fairy hand in hand for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand away with us he's going the solemn eyed he'll hear no more the lowing of the calf on the warm hillside or the kettle on the hob sing peace into his breast or see the brown light bob round and round the oatmeal chest for he comes the human child to the waters in the wild with a fairy hand in hand from a world more full of weeping than he can understand children are people who live in a land made of raindrops and puddles and pebbles and streams solemnly watching a twig as it sails on a clear crystal pool to an island of dreams of raindrops and puddles and pebbles and streams solemnly watching a twig as it sails on a clear crystal pool to an island of dreams there go a pair who have just built a city of mud and it's real they know that mud doesn't look very pretty but oh how it feels this little boy greets the snow with a smile oh that little girl has discovered an isle made up of pillows one little fellow is friends with the wind in the willows all of them children and all our mysterious people i can remember when i was a boy that my bed was a ship that i sailed through the night and i remember the world as a place that was eager and loving and shiny and bright where is the boy who was friends with the rainbow and once rode upon where is that shy and mysterious person oh where have i gone i can remember i once said my prayer but now i stand by while my children say they're watching them kneeling and i could cry that one day they'll forget all that they're feeling oh what a shame that our children should grow into people that was val dunegan with mysterious people in the poem entitled the fisherman we see yates's ideal man a far cry from the type of people he scathingly attacks in the poem september 1913 the fisherman yates's dream man is wise and simple cold and passionate cold representing the head and passionate representing the heart a perfect blending of heart and head and occupied in a peaceful way close to nature and far away from the world of commerce and worldly ambition so here is frank cleary reading his favorite yates poem the fisherman i've chosen the poem the fisherman by wb yates it's one of my favorite yates poems i learned it in school of course many years ago and i had no idea then that i would find myself teaching the poem over a long period of time decades in fact i've always liked it because of its honesty its energy and its fierce sense of determination and resolve the honesty of the poem shines through in the poet's contempt for the new emerging irish middle class of the time that is in the early years of the 20th century when the playboy of the western world was booed off the stage of the abbey theatre when hugh lane's gift of paintings was rejected by dublin city council and when yates's own work as a writer and poet was belittled undaunted by this yates determines to write for an idealized audience who will appreciate great art 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 to 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 12 months 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 under frost and the downturn 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 if you ever go across the sea to ireland it may be at the closing of your day you sit and watch the moon rise over clatter and see the sun go down and go away just to hear again the ripple of the trout stream the women in the meadows making hay are to sit beside a tough fire in a cabin and watch the barefoot gossels at their play for the breeze is blowing across the sea from ireland our perfume by the heather as they blow and the women in the upland digging prairie speak a language that the stranger do not know but the strangers came and tried to teach us the way they scorned us just for being what we are but they might as well go chasing after moonbeams i'll light a penny candle from a star and if there's going to be a life hereafter and somehow i am sure there's going to be i'll ask my god to let me make my heaven in that dear land across the irish sea and Galway Bay was sung here by Frank Carney and it's from the Connemara Community Radio CD Come by the Hills. We've come to the end of this special Yates Poetry Program and if you would like to read your favorite Yates poem on this program we'd be delighted to hear from you. Just contact the radio at 095 41616 and we'll be very happy to record you and to take us to the end of the program we listen to Clare Flaherty with the Sally Gardens and Shona Flaherty on keyboard. And this is taken from the Connemara Community Radio CD Come by the Hills. But they, and young and foolish, withdrew, would not agree. In a field by the river, my love and I did stand. And on my leaning shoulder, she laid her snow-white hand. She bid me take light, she'd be as the grass grows on the hill. But I was young and foolish, and now I'm full of tears. Come by the Sally Gardens, my love and I did meet. She passed the Sally Gardens with her little snow-white feet. She bid me take love, he'd be as the leaves grow on the tree. But I'd be young and foolish, withdrew, would not agree. Well, we've come to the end of the program for this week. Thanks to all who contributed. Thanks to Bridie for her technical assistance. And thank you at home for listening. Please tune in again next week, same time, to the West Wind Blows. Bye for now. We've come to the end of the program for this week. Thanks to all who contributed. Thanks to Bridie for her technical assistance. Thanks at home for listening. Please tune in again next week, same time, to the West Wind Blows. And thank you at home for listening. Bye for now. This program is kindly sponsored by Bounce Back Recycling. Say goodbye to your old furniture and mattress in an affordable, convenient and sustainable way. Call 091-760-877.