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> W.B. Yeats, It would take better than me to describe.
Terocon101
post Jun 18 07, 12:57
Post #1


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Real Name: Terry O C
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Referred By:Ephiny



William Butler Yeats

(1865-1939), Nobel Prize winning Irish dramatist, author and poet was born on 13 June 1865 in the seaside village of Sandymount in County Dublin, Ireland. As one of the founders of the Irish Literary Revival, Yeat's works draw heavily on Irish mythology and history.


For me personally he was my first, they say you never forget your first. And for the rest of my life, as I do now, I'm sure I will compare all those poets that follow to the standard of W.B.Yeats.

When I started secondary school 'The Lake Isle of Inisfree' was the first poem I had to memorize.
I remember a very grumpy 13 year old boy, pulling out a "stupid" poetry textbook, while outside his friends were playing in the last sunshiny rays of our childhood .
All you could hear from my parents at that time was "Terry, things are gonna get serious now, you gotta knuckle down". And so I sat there, longing to arise and go out into that sunshine but condemned to an evening with this bloody Yeats fella.

You can imagine my pleasant surprise when I began to read and learned that Mr. Yeats felt exactly the same way I did.

I never did learn that poem because ever since I haven't been able to forget it.

Terry

Ma chara.






The Lake Isle of Inisfree


I WILL arise and go now,
And go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there,
Of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there,
A hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there,
For peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning
To where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer,
And noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now,
For always night and day
I hear lake water lapping,
With low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway,
Or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.







When living in London, Yeats was often homesick for Ireland, of which this poem 'The Lake Isle of Innisfree' was one of the results.


·······IPB·······

Terry


light
lights
light

--Raymond Rosliep


"The imagination imitates. It is the critical spirit that creates."

--Oscar Wilde

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Ephiny
post Jun 19 07, 06:00
Post #2


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Member No.: 41
Real Name: Lucie
Writer of: Poetry & Prose



Hi Terry and everyone,

Yeats is my favourite poet as well, and my favourite poem of his is "No Second Troy" which I quote from in my signature here!! But I love so many of his poems, it's almost too difficult to choose a favourite. I remember learning "The Lake Isle of Inishfree" off by heart at school as well..wasn't too impressed at first! But then in secondary school, I had a fabulous teacher for english..she was just about to retire so I was lucky to have her for a year and she loved all poetry, but especially Yeats and I think her love for it was just contagious..really the mark of a good teacher, I guess. Yeats has so many lines that just stick with you..unforgettable!!

Lucie


·······IPB·······

Lucie

"What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?"
WB Yeats "No Second Troy"

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Terocon101
post Jun 26 07, 20:58
Post #3


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Joined: 28-May 07
From: Co. Galway, Ireland
Member No.: 440
Real Name: Terry O C
Writer of: Poetry
Referred By:Ephiny



The Hosting of the Sidhe


THE HOST is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare;
Caolte tossing his burning hair
And Niamh calling Away, come away:
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam,
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the deed of his hand,
We come between him and the hope of his heart.
The host is rushing ’twixt night and day,
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caolte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away.


·······IPB·······

Terry


light
lights
light

--Raymond Rosliep


"The imagination imitates. It is the critical spirit that creates."

--Oscar Wilde

MM Award Winner
 
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