Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Glendalough

 
Glendalough

All around, the dead, they lay
In hillocks green, ‘neath mossy stone,
Unmarked, untold, forgotten now;
The trial, the strife, unmourned, unknown.
Interred here, the babe, the wife,
Sarah, Peg and Maryanne,
These least, they dwell among the best,
The ancient lords, the highest man,
Whose weathered crests, now ivy mocked,
Defeated stones on hummocks fall.
The honored place of weeds and green,
By nature claimed, is shared by all
In Glendalough, where servants lay
Aside of saints and lords and stones,
As all shall come to rest one day
Amid the ancient hills of  home.

12 comments:

  1. Definitely has that Irish mourning air feel to it... very lovely! Is this where you're at now?

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  2. Beautiful, musical, great job Karen.

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  3. I could be buried there but seeing as I have no intention on being buried anywhere that anyone will know if there is as good a place as any.

    I liked the meter presented and the remembering the forgotten of times long past.

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  4. Sad, ral, outstanding... but in the long chain there is always somone who does not forget...

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  5. Death is certainly egalitarian - your poem is a lovely reminder of that.

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  6. I was there as you found history hidden in the moss and the mist, and brought to life a poem. Oblivious, I (and all the others there) jostled for the memorable photo that will quickly fade in some dark drawer.

    You amaze.
    Love,
    s

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  7. Karen, this is lovely and lyrical! Reading through each line, my mind went immediately to a melody. I could imagine playing this on my harp.

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  8. I've never walked in this cemetery, Karin, but your poem made me feel as if I was right there.

    So beautifully written!

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  9. geez karen, only you can make a graveyard beautiful and full of life.
    rick

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  10. wow, it does have a rhythm to it, as someone mentioned above.
    i especially liked that you included actual names of some of the deceased.
    very beautiful.

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  11. it was a beautiful read with the right touch of sentiments,facts and apt words.

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  12. Methinks you be channeling long-dead poets here and it be beautiful...

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