Poem
The following poem is set in Drumnacanvy, based on the Night of the Big Wind:
It came and it came and it came,
Like all the devil's bellows loosed out of hell,
Howlin' and screamin' and cuttin' an callin.'
It came and came, and came upon Drumnacanvy.
The day a-fore was flat calm and quiet
Not a rush or bush or wisp of smoke
Either swayed or wafted, and words spoke in whispers.
A grave foreboding' ta them that lived in Drumnacanvy
Just after the children were pit ta' bed
The breeze first and then the wind started blowin'
Tossing and gusting and comin' on steady.
Soon all was a blur and a whirl around Drumnacanvy.
The fire was clamped doon and the lights pit out
As that winter night's gale gathered in.
A storm they were sure off, but sure it might pass
Pass bye and over the homes of Drumnacanvy.
But nay sleep was had for ony that night,
As the devil's wind kept churnin'
Screechin' in over bog and field
Reaching and tearing at the very heart of Drumnacanvy
Fear gripped all like the devil's own grip
As now this screeching terror bate them.
Takin' the very thatch frae o'er their heeds
Twain thrashed wi' the haggard com of Drumnacanvy
Who might say in this life he has ever met his maker,
Or indeed has ever crossed the path of Satan's works of evil.
That night as terror took its stand
Both were met on common ground, by the people of Drumnacanvy
At dawn of day when shaken men surveyed the scenes around
Only desolation, inhabitation, and sure starvation
Was seen across the measured ground
Where once stood the homes and barns and farms of Drumnacanvy.
Aye! Surely the devil fought that night wi' The God of heaven
And God stayed not his mighty hand in torrent, rain, and thunder.
Never again does common man want to see their titanic struggles,
As he thinks upon the all forlorn, that plundered land of Drumnacanvy.
Read more about this topic: Drumnacanvy
Famous quotes containing the word poem:
“The poem goes from the poet’s gibberish to
The gibberish of the vulgate and back again.
Does it move to and fro or is it of both
At once? Is it a luminous flittering
Or the concentration of a cloudy day?”
—Wallace Stevens (1879–1955)
“From this the poem springs: that we live in a place
That is not our own and, much more, not ourselves
And hard it is in spite of blazoned days.”
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“The true poem is not that which the public read. There is always a poem not printed on paper,... in the poet’s life. It is what he has become through his work. Not how is the idea expressed in stone, or on canvas or paper, is the question, but how far it has obtained form and expression in the life of the artist. His true work will not stand in any prince’s gallery.”
—Henry David Thoreau (1817–1862)