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Faith (Free verse) by Dovina The drama of weather
for people of the land
city folk seldom understand
Itâs the drama of life
of potato death in 1846
of wet sods beside a cold house in â04
of essential gardens dying dry
Pray for rain, we ask the priest
who says he will
but not until the wind is in the south
Now the clouds look cumbersome
not like they find it fun
to skid across the sky
Yet for all their solid look
the south wind buffets them
so at times brilliant sun flashes through
And the priest prays
But the clouds pass on
delivering their favors to County Clare
The priest could not be certain
after all
South wind can be mistaken
Up the ladder:
Kiss Me
Down the ladder:
Crop Circle
Votes: (green: user, blue: anonymous)
Arithmetic Mean: 7.111111
Posted: August 22, 2004 4:57 PM PDT; Last modified: August 22, 2004 4:57 PM PDTWeighted score: 6.0555553 Overall Rank: 1202 Comments:
[10]
Stephen Robins @ 213.146.148.199
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23-Aug-04/4:06 AM
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Reply
Fuck the Irish and skidding clouds. Everytime I read your words I want to dry-hump your leg until I wear my ridge off.
[n/a]
Dovina @ 24.52.157.176
> Stephen Robins
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23-Aug-04/9:07 AM
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Reply
I'm laughing a bit and taking this as a compliment.
[10]
Stephen Robins @ 195.92.198.74
> Dovina
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24-Aug-04/6:19 AM
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Reply
Are you really?
[n/a]
Dovina @ 17.255.240.138
> Stephen Robins
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25-Aug-04/5:13 PM
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Reply
Yes really. Somebody noticed that somebody wrote this thing, and that is far better than nobody noticing and nobody writing.
I thought the potato famine was caused by potato blight, not drought. If your poeme does indeed turn out to be historically inaccurate, I do hope you will withdraw it from poemeranker.
Sincerely yours, Cornelius Bum
Gerald Bumflange in his widely respected tome, "The Irish had it coming" has refuted previous works by Grenville Cheesehead whom had argued in his seminal work "Bogtrotters, Blights and Blarney" that the Irish were the architects of their own misfortune owing to their dependence on chips. Bumflange argued that if the English overlords has repeeled the smash laws of 1813, which as any historian knows forbade the Irish dried potato subsitute, the whole ghastly famine could have been avoided. Norman Gash in is underated but oververbed book "What have the Irish ever given us except tinkers?" stated that it was all a Fiennan plot to make generations feel sorry for the Irish for being hungry. In summary I beleieve that Bismarck did successfully use a policy of "Blood and Iron" to unite Germany.
The most likely cause of the potato famine of the 1840's was overcrowding. The farms had been divided into such small sizes that the poor farmers planted closer and closer just to get enough money to survive, making their crops more susceptible to disease. Then when the blight came in the 1840's, aggravated by a spell of bad weather, or vice versa, the result was a million people dead of starvation and another 1.5 million leaving for the US and elsewhere. How is this relevant to my poem?
Why are the Irish peasants praying for rain? Are you talking about a fictional drought which is totally unrelated to the potato famine? Nice one.
Early this summer, in the southwest of Ireland, rains did not fall in their usual abundance and the Catholic farmers prayed for rain or asked their priests to. This was unrelated to the potato famine except in the ageless dependence on rain, enough rain, not too much rain, of farmers who do not irrigate and have traditionally trusted their gods and priests.
I'm surprised nobody complained about the line, "of wet sods beside a cold house in â04" Now there's a line that cries out for mudslinging.
Ha ha.
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