What is World Poetry Day?
March 21st was adopted as World Poetry Day by Unesco in 1999 to celebrate the enduring power of poetry to inspire and unite people across the world. It is a celebration of the unique ability of poetry to capture emotions, tell stories, and inspire change. This annual event aims to promote the reading, writing, and teaching of poetry.
Poetry and the Ancient Celts
In Ireland, throughout history poets have been celebrated and respected. Ancient stories depict them as powerful figures, revered for their skills and held in high regard by the Celtic nations, who had a deep appreciation for oral tradition and storytelling. It was seen as a means to preserve history and pass down traditions.
The Recovery of the Tain
‘The Recovery of the Tain’ from the Book of Leinster (ca 1160) is essentially a story about storytelling, poets, and their importance to the Irish people and the dangers of celebrity.
The main character in this famous Irish legend is Fergus, whose ghost appears by an Ogham stone, a type of standing stone found throughout the Celtic nations. Sometimes they have carvings along the side which are one of the oldest forms of writing, in most cases the carvings relate to names. Fergus in old Irish is Vergoso, which is written from the bottom to top along the edge of the stone.
It means ‘strength’.
Click here to see our bronze sculpture of an Ogham stone. Below is the story that inspired it, beautifully retold for us by local historian and author, Kevin Johnston.
"IN DAYS LONG GONE, AT A TIME THAT IS LONG PAST, GUAIRE, THE KING OF CONNACHT, HOSTED A HUGE GATHERING OF POETS. THE KING WAS FAMED FOR HIS GENEROSITY, BUT THIS GATHERING WAS TESTING HIS GOODWILL; THEY ATE AND DRANK EVERYTHING THEY SAW.
Now even in the hardest of times, poetry is regarded as a treasure by the Irish, but these poets had abused their position. The King’s brother Marban, annoyed that the poets’ demands and appetite had included his favourite pig, resolved to discredit them.
He declared that his servant’s wife’s grandmother was a poet’s great grandchild. Even with this remote connection to the art, he showed he knew more than all the other poets. He asked them questions they couldn’t answer and for performances they couldn’t deliver. Finally, he challenged them, ‘tell the most famous and celebrated Irish story, The Tain bo Cuilange’. There was a long silence. Then the poets had to admit that no one knew more than a few fragments. The story had been lost.
The chief bard, Sanchan Torpiest, resolved to recover the story, and the honour of the poets. The story had been written down in Ogham and taken by a bard to Italy. A band of Sanchan’s followers, and his son Muirgen, set off to seek this bard. They stopped for the night at Enloch in Connacht. Muirgen, exhausted, asked the others to go on and find a place to stay while he rested against a large stone. Alone, Muirgen noticed carving on the stone. The strokes and lines of Ogham spelled out the name of Fergus Mac Roich, hero of the Tain.
The companions returned to fetch Muirgen, they found the stone encircled in dense fog, so cold they could barely breathe. They tried to reach their friend but became confused and arrived back outside the wall of fog.
In three days the fog receded. Then they found Muirgen, elated. He told them Fergus Mac Roich had appeared to him, dressed in a green cloak over a red tunic with a great sword that had a pommel of bronze. The spirit of Fergus had told Muirgen the whole story of The Tain, calling up other long forgotten players to bear witness.
The band of poets returned and a crowd gathered to hear the story. The hall was perfectly still as Muirgen conjured up the Tain; they could hear Cuchulain’s war cry, smell the fires of battle, feel the cold steel of weapons, and they could taste the salt of Deirdre’s tears.
The story survives to this day, written down by the monks of Clonmacnoise."
for David Keys
The flash of ash
in this bone-bare winter hedge
is in pitch-perfect key.
Birch bark tatters
flutter, fan-dancers
to a rag-time rhythm.
In the centre
the fairy thorn jigs in time
to a wayward wind.
And the willow droops
wind-whipped, cross-limbed, swaying
in a soft-shoe shuffle.