45

Ireland, a photo by photomaker.pl on Flickr.

HAD I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. 

by William Butler Yeats

One of my favorite types of literature is the poem. Oh, not just any old poem. No, I want a poem that is full of angst and misery. I want a tragedy, a metaphorical blubbering drunk in a pub of a Saturday night. Give me a sad song and I will make it the most interesting piece of literature on God's green earth. Or at least I'll talk about it until you agree with me that it is the best poem on God's green earth.

Poetry is a Monarch Butterfly. Poetry has no useful purpose but oh how it makes our lives so rich and full of meaning. We can take a poem and roll the words around on our tongues and taste the sweet nectar of our dreams. Those same dreams that W.B.Yeats implores that we regard with carefully trod feet.

Poetry is also my favorite type of literature to write. I sometimes feel as if I might have that Irish Gift of Gab, because I know how to draw out a mournful extended metaphor and shake that tree of personification until it screams in agony.

So on this Saint Patrick's Day, grab a book of Irish verse (or just go Google some) and celebrate with some old fashioned Craic~reading.

Mrs. Etheridge