I wish I could write lyrical poems, but I just write the way they come.
Category Archive: Irish
My father was a creature of the archaic world, really. He would have been entirely at home in a Gaelic hill-fort. His side of the family, and the houses I associate with his side of the family, belonged to a traditional rural Ireland.
I think that water is immediately interesting. It’s just, as an element, it is full of life. It is associated with origin; it is bright – it reflects you.
Malice is only another name for mediocrity.
Conscience is a coward, and those faults it has not strength enough to prevent it seldom has justice enough to accuse.
Women are at once the guardians and the well-spring of the world’s faith, morality, and tenderness; and if ever they are degraded to a commonplace level with men, this fine essential quality will be impaired, and their weakness will have to beg and follow where now it guides and controls.
There is nothing as dead and as damned as an important thing. The things that really matter are casual, insignificant little things.
Cast your mind on other days that we in coming days may be still the indomitable Irishry.
If you have a trust in and an expectation of your own solitude, everything that you need to know will be revealed to you.
Anyone born and bred in Northern Ireland can’t be too optimistic.