"Cuchulain Against the Tide"
"Cuchulain's Fight With the Sea"
by W. B. Yeats]
Winding away one day from sunset came young Conlai, step by step
Until at last the darkest gloom of Emer settled in him heavily,
As she sat hunched and dyeing there her robes, for tan a blood-red brown.
He offered her his settled question: "Yes, I return from pens of swine
Where you yourself have kept me out, these long and many years
In sweat, and soil -- alone between the forest floors and naked seas.
Then Emer dropped the dangled net of robes stained dark as wine,
And it collapsed, a heap across the stones;
She gestured out, with arms as red as any deadly blade,
And cried aloud, as from a wound, her lips turned taut and glazed.
Young Conlai watched her face again as he had once watched swine.
"No one has a name quite like my very father!
Not one dead can boast his treasures; not one living dares to try.
His wagons cart that gold about behind a hundred chariots
Made glorious and fierce for robberies and rape!"
"Then tell me son, my son! If he's so mighty
Why would you grow pale, and shake?
Oh, I can tell a nervous grasping!
What could make you bristle so,
and tremble now enraged?"
At this he fell down with his face, and buried it in mottled cloth,
A heap dropped to the net as wet as tears on broken lips.
"He's got a girl, another beauty!
And sweeter than a Mourning Dove,
And soft as any whisper!"
"You left your pigs to come and throw a challenge in my face?!"
Her reddened fingers drew to fists and struck down at his back,
And bitter raging words flew mixed, with utter, cold contempt.
"Oh look at you now, little boy! My son the swineherd in the dirt,
A waste of days and nights alone these years with sows and cows!
That's not a life for anyone, not you my son, or anyone."
"But all along you've known it so; you knew it mother, while I languished.
How come now, why now?! You knew -- and never cared to change an hour!"
"Oh, but I remembered you, and how your arms grew sturdy son,
And heavy, out beneath the stars in barren country.
Gray old Cuchulain is ripe to die. Today he'll pay for his abandon!"
"Have you forgotten all his army standing ready dawn to dawn,
The hundred chariots he rolls in swift attack, as starlight wanes?"
"Oh, but you could take him, surely, look at you,
A man grown taller, yes, than fearsome Cuchulain -- it's true!"
"And he is still alive, for that. He towers still alive,
Throughout the night, and every bloody day we waste."
"He's so much older now and tired of fighting, slower on the kill and lazy --
Not quite matched for you on foot, or horse, or even chariot!"
"Then you must tell me where he's gone to hide from me.
You're sure to know it, mother -- sure to know! He hides,
And never dreamed of us you know,
But turned his back instead on those he made so bloody clever."
"Travel Conlai, west along the shore, past swine this time,
And find the waves come crashing down like horses drawing chariots of rage,
And then, turn north and march to trees, old trees that weave a forest there.
Light up a fire -- your fire, and wait; and set yourself a hunter's tent, and camp.
If anyone you meet in woods should ever want to know your name,
My son, you must not speak it, Swear! You'll tell your name to none
Who cannot take it, with your life, from you by piercing sword!
And that is how they'll know the other for you then,
Who pledged the same Geis years ago.
And yes, they'll rouse him feasting from a company of pleasure!"
Where Red Branch warriors camping near the tides made feast,
Old Cuchulain retired in pleasure, a draught of honey mead at hand,
And on his thigh the softest head of hair that ever rested.
There his Mourning Dove sat kneeling sweetly at his side,
And gazed up to his eyes in wistful wonder,
To all the broken bronze, and tragic blues.
She understood his journey well, and powers bound to passion.
And on the harp string Conchubar the King himself made songs of gratitude,
And hailed his hero Cuchulain as warrior of them all.
Then Cuchulain in satisfaction idly formed aloud a riddle:
"Who exactly is this one camped at a wood not far away?
He hunts so close I hear the bow that makes a rabbit dinner,
But he snaps that bow like warriors will, who snap their bows awaiting battle.
And something's odd about that song he sings by firelight in the night,
A song of many ages lost, and other strange, resentful tunes.
So why would he be any worry? Oh, and surely none, it's true --
But find out someone, who it is -- I want to know."
From many eager warriors armed, a single one was sent;
And later when he came, he gave account:
Except, that is, to one who holds a sharp blade at his throat.
And further still, he claims a lie, that someone deep among us here,
Will boast unduly, swearing too his promise there and then:
His Geis, the very same invention!"
"Oh right! Well, that could only come to him with me in mind!"
Barked Cuchulain, and suddenly: "Sure! That's my Oath from boyhood on,
And no one else's! Not one other! That's my Geis and Promise sworn the days!"
So Cuchulain went out to battle, found the sturdy snot at camp,
And wordlessly, they set their mettle, striking swords and grimacing!
But woods are pleasant in the sun; and Cuchulain stepped back, at respite.
"Well, what's the bloody matter, son? Can't get the girls, or won't you?
No, you don't seem to understand, it's better in the arms of love --
Far better than the battlegrounds I've burned: a woman's arms!
They bring a valiant soldier simple peace.
Or did you only come today, to die this day, for nothing --
To slap me on my face, and have me kill you sure and true?
Then are you ready sir, for dirt and graves and ash,
And all the nights that come and last forever?"
"God alone can set the day and hour for men like you to die.
He hides that little place from you, but one day there you are."
"I loved a woman once whose head was filled with lines like that!"
Then flames of hate awakened in the pit of Cuchulain;
Again into their struggle each returned, intending final glory for the one alone!
His old sword found a hestitation in the younger one at last,
And breaking through it, cut into the younger warrior's life.
"Now, tell me son, your name, for all your breath is worth!"
"It's Cuchulain -- the same as yours! Your son, forever called by father's name."
"My son; my name! I'll cut this moment short as I can for you,
But nothing else, I know. I know!"
Sunset seemed to pass the heavy chains of sorrow on to twilight,
While Cuchulain remained in state, collapsed and doubled down.
So Conchubar soon brought the woman Cuchulain had loved to love,
His mourning love, as sweet as tender feathers of a little quail.
She held him close, and gently brushed his strands of long gray hair;
Her lovely breast she bared to him for comfort, then to call him back.
But nothing of her precious living graces
Brought him up from anger at that solitary grave.
Conchubar, the Red Branch king, could see the shadows of tomorrow;
He lined up druids row by row: one hundred druids faithful ever.
And then, he gave them these, his words of strict instruction:
"For three days more, alone and lost, will Cuchulain remain,
Stone ominous, in silent night, and helpless in the rain.
And he will then awaken mad, and take to us his blades,
And kill us one and all, my friends, in seething blinded rage.
So, you must sing my song to him, and sing it all these days;
A mystic song of war it is, to redirect his gaze
Away to sea, to mighty horses, magic horses of the waves!
Those songs the druids chanted held their mysteries beneath the droning;
His spell they sowed hypnotically, a song of three days turning.
And out of total blackness then came Cuchulain the mighty,
To thundrous sounds of horses pulling chariots of rage.
And came the cry of "Cuchulain!",
A roar beyond the horses.
As tides approached the shore again in crashing ocean surf,
There Cuchulain saw battles come, and bravely --
Netted bravely so, unto the quiet earth!
"Cuchulain's Fight With the Sea"
by W. B. Yeats]
Winding away one day from sunset came young Conlai, step by step
Until at last the darkest gloom of Emer settled in him heavily,
As she sat hunched and dyeing there her robes, for tan a blood-red brown.
He offered her his settled question: "Yes, I return from pens of swine
Where you yourself have kept me out, these long and many years
In sweat, and soil -- alone between the forest floors and naked seas.
I won't go back! I'm done with that!
I'm not a swineherd from today!"Then Emer dropped the dangled net of robes stained dark as wine,
And it collapsed, a heap across the stones;
She gestured out, with arms as red as any deadly blade,
And cried aloud, as from a wound, her lips turned taut and glazed.
Young Conlai watched her face again as he had once watched swine.
"No one has a name quite like my very father!
Not one dead can boast his treasures; not one living dares to try.
His wagons cart that gold about behind a hundred chariots
Made glorious and fierce for robberies and rape!"
"Then tell me son, my son! If he's so mighty
Why would you grow pale, and shake?
Oh, I can tell a nervous grasping!
What could make you bristle so,
and tremble now enraged?"
At this he fell down with his face, and buried it in mottled cloth,
A heap dropped to the net as wet as tears on broken lips.
"He's got a girl, another beauty!
And sweeter than a Mourning Dove,
And soft as any whisper!"
"You left your pigs to come and throw a challenge in my face?!"
Her reddened fingers drew to fists and struck down at his back,
And bitter raging words flew mixed, with utter, cold contempt.
"Oh look at you now, little boy! My son the swineherd in the dirt,
A waste of days and nights alone these years with sows and cows!
That's not a life for anyone, not you my son, or anyone."
"But all along you've known it so; you knew it mother, while I languished.
How come now, why now?! You knew -- and never cared to change an hour!"
"Oh, but I remembered you, and how your arms grew sturdy son,
And heavy, out beneath the stars in barren country.
Gray old Cuchulain is ripe to die. Today he'll pay for his abandon!"
"Have you forgotten all his army standing ready dawn to dawn,
The hundred chariots he rolls in swift attack, as starlight wanes?"
"Oh, but you could take him, surely, look at you,
A man grown taller, yes, than fearsome Cuchulain -- it's true!"
"And he is still alive, for that. He towers still alive,
Throughout the night, and every bloody day we waste."
"He's so much older now and tired of fighting, slower on the kill and lazy --
Not quite matched for you on foot, or horse, or even chariot!"
"Then you must tell me where he's gone to hide from me.
You're sure to know it, mother -- sure to know! He hides,
And never dreamed of us you know,
But turned his back instead on those he made so bloody clever."
"Travel Conlai, west along the shore, past swine this time,
And find the waves come crashing down like horses drawing chariots of rage,
And then, turn north and march to trees, old trees that weave a forest there.
Light up a fire -- your fire, and wait; and set yourself a hunter's tent, and camp.
If anyone you meet in woods should ever want to know your name,
My son, you must not speak it, Swear! You'll tell your name to none
Who cannot take it, with your life, from you by piercing sword!
And that is how they'll know the other for you then,
Who pledged the same Geis years ago.
And yes, they'll rouse him feasting from a company of pleasure!"
Where Red Branch warriors camping near the tides made feast,
Old Cuchulain retired in pleasure, a draught of honey mead at hand,
And on his thigh the softest head of hair that ever rested.
There his Mourning Dove sat kneeling sweetly at his side,
And gazed up to his eyes in wistful wonder,
To all the broken bronze, and tragic blues.
Her spirit flowed as Springtime glows,
A respite for the weary stars in ancient constellation.She understood his journey well, and powers bound to passion.
And on the harp string Conchubar the King himself made songs of gratitude,
And hailed his hero Cuchulain as warrior of them all.
Then Cuchulain in satisfaction idly formed aloud a riddle:
"Who exactly is this one camped at a wood not far away?
He hunts so close I hear the bow that makes a rabbit dinner,
But he snaps that bow like warriors will, who snap their bows awaiting battle.
And something's odd about that song he sings by firelight in the night,
A song of many ages lost, and other strange, resentful tunes.
So why would he be any worry? Oh, and surely none, it's true --
But find out someone, who it is -- I want to know."
From many eager warriors armed, a single one was sent;
And later when he came, he gave account:
"He wants it known by anyone
That he will never speak his name -- a solemn oath he's sworn --Except, that is, to one who holds a sharp blade at his throat.
And further still, he claims a lie, that someone deep among us here,
Will boast unduly, swearing too his promise there and then:
His Geis, the very same invention!"
"Oh right! Well, that could only come to him with me in mind!"
Barked Cuchulain, and suddenly: "Sure! That's my Oath from boyhood on,
And no one else's! Not one other! That's my Geis and Promise sworn the days!"
So Cuchulain went out to battle, found the sturdy snot at camp,
And wordlessly, they set their mettle, striking swords and grimacing!
But woods are pleasant in the sun; and Cuchulain stepped back, at respite.
"Well, what's the bloody matter, son? Can't get the girls, or won't you?
No, you don't seem to understand, it's better in the arms of love --
Far better than the battlegrounds I've burned: a woman's arms!
They bring a valiant soldier simple peace.
Or did you only come today, to die this day, for nothing --
To slap me on my face, and have me kill you sure and true?
Then are you ready sir, for dirt and graves and ash,
And all the nights that come and last forever?"
"God alone can set the day and hour for men like you to die.
He hides that little place from you, but one day there you are."
"I loved a woman once whose head was filled with lines like that!"
Then flames of hate awakened in the pit of Cuchulain;
Again into their struggle each returned, intending final glory for the one alone!
His old sword found a hestitation in the younger one at last,
And breaking through it, cut into the younger warrior's life.
"Now, tell me son, your name, for all your breath is worth!"
"It's Cuchulain -- the same as yours! Your son, forever called by father's name."
"My son; my name! I'll cut this moment short as I can for you,
But nothing else, I know. I know!"
Sunset seemed to pass the heavy chains of sorrow on to twilight,
While Cuchulain remained in state, collapsed and doubled down.
So Conchubar soon brought the woman Cuchulain had loved to love,
His mourning love, as sweet as tender feathers of a little quail.
She held him close, and gently brushed his strands of long gray hair;
Her lovely breast she bared to him for comfort, then to call him back.
But nothing of her precious living graces
Brought him up from anger at that solitary grave.
Conchubar, the Red Branch king, could see the shadows of tomorrow;
He lined up druids row by row: one hundred druids faithful ever.
And then, he gave them these, his words of strict instruction:
"For three days more, alone and lost, will Cuchulain remain,
Stone ominous, in silent night, and helpless in the rain.
And he will then awaken mad, and take to us his blades,
And kill us one and all, my friends, in seething blinded rage.
So, you must sing my song to him, and sing it all these days;
A mystic song of war it is, to redirect his gaze
Away to sea, to mighty horses, magic horses of the waves!
And Cuchulain will fight them there,
And here will we be saved!"Those songs the druids chanted held their mysteries beneath the droning;
His spell they sowed hypnotically, a song of three days turning.
And out of total blackness then came Cuchulain the mighty,
To thundrous sounds of horses pulling chariots of rage.
And came the cry of "Cuchulain!",
A roar beyond the horses.
As tides approached the shore again in crashing ocean surf,
There Cuchulain saw battles come, and bravely --
Netted bravely so, unto the quiet earth!
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