The Song of Amergin

The "Song of Amergin" may be the oldest poem to hail from the British isles, but its origins remain shrouded in mystery...

I am dedicating this page to my friend and fellow poet Martin Mc Carthy.

Was Amergin the first notable poet of the British isles? Did he actually live? If so, was he actually Irish? These are the sort of questions I intend to explore, so let’s dive in…

The great Irish poets include William Butler Yeats, Seamus Heaney, Oscar Wilde (I rank him this high primarily for his magnificent and wonderfully touching “Requiscat”), the vastly underrated Louis MacNeice and Ethna Carbery, Thomas Moore, Paul Muldoon, Jonathan Swift, Samuel Beckett, Patrick Kavanagh, Eavan Boland, Derek Mahon, Thomas Kinsella, Austin Clarke, Seamus Cassidy (the pen name of Jim McManmon), James Joyce, and perhaps Amergin (?).

But did Amergin actually live, and if so was he Irish or was he one of the Sons of Mil, and thus a Hispanic Gael and foreign invader? Was Amergin an occultist like Taliesin and Merlin, using a poetic charm to disarm the natives? That’s how I read his famous poem…

The Song of Amergin (I)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I am the sea blast
I am the tidal wave
I am the thunderous surf
I am the stag of the seven tines
I am the cliff hawk
I am the sunlit dewdrop
I am the fairest of flowers
I am the rampaging boar
I am the swift-swimming salmon
I am the placid lake
I am the summit of art
I am the vale echoing voices
I am the battle-hardened spearhead
I am the God who inflames desire
Who gives you fire
Who knows the secrets of the unhewn dolmen
Who announces the ages of the moon
Who knows where the sunset settles

In my translation above, I have deliberately worded the last four lines so that they can be either affirmations, or questions, or both. There are longer versions of the poem, but this is the version that strikes me as having the strongest ending, so I'm going to stick with it as my personal favorite. I will follow this translation with a second translation, then with an original poem I wrote under the influence of the ancient song.

THE SONG OF AMERGIN: THE GENESIS OF IRISH POETRY

The "Song of Amergin" and its origins remain mysteries for the ages. The ancient poem, perhaps the oldest extant poem to originate from the British Isles, or perhaps not, was written by an unknown poet at an unknown time at an uncertain location. The unlikely date 1268 BC was furnished by Robert Graves, who translated the "Song of Amergin" in his influential book The White Goddess (1948). Graves remarked that "English poetic education should, really, begin not with Canterbury Tales, not with the Odyssey, not even with Genesis, but with the Song of Amergin." Recounted in the Leabhar Gabhála (The Book of Invasions), the poem has been described as an invocation, as a mystical chant, as an affirmation of unity, as sorcery, as a creation incantation, and as the first spoken Irish poem. I have also seen it titled "The Rosc of Amergin" with a rosc being a war chant or incantation. A sort of magical affirmation to give one power over one’s enemies.

The Song of Amergin (II)
a more imaginative translation by Michael R. Burch, after Robert Bridges

I am the stag of the seven tines;
I am the bull of the seven battles;
I am the boar of the seven bristles;

I am the flood cresting plains;
I am the wind sweeping tranquil waters;
I am the swift-swimming salmon in the shallow pool;

I am the sunlit dewdrop;
I am the fairest of flowers;
I am the crystalline fountain;

I am the hawk harassing its prey;
I am the demon ablaze in the campfire; 
I am the battle-hardened spearhead;

I am the vale echoing voices;
I am the sea's roar;
I am the surging sea wave;

I am the summit of art;
I am the God who inflames desires;
I am the giver of fire;

Who knows the ages of the moon;
Who knows where the sunset settles;
Who knows the secrets of the unhewn dolmen.

Translator's Notes: I did not attempt to fully translate the longer version of the poem. I have read several other translations and none of them seem to agree. I went with my grokked impression of the poem: that the "I am" lines refer to God and his "all in all" nature, a belief common to the mystics of many religions. I stopped with the last line that I felt I understood and will leave the remainder of the poem to others. Amergin's ancient poem reminds me of the Biblical god Yahweh/Jehovah revealing himself to Moses as "I am that I am" and to Job as a mystery beyond human comprehension. If that's what the author intended, I tip my hat to him or her, because despite all the intervening centuries the message still comes through splendidly. If I'm wrong, I have no idea what the poem is about, but I still like it.

The Song of Amergin
an original poem by Michael R. Burch

He was our first bard
and we feel in his dim-remembered words
the moment when Time blurs…

and he and the Sons of Mil
heave oars as the breakers mill
till at last Ierne—green, brooding—nears,

while Some implore seas cold, fell, dark
to climb and swamp their flimsy bark
… and Time here also spumes, careers…

while the Ban Shee shriek in awed dismay
to see him still the sea, this day,
then seek the dolmen and the gloam.

Who wrote the poem? That's a good question and all "answers" seem speculative to me. Amergin has been said to be a Milesian: one of the sons of Mil who allegedly invaded and conquered Ireland sometime in the island's deep, dark, mysterious past. The Milesians were (at least theoretically) Spanish Gaels. According to the Wikipedia page:

Amergin Glúingel ("white knees"), also spelled Amhairghin Glúngheal or Glúnmar ("big knee"), was a bard, druid and judge for the Milesians in the Irish Mythological Cycle. He was appointed Chief Ollam of Ireland by his two brothers the kings of Ireland. A number of poems attributed to Amergin are part of the Milesian mythology. One of the seven sons of Míl Espáine, he took part in the Milesian conquest of Ireland from the Tuatha Dé Danann, in revenge for their great-uncle Íth, who had been treacherously killed by the three kings of the Tuatha Dé Danann: Mac Cuill, Mac Cecht and Mac Gréine. They landed at the estuary of Inber Scéne, named after Amergin's wife Scéne, who had died at sea. The three queens of the Tuatha Dé Danann, (Banba, Ériu and Fódla), gave, in turn, permission for Amergin and his people to settle in Ireland. Each of the sisters required Amergin to name the island after each of them, which he did: Ériu is the origin of the modern name Éire, while Banba and Fódla are used as poetic names for Ireland, much as Albion is for Great Britain. The Milesians had to win the island by engaging in battle with the three kings, their druids and warriors. Amergin acted as an impartial judge for the parties, setting the rules of engagement. The Milesians agreed to leave the island and retreat a short distance back into the ocean beyond the ninth wave, a magical boundary. Upon a signal, they moved toward the beach, but the druids of the Tuatha Dé Danann raised a magical storm to keep them from reaching land. However, Amergin sang an invocation calling upon the spirit of Ireland that has come to be known as The Song of Amergin, and he was able to part the storm and bring the ship safely to land. There were heavy losses on all sides, with more than one major battle, but the Milesians carried the day. The three kings of the Tuatha Dé Danann were each killed in single combat by three of the surviving sons of Míl, Eber Finn, Érimón and Amergin.

It has been suggested that the poem may have been "adapted" by Christian copyists, perhaps monks. An analogy might be the ancient Celtic myths that were "christianized" into tales of King Arthur, Lancelot, Galahad and the Holy Grail.

There is a TIMELINE OF IRISH POETRY at the end of this page, for history buffs and lovers of Ireland and its poets.

IRELAND: THE LAND OF POETS AND MANY POETIC NAMES

Ireland is the land of many names, including Éire, Erin, Eryn, Ierne, Hibernia, Iouernia, (H)iberio (used by ancient Greek and Roman writers), Iwerddon (Welsh), Ywerdhon and Worthen (Cornish), Iwerzhon (Breton), Banbha ("piglet"), and Fódhla.

Erin is one of the poetic names of Ireland. In my poem “Erin” I tried to capture something of the land in one of its young mothers…

Erin
by Michael R. Burch

All that’s left of Ireland is her hair—
bright carrot—and her milkmaid-pallid skin,
her brilliant air of cavalier despair,
her train of children—some conceived in sin,
the others to avoid it. For nowhere
is evidence of thought. Devout, pale, thin,
gay, nonchalant, all radiance. So fair!

How can men look upon her and not spin
like wobbly buoys churned by her skirt’s brisk air?
They buy. They grope to pat her nyloned shin,
to share her elevated, pale Despair ...
to find at last two spirits ease no one’s.

All that’s left of Ireland is the Care,
her impish grin, green eyes like leprechauns’.

My poem "Erin" was very loosely inspired by one of my Irish cousins who was a bit of a "wild child" in her youth.

MY POEMS ABOUT IRELAND AND THE IRISH

These are my original poems and translations about Ireland and/or the Irish people and their colorful history and culture. My mother is English and one of her sisters, my aunt Barbara, married an Irishman, Patrick Gallagher. His mother spoke Gaelic and their family had either coal-black or flaming red hair. I lived in England for five years as a boy, and summered there four other years, and thus had numerous opportunities to visit with my Irish cousins, who lived within walking distance of my grandparents' house in Mattersey. Those meetings led to my lifelong interest in Ireland and her people ...



Midsummer-Eve
by Michael R. Burch

What happened to the mysterious Tuatha De Danann, to the Ban Shee (from which we get the term “banshee”) and, eventually, to the druids? This poem is an epitaph of sorts for the eldest of the Irish ancestors ...

In the ruins
of the dreams
and the schemes
of men;

when the moon
begets the tide
and the wide
sea sighs;

when a star
appears in heaven
and the raven
cries;

we will dance
and we will revel
in the devil’s
fen ...

if nevermore again.

Originally published by Penny Dreadful



Lament for the Sídhe
by Michael R. Burch

Smaller and fairer
than their closest kin,
the faeries learned only too well
never to dwell
close to the villages of larger men.

Only to dance in the starlight
when the moon was full
and men were afraid.
Only to worship in the farthest glade,
ever heeding the raven and the gull.

The eldest Irish fairies were known as the Aes Sídhe, the Aos Sí and the Sídhe. Because "Sídhe" means "mound" in Irish, they were literally the "people of the fairy mounds." The Irish poet William Butler Yeats and others later shortened the term to simply "Sídhe." In my poem the Sídhe avoid their larger, very dangerous kinfolk, and use sharp-eyed ravens and gulls as lookouts, explaining why we never see them.



The Kiss of Ceridwen
by Michael R. Burch

The kiss of Ceridwen
I have felt upon my brow,
and the past and the future
have appeared, as though a vapor,
mingling with the here and now.

And Morrigan, the Raven,
the messenger, has come,
to tell me that the gods, unsung,
will not last long
when the druids’ harps grow dumb.

According to an ancient Celtic myth, the Welsh witch Ceridwen came originally from Ireland, where she was known as the giantess Kymideu Kymeinvoll. She had a magical cauldron with the power to restore dead warriors to life. Bran the Blessed offered Ceridwen safe harbor away from Ireland, where she was greatly feared, in exchange for her cauldron. The Morrígan or "Phantom Queen" was the Irish goddess of destiny, death and battle. She would appear as a raven or crow and was the keeper of fate and dispenser of prophecy.



It Is NOT the Sword!
by Michael R. Burch

This poem illustrates the strong correlation between the names that appear in Welsh and Irish mythology. Much of this lore predates the Arthurian legends, and was assimilated as Arthur’s fame (and hyperbole) grew. Caladbolg is the name of a mythical Irish sword, while Caladvwlch is its Welsh equivalent. Caliburn and Excalibur are later variants.

“It is not the sword,
     but the man,”
           said Merlyn.
           But the people demanded a sign—
     the sword of Macsen Wledig,
Caladbolg, the “lightning-shard.”

“It is not the sword,
     but the words men follow.”
           Still, he set it in the stone
           —Caladvwlch, the sword of kings—
     and many a man did strive, and swore,
and many a man did moan.

But none could budge it from the stone.

“It is not the sword
     or the strength,”
           said Merlyn,
           “that makes a man a king,
     but the truth and the conviction
that ring in his iron word.”

“It is NOT the sword!”
     cried Merlyn,
           crowd-jostled, marveling
           as Arthur drew forth Caliburn
     with never a gasp,
with never a word,

and so became their king.

Originally published by Songs of Innocence, then by Romantics Quarterly, Neovictorian/Cochlea and Celtic Twilight



Isolde's Song
by Michael R. Burch

Through our long years of dreaming to be one
we grew toward an enigmatic light
that gently warmed our tendrils. Was it sun?
We had no eyes to tell; we loved despite
the lack of all sensation—all but one:
we felt the night's deep chill, the air so bright
at dawn we quivered limply, overcome.

To touch was all we knew, and how to bask.
We knew to touch; we grew to touch; we felt
spring's urgency, midsummer's heat, fall's lash,
wild winter's ice and thaw and fervent melt.
We felt returning light and could not ask
its meaning, or if something was withheld
more glorious. To touch seemed life's great task.

At last the petal of me learned: unfold.
And you were there, surrounding me. We touched.
The curious golden pollens! Ah, we touched,
and learned to cling and, finally, to hold.

Originally published by The Raintown Review and nominated for the Pushcart Prize

According to legend, Isolde (also known as Iseult and Yseult) was an Irish princess who married King Mark of Cornwall. However, she fell in love with the Cornish knight/minstrel Tristram (also known as Tristan) and in some versions of the story used a love potion to get him; in other versions she was under the same spell. There are different versions of the denouement but they all end badly for the star-crossed lovers. After the deaths of Tristram and Isolde, a hazel and a honeysuckle grew out of their graves until the branches intertwined and could not be parted. It seems the English legend is based on an older Irish legend, The Pursuit of Diarmuid and Gráinne. In the Irish legend the aging king Fionn mac Cumhaill takes the lovely young princess Gráinne to be his wife. At the betrothal ceremony she falls in love with Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, one of Fionn's warriors. Gráinne gives a sleeping potion to everyone else, then convinces Diarmuid to elope with her. The fugitive lovers are then pursued all over Ireland by the Fianna. Later tales of the King Arthur-Sir Lancelot-Guinevere ménage à trois are likely descendents of The Pursuit of Diarmuid and Gráinne.



Hearthside
by Michael R. Burch

“When you are old and grey and full of sleep...” — W. B. Yeats

For all that we professed of love, we knew
this night would come, that we would bend alone
to tend wan fires’ dimming bars—the moan
of wind cruel as the Trumpet, gelid dew
an eerie presence on encrusted logs
we hoard like jewels, embrittled so ourselves.

The books that line these close, familiar shelves
loom down like dreary chaperones. Wild dogs,
too old for mates, cringe furtive in the park,
as, toothless now, I frame this parchment kiss.

I do not know the words for easy bliss
and so my shriveled fingers clutch this stark,
long-unenamored pen and will it: Move.
I loved you more than words, so let words prove.

"Hearthside" is a poem about the great Irish poet William Butler Yeats, thinking about the love of his life, Maude Gonne. My poem is a later take on Yeats's loose translation of a Ronsard poem, "When You Are Old." I also refer to Yeats in my elegy for the great English war poet Wilfred Owen ...



At Wilfred Owen's Grave
by Michael R. Burch

A week before the Armistice, you died.
They did not keep your heart like Livingstone's,
then plant your bones near Shakespeare's. So you lie
between two privates, sacrificed like Christ
to politics, your poetry unknown
except for one brief flurry: thirteen months
with Gaukroger beside you in the trench,
dismembered, as you babbled, as the stench
of gangrene filled your nostrils, till you clenched
your broken heart together and the fist
began to pulse with life, so close to death.

Or was it at Craiglockhart, in the care
of "ergotherapists" that you sensed life
is only in the work, and made despair
a thing that Yeats despised, but also breath,
a mouthful's merest air, inspired less
than wrested from you, and which we confess
we only vaguely breathe: the troubled air
that even Sassoon failed to share, because
a man in pieces is not healed by gauze,
and breath's transparent, unless we believe
the words are true despite their lack of weight
and float to us like chlorine—scalding eyes,
and lungs, and hearts. Your words revealed the fate
of boys who retched up life here, gagged on lies.

Originally published by The Chariton Review



The Celtic Cross at Île Grosse
by Michael R. Burch

“I actually visited the island and walked across those mass graves [of 30,000 Irish men, women and children], and I played a little tune on me whistle. I found it very peaceful, and there was relief there.” – Paddy Maloney of The Chieftans

There was relief there,
and release,
on Île Grosse
in the spreading gorse
and the cry of the wild geese . . .

There was relief there,
without remorse
when the tin whistle lifted its voice
in a tune of artless grief,
piping achingly high and longingly of an island veiled in myth.
And the Celtic cross that stands here tells us, not of their grief,
but of their faith and belief—
like the last soft breath of evening lifting a fallen leaf.

When ravenous famine set all her demons loose,
driving men to the seas like lemmings,
they sought here the clemency of a better life, or death,
and their belief in God gave them hope, a sense of peace.

These were proud men with only their lives to owe,
who sought the liberation of a strange new land.
Now they lie here, ragged row on ragged row,
with only the shadows of their loved ones close at hand.

And each cross, their ancient burden and their glory,
reflects the death of sunlight on their story.

And their tale is sad—but, O, their faith was grand!



A VERY BRIEF TIMELINE OF IRISH POETRY

All dates are AD unless otherwise indicated and some dates are approximations (or wild guesses).

1268 BC (?) — “The Song of Amergin” is discussed in detail after this timeline.

521 — The birth of Saint Columba (521–597), who founded an important abbey on Iona and has been credited with three surviving medieval Latin hymns. He was born Colmcille ("Church Dove") in Gartan, northern Ireland.

530 — The birth of Dallán Forgaill, a blind Irish poet who is said to have written Amhra Coluim Cille in archaic Old Irish, in honor of Saint Columba. He is also credited with writing Rop Tú Mo Baile ("Be Thou My Vision").

566 — Saint Gildas is asked by Ainmericus, high king of Ireland, to restore order to the church in Ireland. Gildas becomes a missionary, building churches and establishing monasteries. Irish monasteries would play an important role in preserving literature during the Dark Ages.

600 — Possible date for early Irish saga literature. Around this time much of the main island is speaking Anglo-Saxon English.

620 — Vikings begin invasions of Ireland and will eventually take much of it over.

627 — The birth of Adomnán (c. 627–704) in Northern Ireland. His Vita Columbae ("Life of Columba") would be the first biography written in Britain.

700 — Tochmarc Étaíne ("The Wooing of Étaín/Éadaoin") is an early text of the Irish Mythological Cycle featuring characters from the Ulster Cycle of Kings that is preserved in the Lebor na hUidre (c. 1106) and Yellow Book of Lecan (c. 1401). It has been cited as a possible source for the Middle English Sir Orfeo.

731 — Bede writes The Ecclesiastical History of the English People in Latin. He notes: "At the present time, languages of five peoples are spoken in the island of the Britain ... English, British, Irish, Pictish and the Latin languages."

1250 — Ich am of Irlaunde ("I am of Ireland") is one of the first rhyming poems to mention Ireland.

I am of Ireland (anonymous Medieval Irish lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I am of Ireland,
and of the holy realm of Ireland.
Gentlefolk, I pray thee:
for the sake of saintly charity,
come dance with me
in Ireland!

Ich am of Irlaunde,
Ant of the holy londe
Of Irlande.
Gode sire, pray ich the,
For of saynte charité,
Come ant daunce wyth me
In Irlaunde.

The Medieval poem above still smacks of German, with "Ich" for "I." But a metamorphosis was clearly in progress: English poetry was evolving to employ meter and rhyme, as well as Anglo-Saxon alliteration. And it's interesting to note that "ballad," "ballet" and "ball" all have the same root: the Latin ballare (to dance) and the Italian ballo/balleto (a dance). Think of a farm community assembling for a hoe-down, then dancing a two-step to music with lyrics. That is apparently how many early English poems originated. And the more regular meter of the evolving poems would suit music well.

1580 — Edmund Spenser moves to Ireland, where he will meet and become friends with Walter Ralegh. However, many natives would see them as part of a military occupation and agents of English imperialism…

1598 — Edmund Spenser's castle at Kilcolman is burned by Irish forces opposed to English dominance; according to Ben Jonson, one of Spenser's children perished in the blaze.

1667 — The birth of the Anglo-Irish poet Jonathan Swift (1667-1745). Swift was born in Dublin, but "insisted on his Englishness." He has been called the greatest prose satirist in the English language and is less well known for his poetry today.

1679 — The birth of Thomas Parnell (1679-1718), an Anglo-Irish poet and clergyman who has been called one of the "graveyard poets" along with Thomas Gray and Edward Young, among others.

1699 — Jonathan Swift becomes vicar of Laracor and later dean of St. Patrick's, Dublin. However, he considered life in Ireland to be exile.

1813 — Thomas Moore writes the popular song "The Last Rose of Summer" which appears in his Irish Melodies.

1854 — The birth of Oscar Wilde (1854-1900), an Anglo-Irish poet, playwright, novelist, wit and "quintessential aesthete."

1856 — The birth of the Anglo-Irish writer and playwright George Bernard Shaw (1856-1950).

1865 — The birth of the consensus greatest Irish poet, William Butler Yeats (1865-1939).

1882 — The birth of the Irish poet, playwright and novelist James Joyce (1882-1941).

1889 — William Butler Yeats publishes The Wanderings of Oisin and Other Poems. Yeats meets and falls in love with the Irish nationalist and revolutionary Maud Gonne.

1896 — The birth of the Irish poet Austin Clarke (1896-1974).

1904 — The births of the Irish poet Patrick Kavanagh (1904-1967) and the Anglo-Irish poet C. Day-Lewis (1904-1972), the father of the actor Sir Daniel Day-Lewis.

1913 — "Danny Boy," a ballad written by English songwriter Frederic Weatherly is set to the Irish tune of the "Londonderry Air."

1922 — William Butler Yeats becomes a senator of the Irish Free State.

1928 — The birth of the Irish poet Thomas Kinsella (1928-).

1995 — Seamus Heaney wins the Nobel Prize for Literature.

The following are links to other translations by Michael R. Burch:

The Seafarer
Wulf and Eadwacer
The Best Poetry Translations of Michael R. Burch

The HyperTexts