Run for home
Reading this...
Allies end bid for U.N. war approval
...and this:
U.N. orders staff to leave Iraq
...and feeling more than usually homesick for Ireland today.
I suppose it’s strange to be sitting here feeling homesick for a land that was never really my home (except spiritually). I lived in England pretty much my whole life, before Sausage and I moved to Canada in 1996.
But even with so many family and loved ones there, I wouldn’t want to return to England right now -- not to a country in the blind deathgrip of the hawks' talons.
I’d no sooner move back there than move further south from where I’m sitting, here in Toronto.
On a clear day like today you can sometimes see the edge of New York State on the far side of Lake Ontario. That’s already too close.
And it's not a clear day. The sun's beating down on Toronto, but the war clouds gathering close in on all sides obscure the view. From this side of the lake, America looks to be suffering under a dust storm right now.
I can’t imagine a more depressing or scary time to be living on this continent. To know that the most powerful non-elected man in the World lives just a short way south of here. A man who is about to paint a great big target across the face of North America.
The atmosphere today, even on this very Americanized holiday, is intense.
Bush is clearly on the verge of finally abandoning all reason, allowing the heady cocktail of testosterone and oil to take him clean over the edge tonight - in front of a live TV audience, 8pm prime time. Natch.
I can’t imagine him getting much resistance from the 76 per cent of Americans who reportedly nod in agreement when he conflates the fact of 9/11 and the threat posed by Saddam.
(aside: how can that number possibly be right? All the Americans I know would sit within the 14 per cent -- but that number just seems way too small. Are there really that many Americans taking their foreign policy guidance from Darryl fucking Worley?!)
Wonder how the Worley fans will feel when the dirty bombs start going off in the strip malls and plazas; as white powder starts sifting from the mailboxes; as the suicide bombers start showing up at ball games...
Washington DC is 351 miles from Toronto. That is WAY too close for comfort.
So here's my St. Patrick's Day prayer: can I come home now please?
The Exile's Return
(John Locke, 1847-1889)
T'anam chun Dia! but there it is -
The dawn on the hills of Ireland,
God's angels lifting the night's black veil
From the fair sweet face of my sireland
Oh! Ireland isn't it grand you look,
Like a bride in her fresh adorning,
And with all the pent-up love of my heart
I bid you the top of the morning.
This one brief hour pays lavishly back,
For many a year of mourning,
I'd almost venture another flight,
There is so much joy in returning,
Watching out for the hallowed shore,
All other attraction scorning,
Oh: Ireland don't you hear me shout,
I bid you the top of the morning.
Ho, Ho, upon Glen's shelving strand,
The surges are wildly beating,
And Kerry is pushing her headlands out,
To give us a kindly greeting,
Now to the shore the sea birds fly,
On pinons that know no drooping,
Now out from the shore with welcome gaze,
A million of eaves come trooping.
Oh! Fairly, generous Irish land,
So Loyal, so fair, so loving,
No wonder the wandering Celt should think,
And dream of you in his roving,
The Alien shore may have gems and gold,
And sorrow may ne'er have gloomed it.
But the heart will sigh for its native shore,
Where the love-light first illumed it.
And doesn't old Cobh look charming there,
Watching the wild waves motion,
Resting her back against the hill.
And the tips of her toes to the ocean,
I wonder I don't hear the Shandon bells,
But maybe their chiming is over,
For it's a year since I began,
The life of a western rover.
For thirty years "A chuisle mochroi",
Those hills I now feast my eyes on,
Ne'er met my vision save at night,
In memory's dim horizon,
Even so, 'twas grand and fair they seemed,
In the landscape spread before me,
But dreams are dreams, and I would awake
To find American skies still o'er me.
And often in Texan plain,
When the day and the chase was over,
My heart would fly o'er the weary ways,
And around the coastline hover,
And my prayers would arise that some future date,
All danger, doubting and scorning,
I might help to win for my native land
The light of young liberty's morning
Now fuller and turner the coastline shows
Was there ever a scene more splendid!
I feel the breath of the Munster breeze,
Oh! Thank God my exile is ended,
Old scenes, old songs, old friends again
There's the vale, there's the cot I was born in
Oh! Ireland from my heart of hearts
I bid you the "top o' the morning"
[update: re-reading the above and discussing it with Mum, we were both struck by the number of apparent errors in the text. This was copy pasted in from elsewhere online - from one of the only complete copies of the verse I was able to find. Seems to have been a number of typos, transcription errors and Anglicized spellings in the source. So I've taken the liberty of correcting the most obvious apparent errors in the above - eg. 'Cobh' for 'Cove', etc. I'm going to have to find a print copy of Locke's poems to check the original]
Reading this...
Allies end bid for U.N. war approval
...and this:
U.N. orders staff to leave Iraq
...and feeling more than usually homesick for Ireland today.
I suppose it’s strange to be sitting here feeling homesick for a land that was never really my home (except spiritually). I lived in England pretty much my whole life, before Sausage and I moved to Canada in 1996.
But even with so many family and loved ones there, I wouldn’t want to return to England right now -- not to a country in the blind deathgrip of the hawks' talons.
I’d no sooner move back there than move further south from where I’m sitting, here in Toronto.
On a clear day like today you can sometimes see the edge of New York State on the far side of Lake Ontario. That’s already too close.
And it's not a clear day. The sun's beating down on Toronto, but the war clouds gathering close in on all sides obscure the view. From this side of the lake, America looks to be suffering under a dust storm right now.
I can’t imagine a more depressing or scary time to be living on this continent. To know that the most powerful non-elected man in the World lives just a short way south of here. A man who is about to paint a great big target across the face of North America.
The atmosphere today, even on this very Americanized holiday, is intense.
Bush is clearly on the verge of finally abandoning all reason, allowing the heady cocktail of testosterone and oil to take him clean over the edge tonight - in front of a live TV audience, 8pm prime time. Natch.
I can’t imagine him getting much resistance from the 76 per cent of Americans who reportedly nod in agreement when he conflates the fact of 9/11 and the threat posed by Saddam.
(aside: how can that number possibly be right? All the Americans I know would sit within the 14 per cent -- but that number just seems way too small. Are there really that many Americans taking their foreign policy guidance from Darryl fucking Worley?!)
Wonder how the Worley fans will feel when the dirty bombs start going off in the strip malls and plazas; as white powder starts sifting from the mailboxes; as the suicide bombers start showing up at ball games...
Washington DC is 351 miles from Toronto. That is WAY too close for comfort.
So here's my St. Patrick's Day prayer: can I come home now please?
The Exile's Return
(John Locke, 1847-1889)
T'anam chun Dia! but there it is -
The dawn on the hills of Ireland,
God's angels lifting the night's black veil
From the fair sweet face of my sireland
Oh! Ireland isn't it grand you look,
Like a bride in her fresh adorning,
And with all the pent-up love of my heart
I bid you the top of the morning.
This one brief hour pays lavishly back,
For many a year of mourning,
I'd almost venture another flight,
There is so much joy in returning,
Watching out for the hallowed shore,
All other attraction scorning,
Oh: Ireland don't you hear me shout,
I bid you the top of the morning.
Ho, Ho, upon Glen's shelving strand,
The surges are wildly beating,
And Kerry is pushing her headlands out,
To give us a kindly greeting,
Now to the shore the sea birds fly,
On pinons that know no drooping,
Now out from the shore with welcome gaze,
A million of eaves come trooping.
Oh! Fairly, generous Irish land,
So Loyal, so fair, so loving,
No wonder the wandering Celt should think,
And dream of you in his roving,
The Alien shore may have gems and gold,
And sorrow may ne'er have gloomed it.
But the heart will sigh for its native shore,
Where the love-light first illumed it.
And doesn't old Cobh look charming there,
Watching the wild waves motion,
Resting her back against the hill.
And the tips of her toes to the ocean,
I wonder I don't hear the Shandon bells,
But maybe their chiming is over,
For it's a year since I began,
The life of a western rover.
For thirty years "A chuisle mochroi",
Those hills I now feast my eyes on,
Ne'er met my vision save at night,
In memory's dim horizon,
Even so, 'twas grand and fair they seemed,
In the landscape spread before me,
But dreams are dreams, and I would awake
To find American skies still o'er me.
And often in Texan plain,
When the day and the chase was over,
My heart would fly o'er the weary ways,
And around the coastline hover,
And my prayers would arise that some future date,
All danger, doubting and scorning,
I might help to win for my native land
The light of young liberty's morning
Now fuller and turner the coastline shows
Was there ever a scene more splendid!
I feel the breath of the Munster breeze,
Oh! Thank God my exile is ended,
Old scenes, old songs, old friends again
There's the vale, there's the cot I was born in
Oh! Ireland from my heart of hearts
I bid you the "top o' the morning"
[update: re-reading the above and discussing it with Mum, we were both struck by the number of apparent errors in the text. This was copy pasted in from elsewhere online - from one of the only complete copies of the verse I was able to find. Seems to have been a number of typos, transcription errors and Anglicized spellings in the source. So I've taken the liberty of correcting the most obvious apparent errors in the above - eg. 'Cobh' for 'Cove', etc. I'm going to have to find a print copy of Locke's poems to check the original]
