One extraordinary occasion in the pre-spring, in-out Lion, out-in Lamb month of March is St. Patrick’s Day. Celebrating St. Patrick’s life and particularly his death, has contagious widespread appeal. On this sainted day people like to claim a wee bit of the Irish. Word play search or say what you will about “putting on the green”, it’s a flamboyant custom that seems to overbrim with lucky charm. Having good luck is always good, but if you’re having the good luck of the Irish, it’s even better.
Spirited accounts of Irish lore include Leprechaun sightings and landscapes fantastically festooned with rainbows, shamrocks, four-leaf clovers, and pots of gold. Combine these chroma filled, lively images with the art of storytelling and larger than life historical figures and they become the stuff of legends.
The following poem is an extravagant portrayal of ancient Irish folklore around the life and times of St. Patrick, circa 5th century. It is dedicated to Cinn Faelad, a warrior, an academic and a first poet in Ireland. While there’s nothing new about the radical medical practice of Lobotomy, the healing force of mind over matter is respectfully acknowledged. The curative powers of active imaginations exist in theory too, and with that observation in mind, pattswordart creates:
The Irish Superman Poet
In the days of pagan imagery, there lived an Irish prince
who possessed no skills to speak of, and by his middle age
was still even thicker in things and very, very dense.
He was cared for by his father, a fictitious province king
who ruled this Irish land of lore,
as no other king had ruled before
with gaudy over abundance.
He gave the prince rich riches and property
and along with some potatoes, sent him on his way
only to be ambushed in a mid-day skirmish
by an underhanded band of thieves
who robbed him of shillings and glory,
and left him half dead from hard hits to his head
that proved to be the gravest of gory.
One of the king’s bishops and all the king’s men
found the prince by the side of the road.
Then they bode together and rode
to the Abbot Surgeon’s house with an order from the king
PERFORM THE TREPANNING OPERATION! RESTORE HIS FEEBLE MIND!
Then the brain of forgetting was removed
and with the transformation process complete
desire began to crystalize within the prince’s reach,
away from the idle nothingness that fumbled in his mind
away from the damnable lot he’d never have to bear again,
a way to authentically think.
His thoughts began to materialize his transport to Tir Na N’og
the land of youth he’d heard about where he could withal escape
his vacant pain of living.
Intense desire for Tir Na N’og loomed clear as magic crystal
providing needed victuals accompanied by no gloom, sadness, or hate.
He took a leap of faith whereupon he found his finest hour and
a genuine Irish muse.
Verse began to arise and mastery of letters.
With heightened intellect and vernacular expertise
he achieved great stature in paradise.
And while centuries elapsed here on earth
the prince’s time passed rapidly rapid.
Truth be told, truth was his constant companion.
Thoughts of returning to the king or his former life
never did beset him, severed with the brain of forgetting, gone,
deficiencies replaced by unity, acuity, and awareness.
He morphed into genius, a most superior state,
and from within himself, he watched himself
become the Irish superman poet, at one with his muse,
his passionate Irish muse, and he would write forever.
Visualize the outcome…
Irish poetry, immortal words.
Say what-what say: About the art of toasting, it is what it is. Sláinte!
(Cheers! To your health!) And ‘til next time, may the luckiest road rise to meet you!
Postsay: Your Comments are welcomed.
Patt
© 2013 | “PERSONALIZATION”
