"Autobiographies of great nations are written in three manuscripts – a book of deeds, a book of words, and a book of art. Of the three, I would choose the latter as truest testimony." - Sir Kenneth Smith, Great Civilisations

"I must write each day without fail, not so much for the success of the work, as in order not to get out of my routine." - Leo Tolstoy

I have never believed that one should wait until one is inspired because I think the pleasures of not writing are so great that if you ever start indulging them you will never write again. - John Updike

"The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it." - J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

Poetry is the shadow cast by our streetlight imaginations." - Lawrence Ferlinghetti


[Note - If any article requires updating or correction please notate this in the comment section. Thank you. - res]


Thursday, March 5, 2026

R.E. Slater - A Conversation Before Leaving



A Conversation Before Leaving

by R.E. Slater

“We are not the same person we were yesterday,
nor will we be tomorrow.”
Heraclitus
I

His friends from university were scholars and were gathering together that afternoon because he was leaving. Not retiring. Leaving.

As they arrived by ones and twos, no one could quite explain why the gathering felt heavier than a simple retirement, or a prolonged sabbatical, or like one of those quiet academic disappearances which happen each year.

People just leave. College offices get reassigned. New names are hung outside. Academic books remain on their shelves like fossils of remembrance.

Still, this felt different.

Inside the small cabin its owner, John, a historian by trade, stood near the latticed window, sunlight bending across the wooden floorboards. Packing boxes lay scattered around the room - some, were far too light, as if their owner had learned not to carry too much, hold too much, or burden himself with unnecessary things.

“You could at least tell us where you’re going,” said Sandy, John's girlfriend, half-smiling.

“I could,” John replied from across the room, “but it wouldn’t help,” in slight foreshadowing.

Light laughter followed among his gathering friends. More sympathetic than amused... yet something in the room had begun to shift.

It felt like a liminal interior light that wanted switching on, but at that moment, couldn't. And then, there followed a small suggestion. Half wise-ass, half-serious. Starting as a joke....

II

“What if,” said John, turning thoughtfully from the window, “a man never aged?”

A few stray chuckles echoed through the empty cabin walls.

“Is this a thought experiment?” asked Dan, a field anthropologist.

“If you like.”

“Then how long are we talking?” Harry leaned solemnly forward preparing for debate.

John paused, not theatrically, but as if choosing the smallest of honest answers.

“Say, fourteen thousand years.”

Silence did not fall. It filled the room, breathlessly. A perfect beginning... and the first of several small fractures beginning to form its final reunion.

III

“No,” Responded Dan, immediately to the statement. “This is biologically impossible.”

“Of course,” John nodded. “That’s always the first response.”

“Is there a second?” Sandy asked.

John smiled, faintly, but tenderly.

“Sometimes.”

His friends circled him now - not physically, but intellectually. They took the bait. Their questions sharpened. Old professions rose up donning old armor. Amongst the ground was an anthropologist, a biologist, a Christian theologian, a psychologist, a historian, an archaeologist.

Each voice tried to stabilize the moment as it hungered for hypothetical sparing.

“You’re asking us to suspend everything we know,” asked Dan.

“I’m asking you to imagine it,” John said. “Not to believe it.”

“Why?” Edith asked, settling within, a bit quieter than the rest.

John looked at her differently. Seemingly peering into her being.

“To see what changes.”

IV

“Say it’s true!” Harry finally spoke up. “Then what are you?”

John shrugged.

“A person who kept going. Kept living.”

“That’s not an answer!”

“It’s the only one that makes sense.”

John spoke next, not in grand declarations, but in fragments:

“Say, I experienced a winter that lasted too long. Spoke a language no one remembers. Remembered a child who died before there were names for grief?”

Catching his breath, having stopped a moment in reflection, he continued, “I stopped keeping count after a while. Not the years, but the people who came into, and out of, my life.”

This confused his well-wishers...

“Wait! You’re saying you became different people?”

“No,” John replied. “I’m saying I couldn’t stay the same one,” as the weight of memory was adding up again.

V

Sensing John's internal burden, but not quite sure if he was up to his old parlor games of “What if?” Edith then asked, “What happens when you remember too much?”

John didn’t answer right away. He let it sink into the fellowship's psyche. Let it build. Turn. Begin to grown.

“You forget differently,” he said.

“How then does that make sense?”

“You don’t lose things... they just stop being close.”

The room grew still. Somber. Rethinking their responses - and surprisingly, feeling more emotionally drawn in then on other occassions.

“We think memory keeps us going,” John continued. “But it doesn’t. It changes us. It rearranges what matters in life.”

Sandy quickly remarked, “And you’re not tired? You're not weary?”

John looked at her, even more tenderly than before. He stepped backed and really examined his loving friend.

“I don’t think tired is the right word.”

“Then what is?”

He searched for it. “Full, I think. Stuffed. Like I've ingested too much. Seen too much. Felt too much.” he reflectively said.

VI

At which point the proverbial pot began to come to a breaking point, as they would say.

“Ok, out with it!” Dan snapped. “You’re lying!”

“Probably,” John deferred.

“Or you're delusional!”

“Also quite possible,” continuing to play a game that was becoming all too real.

“Then why continue this charade?”

John tilted his head towards his friends.

“Because you haven’t stopped listening. You're all too willing to play this game with me.”

That landed harder amongst his skeptical friends than anything John had yet offered.

VII

At this point, there arose a story within a story. One with many outcomes, hot feelings, personal outbreaks.

“Have you ever influenced history?” asked Sandy, the resident archaeologist, almost mockingly.

John hesitated, mulling his response.

“Not in the way you mean.”

“Try us.”

He slowly exhaled, not for the first time wishing to bear his soul.

“There was a time,” he added slowly, “when I shared what I had learned - about kindness, mostly. About letting go of vengeance.”

“Go on.”

“I moved on before my words could spread,” he said. “But I heard stories later. They grew.”

Around the room Edith’s voice began to tremble.

“What... are you saying…??”

“I’m saying, stories change when people need them to.”

“That’s not an answer!”

“But it’s the only one I trust,” as John kindly reflected.

VIII

The sun had shifted. The room no longer held the same light. But Edith's turbulent response still lay heavily in the air.

No one had proven anything. No one had disproven anything. And yet, a new gravity was forming. 

Everything felt altered.

Sandy then spoke, almost reluctantly:

“John, if none of this is true… then why does it matter?”

John picked up one of his moving boxes.

“Because you are all still asking the question. You're wondering if behind my words there is a new meaning unfelt in our previous relationships.” 

“That’s not enough!” Cried Art, with the authority of a reasoned academic.

“Yes, I think it might be,” came John's half-turned reply as he carried out a small box to his awaiting pickup outside.

IX

Pausing, at the door, John asked, “But why should we care?”

Not for effect, but as if recognizing something in their intimacy was something he had seen before.

“You don’t need fourteen thousand years,” he said.

No one moved.

“You’re already changing,” he continued. “Every conversation, every loss, every moment you decide to stay or leave —”

He gestured gently around the room holding his package.

“—this is how it happens.”

“Becoming,” Edith whispered.

John nodded.

“Yes. Becoming.”

X

John then left for the cabin's graveled driveway.

No resolution followed. No consensus had formed.

But something remained - not agreement, but tension - the possibility that identity is never quite fixed.

The rising awareness that memory continually reshapes us.

The suspicion that meaning is made, not given. Not inherited. But experienced over time.

And beneath it all - a quieter question formed - one no one would say aloud:

“If we are already becoming… why aren’t we paying attention? Perhaps learning to hold loosely the unnecessary things so that we might draw closer to the things that mattered?”


- R.E. Slater

“We imagine life as something we possess,
yet life is something we always possess as becoming.”
 - R.E. Slater

“Some conversations never end when the speaker in our head leaves -
they remain with us, quietly reshaping what we thought we knew.”
- R.E. Slater

“We rarely notice how much we are changing
until someone asks a question we cannot easily dismiss.”
- R.E. Slater




https://images.static-bluray.com/reviews/16333_1.jpghttps://miro.medium.com/v2/resize%3Afit%3A1400/0%2AZeH6XOyObPDRqjRU.jpg

The Man from Earth
(2007)

A Processual Review of Becoming

by R.E. Slater & ChatGPT

“Man is nothing else but what he makes of himself.”
- Jean‑Paul Sartre

“We live forward, but understand backward.”
- Søren Kierkegaard


There are films that rely on spectacle, and then there are films that rely on thoughtThe Man from Earth, written by Jerome Bixby and directed by Richard Schenkman, belongs firmly to the latter. It is, at its core, a philosophical chamber drama - a single-room conversation that unfolds into a meditation on time, identity, purpose, and the evolving nature of truth.

"A Conversation Before Leaving" was a light re-enactment of the film without spoiling the actual content of its characters. However, all that follows will require the reader to stop and watch the film, as we now go on to analyze its characters, topics, and philosophical weight.

In hindsight, what makes the film remarkable - especially in light of processual interests - is that it enacts becoming rather than merely describing becoming.

The Man From Earth 2007 | 1080p



~ SPOILERS BELOW ~


I. The Setting

IA. The Speakers and Their Disciplines

The conversation in The Man from Earth works because each character represents a distinct academic discipline. Their professional backgrounds shape the way they respond to John Oldman’s extraordinary, if not audacious, claim of longevity. What emerges is a kind of miniature intellectual ecosystem, gathered within a single room.

John Oldman, the central figure of the story, is a professor of history. His role in the conversation is that of catalyst. He introduces the thought experiment that suggests he may have lived for fourteen thousand years, and in doing so initiates the dialogue which drives the entire film.

Dan, an anthropologist, approaches the claim through the lens of evolutionary science. His instinct is immediate skepticism, attempting to dismantle John’s story through anthropology and human biological development.

Harry, a biologist, focuses on the physiological implications of such a claim. Could the human body sustain such longevity? His questions probe the biological limits of life itself.

Edith, a scholar of Christian theology and religious studies, finds herself increasingly unsettled as the conversation unfolds, particularly when John hints that he may have been connected to the historical origins of Jesus Christ.

Sandy, an archaeologist, exhibits a greater openness to the possibility being entertained. Her training in uncovering the past makes her more willing than others to suspend immediate disbelief.

Art Jenkins, a senior archaeologist and respected academic, represents the stabilizing authority of institutional scholarship. His role is to defend the established intellectual order.

Will Gruber, a psychologist and psychiatrist, interprets the conversation through the framework of mental health. He considers whether John’s narrative might reflect delusion, trauma, or psychological coping.

Together, these figures create a dynamic interplay of intellectual perspectives.


IB. Why This Group Works Dramatically

Seen symbolically, the characters form a microcosm of humanity’s knowledge systems.

CharacterDisciplineSymbolic Role
JohnHistoryLiving memory
DanAnthropologyEvolutionary science
HarryBiologyPhysical limitation
EdithTheologyFaith and belief
SandyArchaeologyCuriosity about the past
ArtAcademic authorityTradition and institutional knowledge
WillPsychologyThe human mind

Within this small gathering we see science, religion, history, and psychology meeting face to face.

The conversation thus becomes more than a discussion about one man’s claim. It becomes a meeting point of the different ways human beings search for truth.


II. The Premise as Philosophical Catalyst

The narrative premise of the film is deceptively simple.

A departing professor gathers together several colleagues before leaving town. During their conversation he suggests, quietly but seriously, that he may have lived continuously for fourteen thousand years, stretching back to the Upper Paleolithic period.

From this moment forward, the film unfolds almost entirely through dialogue. Skepticism, curiosity, disbelief, fascination, and existential unease ripple through the room.

Yet the premise is not designed to be proven. It functions instead as a philosophical invitation.

Rather than asserting that John’s story is true, the film asks a different kind of question:

What if such a thing were possible?

In this sense the film mirrors the philosophical approach of Process Philosopher, Alfred North Whitehead. It does not insist upon a fixed metaphysical claim. Instead it offers a speculative proposition - an imaginative possibility through which deeper truths may emerge.

The room thus becomes a laboratory of thought in which each participant must renegotiate their assumptions about time, identity, and experience.


III. Identity as Process Rather Than Substance

John Oldman is not presented as a static being possessing a fixed identity. Instead he appears as a continuous accumulation of experience.

He changes names.
He adopts new professions.
He leaves before anyone notices that he does not age.

In this sense, memory becomes the only thread binding his life together.

This depiction resonates strikingly with Whitehead’s understanding of the self. For Whitehead, the self is not a permanent substance but a society of experiences unfolding through timeIdentity arises through the integration of past experiences into present consciousness.

John Oldman can consequently be understood as a dramatic illustration of this principle. His life represents an extended continuity of experience - a living stream of memory stretching across millennia.

And yet, the film quietly presses an even deeper question:

If identity is shaped by memory and adaptation rather than essence, then what ultimately anchors the self?


IV. Time, Memory, and the Weight of Experience

Unlike many narratives about immortality, The Man from Earth does not romanticize endless life.

Instead it presents time as an accumulating burden.

John speaks of languages that no longer exist;
Of cultures that have risen and vanished;
Of relationships that must inevitably end.

Time becomes less like a line and more like sedimentary soil, with layers of experience slowly building upon one after the other.

This image resonates strongly with process philosophy. In process thought, the past never fully disappears. Each moment carries forward the accumulated influence of prior experience.

In this sense the past remains objectively immortal within the present.

John Oldman embodies this condition in dramatic form. He is not simply an old man. He is history itself carried forward through a single stream of consciousness.


V. Religion as an Evolving Narrative

One of the film’s most provocative dimensions concerns religion.

At one point John suggests that he may have once attempted to share ideas of compassion and forgiveness during his travels, and that these teachings later became associated with the figure of Jesus Christ.

Whether this claim is meant literally or metaphorically is never fully resolved.

What matters is the implication that religious traditions may evolve through dynamic, layered reinterpretation and transmission over time.

From this perspective, religious meaning is not static. It emerges through the ongoing interaction between stories, communities, and historical context.

Teachings are remembered, reshaped, translated, and sometimes mythologized.

Such a view resonates with a process-oriented approach to theology, where faith is understood not as a fixed deposit but as an ongoing participatory process.

The religious-cum-faith discomfort this suggestion produces within the room reflects a broader human tension. People often long for certainty in matters of faith. Yet lived history continually reshapes the meaning of inherited traditions.


VI. Knowledge, Skepticism, and the Limits of Certainty

Each participant in the room represents a particular epistemic stance.

  • The scientist seeks empirical proof.
  • The historian remains cautiously open.
  • The psychologist searches for psychological explanations.
  • The theologian defends religious belief.

Yet none of these perspectives ultimately resolves the mystery before them.

Instead, the conversation reveals the limits of certainty itself.

Truth in this context is not delivered as a final conclusion. It emerges through dialogue, questioning, and interpretation.

In process terms, reality is not a finished object waiting to be discovered. It is an ongoing event of interpretation shaped by relationships, perspectives, and experience.


VII. Becoming as the Human Condition

As the discussion unfolds, the central question of the film slowly shifts.

It is no longer simply:

“Is John telling the truth?”

Instead the deeper question becomes:

“What does it mean to exist across time?”

Seen in this light, John Oldman is less a supernatural anomaly and more a dramatic exaggeration of the (continuing) human condition.

Human beings themselves are continually changing:

We adapt to new circumstances.
We reinterpret past experiences.
We carry forward memories that shape who we become.

In this sense, we are all participating in processes of becoming - though our timelines are much shorter.


VIII. A Processual Interpretation

Viewed through a Whiteheadian lens, The Man from Earth can be interpreted as a narrative exploration of process metaphysics.

The film illustrates:

  • the continuity of experience across time

  • the formation of identity through accumulated memory

  • the reinterpretation of traditions through continuous historical change

  • the epistemic humility required in confronting the limits of knowledge

John Oldman becomes less a miraculous figure and more a philosophical thought experiment.

He represents the possibility that identity itself may be nothing more than the ongoing integration of experience.


IX. Why the Film Endures

Despite its modest budget and simple setting, the film has achieved enduring popularity.

Its power lies in the questions it raises.

Human beings long for continuity.
We wrestle with the instability of identity.
We seek meaning within the flow of time.

The film quietly asks:

If one could live long enough to witness the rise and fall of civilizations, would wisdom inevitably follow? Or would such longevity simply deepen the weight of memory?

More profoundly, it invites us to consider whether we ourselves are already personally participating in processes of becoming that we barely recognize around ourselves.


Closing Reflection

The Man from Earth is ultimately less about immortality than about the texture of existence itself.

It suggests that identity is not something given once and for all but something continually formed through experience.

Truth is not something possessed but something pursued.

Meaning is not fixed but emerges through participation in the unfolding story of life.

In this sense the film becomes a cinematic parable of processual becoming.

Human life is not a static declaration. It is an unfolding participation in time, memory, and relationship.


Closing Note: A Doorway to the Series

This story functions as a fitting introduction to the reflections that follow.

It does not attempt to argue why we should care about philosophical questions.

Instead it creates the conditions in which caring becomes unavoidable.

From this point forward the conversation continues through new questions:

Why should we care about reality?
Why should we care about becoming?
Why should we care about others?
Why should we care about truth if it continues to change?

The answers may never arrive in final form.

But the questions themselves invite us into a deeper participation in the unfolding process of life.


After the Conversation
by R.E. Slater

The door closed quietly
behind a man who kept walking.

No answers followed him
down the gravel drive,
but many questions had risen.

Behind were a room of scholars
standing among half-packed boxes
amid evening's lengthening shadows.

They had argued about time,
debated about memory,
held stubbornly to the limits of belief.

But none spoke at the moment.
Each were silent.
Contemplative.

Because somewhere -
between a question, and a story -
something had shifted.

A weight had descended,
and the oldest truth in the room
was not fourteen thousand years old.

A quiet realization arose
that life was not something
one could possess...

Only something
to be participated in as
the oldest of processes in the universe.


R.E. Slater
March 5, 2026
@copyright R.E. Slater Publications
all rights reserved



Monday, February 9, 2026

Romantic Irish Poetry



Irish love speaks to loyalty - not possession.
Irish beauty is that of memory - not escape.
Sorrow refers to Ireland's shared inheritance -
    and not private failure.
Her songs dreamt of cultural survival -
    without promise of healing unshut its wounds.
In all, Ireland's promise was to herself -
    built in faithfulness, enchantment, love, and land.

- R.E. Slater

What Songs Were For

Ireland did not sing because the world was gentle.
It sang because it wasn’t,
And she was defiant.

She early learned silence can be a form of death,
    and acts of grievance yet another form.
So she found the narrow road between -
    one that bends,
    one that remembers.

Her poems were never meant to save.
They were meant to keep her human.

When Irish lands were stolen,
    Erin Fair rose from Irish mouths.
When her language thinned,
    she hid it in her melodies.
When her heart broke,
    shee did not call it defeat,
    she called it a new knowing.

Love was never conquest.
It meant staying.
Staying when leaving would have been easier.
Staying when hope came back empty-handed.
Staying long enough for grief
    to learn how to speak without shouting.

You’ll hear it if you listen properly -
    not in the loud lines,
    but in the soft undertones.
The pause before blessing.
The joke told at wakes.
The song that carries sorrow
    without dropping one's grief.

Her poets did not write to escape the world.
They wrote to endure it without becoming cruel.

And if Irish poems sound tender,
    don’t mistake them for weakness.
A people do not learn tenderness
    by living softly,
    but by being scourged,
    and by being harmed.

So if you ask what the old songs were doing,
    what the love poems were really for,
    this is the answer:

They were saying quietly, stubbornly,
    we are still here.
And more than that:
    we still felt,
    we still bled,
    we still died.

And that, in a hard Irish century,
was resistance enough. ☘️


R.E. Slater & ChatGPT
February 8, 2026
@copyright R.E. Slater Publications
all rights reserved





By the Liffey at Dusk
(a major river in eastern Ireland)

The river learned my silent secret,
carrying the vow I never lived,
keeping it unspoken, hidden,
deep within my broken spirit.

At dusk, when the city softened,
and its hidden thieves revive.
There, I watched your shadow,
cross the old bridge forgiven.

If love must fail, let it fail gently,
like rain upon the quays,
leaving but the lingering scent,
of wet rain and damp earth.


R.E. Slater & ChatGPT
February 8, 2026
@copyright R.E. Slater Publications
all rights reserved




Old Love Song for a New Century

I loved you not by trumpet nor vow,
but the way dear 'Erin loves her hills -
knowing her soils will break the heart
when sowing its rocky green fields.

A bounteous harvest ne'er was promised,
though weather and time required;
we could but toil in love's untold pain,
praying our efforts reaped enough.

When grief  comes, let it be human.
And if true love, let it last -
longer than certainty
deeper than hope.


R.E. Slater & ChatGPT
February 8, 2026
@copyright R.E. Slater Publications
all rights reserved




The Country We Carry Within

There are countries you can leave
and countries that walk inside you.
Ireland is the unsettling latter -
with mud on her tongue,
and prayer in her bones.

We gladly inherit her grammars,
her griefs half-sung, half-sworn.
She taught us how to bless the wound,
without naming it holy or right.

And when the night turns cruel,
it is her voice we answer within -
low, cracked, always faithful,
faithful to the bitter end....


R.E. Slater & ChatGPT
February 8, 2026
@copyright R.E. Slater Publications
all rights reserved




A Love Poem Written in Rain

The rain knew you before I did.
It touched your face like memory,
falling as if it had been waiting
centuries to find you.

We spoke a little,
Ireland wanted it so.
But every echoing silence
held words that only bruised.

When you left, the sky did not protest.
It simply kept raining -
as if to say:
love had never belonged here.


R.E. Slater & ChatGPT
February 8, 2026
@copyright R.E. Slater Publications
all rights reserved




A Toast for the Heart Broken

May your sorrows never harden you,
nor seldom joys make you cruel.
May love come late if it must,
but may it come ever true.

May you learn the Irish practice -
that beauty more often limps,
that faith survives in fragments,
and laughter find its own courage.

And should you lose what you loved,
may you lose it singing in the rain.


R.E. Slater & ChatGPT
February 8, 2026
@copyright R.E. Slater Publications
all rights reserved




Between the Roads

The darkling road is narrow,
the kind that doesn’t argue
with stony weather or doubt.
It absorbs its wanderers
and moves along its paths.

A young lass walks its bends,
not because she is certain,
but because stopping
would mean turning around.
The valise pulls hard on her arm
like a question she hasn’t answered.

Behind her, a pause -
a man-shaped hesitation
is left standing in the middle.
Some choices linger like that,
not chasing...
but not letting go.

Ireland does this to people.
It puts space between them
asking what still belongs.
Her rocky walls listen.
Her fields keep their counsel.
Her coastal airs smell like fresh rain
remembering its birthing mother.

Nothing is decided here -
only momentarily revealed.
The road holds both directions,
and love, if it’s real,
will walk its own way too.


R.E. Slater & ChatGPT
February 8, 2026
@copyright R.E. Slater Publications
all rights reserved



The Road That Wouldn’t Decide

The road ran thin between its fields,
no promises lay in its bends,
but hedgerows leaning closely together
listening to hearts pretend.

The sky hung soft with borrowed light,
the day unsure its stays,
with every step she took ahead
left something further away.

She walked with unsure confidence,
wrapped a coat, a hat, her doubts,
her love folded inward like a letter
she had not unfolded back out.

Ireland knew what she did not -
that leaving leaves a wound,
and love might only choose
when to become earthbound.

Behind stood the man she loved
as still as hewn granite stone,
not chasing what was leaving him,
but not brave enough alone.

Ireland held them in its way -
not sorrowed nor disgraced,
but room enough for longing
that growing distance has to face.

No vow was broken on the road,
neither promises fully forsworn.
Some loves cannot be kept,
but neither can they be over-worn.

Love lives like heat in ancient rock
held within the sun's daily passage,
still warmly radiating lively presence,
long after fair orb has disappeared.


R.E. Slater & ChatGPT
February 8, 2026
@copyright R.E. Slater Publications
all rights reserved



Stone-Warm Words

Irish words come slowly,
as its green hills do -
there is no hurry in them,
no need to wake and shine.

They are tender and sturdy,
like stone warmed by sun,
holding the day’s last heat
long after its light has gone.

You can lean your back against them
when the wind turns sharp.
They will not move.
They will not preach.

They remember one's hands -
    those that lifted,
    those that buried,
    those that stayed empty
and still learned to bless.

Such words do not promise rescue.
They offer company.
They sit beside you
until grief learns its own shape.

And when spoken aloud,
they sound like this:
    not hope shouted,
    but endurance sung low -
a warmth kept quietly
for whoever comes next.


R.E. Slater & ChatGPT
February 8, 2026
@copyright R.E. Slater Publications
all rights reserved





FIVE VERSES ON DUBLINTOWN

by R.E. Slater & ChatGPT
February 8, 2026
@copyright R.E. Slater Publications
all rights reserved


1) A ballad in a street-wise Dublin voice
(imagined as hard, lyrical, human)

Still the Liffey keeps its counsel,
carrying every wayward sin downstream,
that the mouths that curse the night
might learn to bless each morning with song.
For in Dublin faire, the broken laugh,
refusing to die and dying to live.


2) A verse in Irish romantic-tragic tone
(imagined in the voices of Moore and Mangan)

Grief walks softly in Dublin town,
heard its doorways and late prayers,
in the hands passing bread when words have failed.
Her beloved city remembers what was  done,
and still dares to forgive by morning.


3) A verse with a satirical Irish bite
(imagined with a Swiftian edge)

Ireland town sells it Guinness by the pint
with an Irish grin and a blessing.
Its truth is traded cheap at the bar
but its loyalty is held most dearly.
Each conscience will come to pay a price
without ever admitting its payment.


4) An elegiac civic lament
(imagined as an urban pastoral with Irish cadence)

In Dublin's rain-soaked streets
are heard the old songs,
perhaps centuries old.
Of mercy learned late,
and forgiveness bruised.


5) An Irish proverb
(imagined as an Irish toast)

Dublin is a city of chances and cheats
and back-stabbing snakes,
where the worst of humanity
collects the poison of their country
and still calls it home.


Note: The first 4-lines are from a quip
recited in the movie "Leap Year"




SAMPLE IRISH BLESSINGS

An Irish Blessing

May the road rise to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
the rains fall soft upon your fields,
and until we meet again,
may God hold you
in the hollow of his hand.


An Irish Wedding Toast
(traditional)

May you live as long as you want,
and never want as long as you live.


A fuller Irish Wedding Blessing
(often paired with the toast)

May God be with you and bless you,
may you see your children’s children,
may you be poor in misfortune and rich in blessings,
may you know nothing but happiness
from this day forward





IRISH ROMANTIC POETRY

Irish Romantic poetry (roughly 1790s–1840s) often carries a double charge: the classic Romantic repertoire (nature, longing, memory, the sublime, the solitary voice) braided with Ireland’s specific historical pressures (Union, censorship, dispossession, exile, famine, cultural recovery). The results are lyrics that can look like “love songs” on the surface while operating as coded political speech underneath - a hallmark of the period’s Irish inflection.

What makes Irish, “Irish” (and not just Romantic)

  • Song, as national memory: poems designed to be sung, or written in the atmosphere of traditional airs, where melody becomes a carrier of belonging. Thomas Moore is the emblem here.

  • Allegory under pressure: Examples: “Beloved woman” as Ireland, “love's lament” as nationalist vow - are strategies that let poets gesture politically when direct nationalism could be dangerous. (Mangan’s “Dark Rosaleen” is the classic case.)

  • Translation, imitation, “masking” voices: Irish poets frequently write through persona, pseudo-translation, or re-voicing older materials - a Romantic fascination with fragment, ruin, and recovered song, intensified by colonial language politics.


The many tracts from Irish poets who fought for Irish Independence




IRISH ROMANTIC POETRY
Remaining Human Under Pressure

Wikipedia - Irish poetry

Wikipedia - Irish history

Wikipedia - Irish Independence

Irish Romantic poetry is often mistaken for escape into beauty. In truth, it is something harder and more disciplined: a way of remaining human under pressure. Where much English Romanticism retreats into private vision or solitary nature, Irish Romantic feeling functions as an ethical stance. To feel deeply in a world shaped by dispossession, censorship, exile, hunger, and ridicule was already a form of resistance. These poets were not writing because the world was kind, but because refusing tenderness would have meant surrender.

This is why song mattered so much. Irish Romantic poetry is inseparable from music, memory, and oral survival. Cadence and melody carried what print could not always protect. Love poems bore nations. Blessings carried grief without naming it. Beauty became a way of remembering without hardening.

This pattern is set early by Thomas Moore, whose Irish Melodies fuse lyric beauty with national loss. In poems such as “The Harp That Once Through Tara’s Halls,” music becomes history you can carry. Moore’s power is soft rather than strident - no rage, no slogans, only elegy. Romantic love and cultural memory are indistinguishable, and the harp stands as Ireland herself: broken, silenced, yet still sacred.

That fusion intensifies in James Clarence Mangan, whose work inhabits dream, hunger, disguise, and rebellion. In “Dark Rosaleen,” eros becomes oath. The beloved is Ireland, but she is loved with a lover’s ferocity, even to apocalypse. Mangan’s genius lies in dangerous tenderness - devotion that never names itself as politics, yet burns with it all the same. Romantic obsession becomes a coded vow for fidelity.

Alongside these public voices stands the quieter inwardness of Mary Tighe. Her Psyche; or, the Legend of Love (Canto II) adapts classical myth into a Romantic psychology of trial, loss, and return. Love used in this sense is not conquest nor drama but moral formation coupled with interior journey. This is Irish Romanticism in a classical key, emotionally disciplined, utilizing myth as inner weather rather than spectacle.

A later restraint appears in poets such as Sir Samuel Ferguson and translators like Edward Walsh, where feeling is held back rather than paraded. Love survives not by declaration, but by endurance. Emotion moves like weather across land and sea; Ireland's sorrow has geography. Even in translation, these poems retain an oral gravity that feels older than literature itself.

Across these writers, certain truths recur. Irish Romantic love is rarely possession - it is more like fidelity itself. Waiting, enduring, returning, and loving what may never be won, dominate the poetry. What is often misread as sentimentality is in fact restraint: craft learned under threat. Saying too much could silence you; saying it plainly could erase you; saying it beautifully might let it survive.

Most importantly, this poetry refuses despair without ever lying. It is honest with itself. It does not deny suffering, resolve it, or redeem it neatly. What it rejects is despair’s final word. It insists, quietly, stubbornly, that sorrow can coexist with dignity, loss with beauty, and history with hope.

If one sentence were to be written in the margin of every Irish Romantic poem, it would be this:

These poems are not asking the world to be kind - they are choosing to remain human even when it is not.

That choice - tender and sturdy, like stone warmed by sun - is the heart of the tradition, and the reason it still speaks. ☘️



A SUMMARY OF IRISH POETRY

1. Romantic feeling in Ireland is an ethical stance, not a luxury

In much English Romanticism, emotion often functions as retreat - into nature, imagination, or private vision. But in Ireland, emotion is closer to moral resistance.

To feel deeply in a world shaped by dispossession, censorship, hunger, exile, and ridicule is already an act of defiance. Irish Romantic poetry is saying:

  • I will still love.
  • I will still sing.
  • I will still remember.

Not because it’s beautiful - but because to stop would mean surrender.


2. Irish poems are never naive - they are disciplined

What often gets misread as sentimentality is actually restraintIrish poets learned early that:

  • stating too much could get you silenced,
  • stating your feelings too plainly could get you ignored,
  • stating your art beautifully could let it survive.

As love poems carried nations,
Songs carry histories, and
Blessings carry grief without naming them.

This is not softness. It is craft under threat.


3. Love is rarely possession - it is fidelity

Irish Romantic love is not about conquest, rapture, or triumph. It is about:

  • waiting,
  • enduring,
  • returning,
  • loving what may never be “won.”

This is why separation, absence, exile, and longing dominate Irish poetry. The love worth writing about is the love that stays even when it cannot succeedThis was why Irish love poetry feels older than romance itself.


4. Song matters more than text

Another underlined truth: many of these poems were meant to be heard, not silently read. Cadence, repetition, musicality, and memorability mattered because:

  • books could be banned,
  • literacy become uneven,
  • but memory was safer than print.

Irish Romantic poetry belongs as much to the ear and the body as to the page.


5. The poetry refuses despair - but never lies

This may be the most important thing. Irish Romantic poetry does not deny suffering. It does not resolve it. It does not redeem it neatly. What it refuses is despair’s finality

It insists, quietly, stubbornly, that:

  • sorrow can coexist with dignity,
  • loss can coexist with beauty,
  • history does not get the last word.

This insistence is why Irish poems have endured.




THOMAS MOORE
(1779–1852)

Wikipedia - Thomas Moore
Moore’s Irish Melodies made him internationally famous and helped set a pattern: romantic feeling fused to national loss and cultural pride. Moore's lyric nationalism was expressed through song. Similarly, few poems capture Irish Romanticism so cleanly as “The Harp That Once Through Tara’s Halls,” speaking to music as memory, and beauty as resistance.

“The harp that once through Tara’s halls
The soul of music shed…”

What resonates here is Moore’s genius for fragile power  - no rage, no slogans, just elegy. The harp becomes Ireland herself: broken, silenced, but still sacred. Romantic love and national loss are indistinguishable. His poem is a beautifully elegiac lyric about Ireland’s lost glory, first published in Irish Melodies (1821).

The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls
by Thomas Moore

The harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,
As if that soul were fled. —
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory's thrill is o'er,
And hearts, that once beat high for praise,
Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells;
The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives,
Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.



'Tis The Last Rose of Summer
by Thomas Moore

'TIS the last rose of Summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh!

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o'er the bed
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away!
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?





JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN
(1803–1849)

Wikipedia Biography - James Clarence Mangan
“Dark Rosaleen”  is one of the great Irish poems of disguise - a love poem that is not only a love poem.
“O my Dark Rosaleen,
Do not sigh, do not weep…”

What resonates is the dangerous tenderness. The beloved is Ireland, yes, but she is loved with a lover’s ferocity, even to apocalypse. Romantic devotion becomes political vow without ever naming itself as such.

Dark Rosaleen
by James Clarence Mangan

O my dark Rosaleen,
    Do not sigh, do not weep!
The priests are on the ocean green,
    They march along the deep.
There’s wine from the royal Pope,
    Upon the ocean green;   
And Spanish ale shall give you hope,   
    My Dark Rosaleen!
    My own Rosaleen!

Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,
Shall give you health, and help, and hope,
    My Dark Rosaleen!

Over hills, and thro’ dales,
    Have I roam’d for your sake;
All yesterday I sail’d with sails
    On river and on lake.
The Erne, at its highest flood,
    I dash’d across unseen,
For there was lightning in my blood,
    My Dark Rosaleen!

    My own Rosaleen!
O, there was lightning in my blood,
Red lighten’d thro’ my blood.
    My Dark Rosaleen!


All day long, in unrest,
    To and fro, do I move.
The very soul within my breast
    Is wasted for you, love!
The heart in my bosom faints
    To think of you, my Queen,
My life of life, my saint of saints,
    My Dark Rosaleen!
    My own Rosaleen!
To hear your sweet and sad complaints,
My life, my love, my saint of saints,
    My Dark Rosaleen!
Woe and pain, pain and woe,
    Are my lot, night and noon,
To see your bright face clouded so,
    Like to the mournful moon.
But yet will I rear your throne
    Again in golden sheen;

‘Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone,
    My Dark Rosaleen!
    My own Rosaleen!
‘Tis you shall have the golden throne,
‘Tis you shall reign, and reign alone,
    My Dark Rosaleen!

Over dews, over sands,
    Will I fly, for your weal:
Your holy delicate white hands
    Shall girdle me with steel.
At home, in your emerald bowers,
    From morning’s dawn till e’en,
You’ll pray for me, my flower of flowers,
    My Dark Rosaleen!
    My fond Rosaleen!
You’ll think of me through daylight hours
My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,
    My Dark Rosaleen!

I could scale the blue air,
    I could plough the high hills,
Oh, I could kneel all night in prayer,
    To heal your many ills!
And one beamy smile from you
    Would float like light between
My toils and me, my own, my true,
    My Dark Rosaleen!
    My fond Rosaleen!
Would give me life and soul anew,
    My Dark Rosaleen!

O, the Erne shall run red,
    With redundance of blood,
The earth shall rock beneath our tread,   
    And flames wrap hill and wood,

And gun-peal and slogan-cry
    Wake many a glen serene,
Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die,
    My Dark Rosaleen!
    My own Rosaleen!
The Judgement Hour must first be nigh,
Ere you can fade, ere you can die,
    My Dark Rosaleen!





MARY TIGHE
(1772–1810)

Wikipedia Biography - Mary Tighe

Tighe’s Psyche; or, the Legend of Love retells Cupid and Psyche in six cantos, Spenserian-influenced, moving from close adaptation into freer mythic-Romantic quest and inward  development. Often overlooked, Tighe’s work is deeply Romantic in its interiority, mythic, and emotional discipline.

“Yet love is still the cause of love.”

What resonates is Mary's quiet inwardness. Love is not conquest or drama but formation, a moral and psychological journey. This is Irish Romanticism in a classical key, but the feeling is unmistakably intimate.
 



SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON
(1810–1886)

Wikipedia biography - Samuel Ferguson
“Dear Dark Head” - A poem of love so restrained it almost breaks your heart by refusing to.

“Dear dark head, that never wert
More dear to me than now…”

What resonates is the Irish emotional ethic: deep feeling held back, never paraded. Love survives not by declaration, but by endurance. This restraint is a hallmark of Irish Romantic lyric distinct from English effusiveness.

Dear Dark Head

PUT your head, darling, darling, darling,
    Your darling black head my heart above;
Oh, mouth of honey, with the thyme for fragrance,
    Who with heart in breast could deny you love?

Oh, many and many a young girl for me is pining,
    Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind free,
For me, the foremost of our gay young fellows;
    But I’d leave a hundred, pure love, for thee!

Then put your head, darling, darling, darling,
    Your darling black head my heart above;
Oh, mouth of honey, with the thyme for fragrance,
    Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?





EDWARD WALSH
(1805–1850)

Folio - Popular Irish Songs (1883) by Walsh, Edward
Ballads, Irish, Irish poetry -- Translations into English,
English poetry -- Translations from Irish

Wikipedia Biography - Edward Walsh
Walsh’s translations of Irish-language songs preserve a romantic intensity shaped by loss and hunger.

“My grief on the sea,
How the waves of it roll…”

What resonates in their passages is the sense that love and land share a common nervous system. Emotion moves like weather; sorrow has geography. When translated, the poems retain an oral, sung quality that feels older than literature.