"My wife, nee Christina Riley, needs a list of Irish Poets. If you have a favorite poet or poem, would you be so kind as to post it for her. She wishes to introduce the Irish soul to the kids in middle school in central Texas."

Finally, since Karen E. Dennis was foolhardy enough, some time ago, to post some poems by Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill, which skated on thin ice across the sixth commandment, causing me to regress to my latent redemptorist missionary personality (how did Gerard Cunningham know that?), I felt I should post an Irish language morality poem, as a salutary warning to those (post Vatican II) bishops and politicians, who may be tempted to consort with harlots (I must get a grip; I feel the redemptorist in me trying to burst forth). Here it is - once again from 'An Crann Faoi Bláth - The Flowering Tree' - Rún na Striapaí, by Deaglán Collinge. The translation is by the author.

'Scríobhfaidh mé scéal mo bheatha',
Arsa an striapach lá,
'Is leis an bhfáltas
Mairfidh mé go cuibhiúil feasta'.

Ar an bpointe, chroith buncloch
Clainne stáit is eaglaise
Is níor dhúthracthaí paidir
An fhir chlainne is an polaiteora
Ar a nglúine
Ná achaní an easpaig
Ag ulmhú os cionn na maighdine:
Mar ó rinne sí súgán díobh
Ní dea-chlú go súgán sneachta
I mbéal striapaí.

The Harlot's Secret
trans., Deaglán Collinge

On the instant the cornerstone
Of family church and state
Trembled loudly
And no more earnest
Was the prayer of family man
And polititian on their knees
Than the pleading
Of the bishop
Crouched low before the virgin
For once around her finger
What was social status but a puff of smoke
From a harlot's mouth.

Sin agaibh an focal deirneach uaimse ar an abhar seo.