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“Who're them?" says he to the curate.
"Them are the fallen angels," says the curate.
They had a human form, no wings. God took the wings off of 'em after Lucifer rebelled - that way they couldn't go back, d'you see. They had no wings. But there was so many of 'em that you couldn't drive a knife down between 'em. They were as thick as hair on a dog's back. They were the finest people he ever seen. And whatever way he looked at 'em, some o' the finest girls he ever seen was in it, he said. They had to be good-looking, you know! 'Twas the sin o' pride put Lucifer down, d'you see. The best-looking angel in Heaven, 'twas the sin o' pride put him down. I s'pose they were nearly all as good-looking.”
― Eddie Lenihan, Meeting the Other Crowd : The Fairy Stories of Hidden Ireland

“â€� in these new days and in these new pages a philosophical tradition of the spontaneity of speculation kind has been rekindled on the sacred isle of Éire, regardless of its creative custodian never having been taught how to freely speculate, how to profoundly question, and how to playfully define.

Spontaneity of speculation being synonymous with the philosophical-poetic, the philosophical-poetic with the rural philosopher-poet, and by roundelay the rural philosopher-poet thee with the spontaneity of speculation be.

And by the way of the rural what may we say?
A philosopher-poet of illimitable space we say.

Iohannes Scottus Ériugena the metaphor of old salutes you; salutes your lyrical ear and your skilful strumming of the rippling harp.

(Source: Hearing in the Write, Canto 19, Ivy-muffled)”
― Richard Mc Sweeney, Hearing in the Write

“And there, on that road, that very minute, he started to play - the most lonesome music that them priests ever in their lives heard. It brought water out o' their teeth, so it did.”
― Eddie Lenihan, Meeting the Other Crowd : The Fairy Stories of Hidden Ireland

“My Éireann by Stewart Stafford

Éireann is my maiden,
Titian grace spun gold,
Fêted for her fairness,
A goddess sacrificed.

All-seeing eye of piety,
But mauled with scars,
In repose and melding,
With the ire of the land.

In perennial motion,
Rivers meet the sea,
Gaze upon a dark pool,
Soubrette for new suitors.

© Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford