A Poem in Response to the Empty School (Of Kilwaughter)

Je suis seule. Or am I? You decide by the end of this blog! 

​In this blog, I'm going to discuss the process of creating a poem, which was written in response to 'The Empty School.' 

'The Empty School' is a seventeenth-century Irish poem, which came to my attention through writer Ciarán Ó Maitiú. Check out Volume 50 of The Glynnes journal to learn all about his work on this project. I will begin with my own response to it and then show you the original Irish and an English translation. Here goes!

1.
Je suis seule, amangst men
Anocht, the night, sans femmes
Desolée, Disquiet. I am
Aye sair, skuffet again.

2.
Understanding not, yet well
Nane that I ken, nane that I hear,
nocht o Gall Gael, ocht dae I fear.
C’est quoi, la langue maternelle?
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3.
Iverie ringfort black wi folk --
noo deserted — serrait 
plein si je pouvais trouver 
une porte, a door, a ‘deur as’ I walk

4.
through the school house willing,
affen and still. But richt noo, anois,
seo é mo sheans! What chance?
Je n'ai pas de chance. Attending.

5. 
The first scullery of learning --
Patterns. Toiling toile de lin.
Red emmers lowin, weemen rhymin
Alternative scoil — feminin.

6. 
The second scullery of learning --
Light. Waxing through la petite fenêtre
Solas. Ach, och, find a metre!
Weemen needling, bleeding, earning.

7. 
The third scullery of learning --
Invisibility. Fingers strumming
chain stitching, index thumbing
White on white, yarns, yearning.

8. 
Three sanctuaries sit in the whins,
nae maister poets revered in stane,
nae past pupils pupiling sons
and daughters of kindred yins.

9.
Little children, keep yourselves 
From painted idol poets. Seek
A wardrobe in the east, of meek-
ness. Sit lightly on any shelves.

10.
In the time o poetry, lang agae,
a winter’s nicht was cutty linen.
In the time efter poetry weemen
thrangt in scullerys sewin. Sae,

11.
machars o mystic poetry, forget nat
dikters o mystic poetry, forget
nat broke, begotten, begat 
white satin thrieds of lore och, and but; 

12.
Neamh is heaven. Nav, if you will.
Nyow in the quarters eight or seven
Ríocht na bhflaitheas, a Kingdom --
when heaven was a school on a hill.

What was that all about? Am I an Irish expert? No, definitely not. My Irish is very basic, but I've been getting to know the Irish-language poets of my home town lately, as you'll discover in my latest novel, The Secret Diary of Stephanie Agnew. (The novel is written in English).

Let's have a look at the original poem. I'll include the English translation by Osborn Bergin and then my own response. This will look long!

1.
Aonar dhamhsa eidir dhaoinibh,
atú anocht go neamhfhaoiligh:
am aonarán a ccionn cháigh,
’s ionn gan aobharán d’fagháil.

English by Bergin:

I am alone among men; 
to-night I am joyless: 
left desolate after the others, 
finding no food of gladness.

My Response:

Je suis seule, amangst men
Anocht, the night, sans femmes
Desolée, Disquiet. I am
Aye sair, skuffet again.

2.
Ní thuig mé an lucht so ag labhra,
gá dtá ar tteanga mháthardha:
ar n-aos aithnigh ní léir linn,
mh’aithghin féin ó nach faicim.

English by Bergin:
I do not understand these speakers 
who speak our mother tongue: 
I can find none that I know, 
for I see no one like myself.

My response:
Understanding not, yet well
Nane that I ken, nane that I hear,
nocht o Gall Gael, ocht dae I fear.
C’est quoi, la langue maternelle?

3. 
Ionann liom gach longphort lán
is uaigneas d’éis mo chompán:
mar sin budh daoinighe dhamh,
aoinfhile as tigh dhá tteagmhadh.

English by Bergin:
Every full encampment is to me
the same as a desert after my comrades, 
yet it would be crowded to me 
if there were but one poet within.

My response:
Iverie ringfort black wi folk --
noo deserted — serrait 
plein si je pouvais trouver 
une porte, a door, a ‘deur as’ I walk


4 Teóra ceardcha ’nar chleacht sinn
áineas d’fagháil dom intinn,
nach taighlim na trí ceardcha,
do shní fhaighlinn mh’aigeanta.

Bergin’s Translation:
The three forges wherein I was wont 
to find mental delight, 
that I cannot visit these forges 
wears away the armoury of my mind.

My response:
through the school house willing,
affen and still. But richt noo, anois,
seo é mo sheans! What chance?
Je n'ai pas de chance. Attending.

5. 
Teach meabhraighthe ar mac soirbhidh,
rob áit oiris d’ógbhuidhnibh,
grís deargtha agus sí solas,
rob í ar gceardcha céadamhas.

Bergin’s Translation:
The house of memorising of our gentle lads-
it was a trysting- place of youthful companies-
embers red and shining, that was
our forge at the first.

My response:
The first scullery of learning --
Patterns. Toiling toile de lin.
Red emmers lowin, weemen rhymin
Alternative scoil — feminin.

6.
Teach luighe ar lochta samhla,
uinivers na healadhna,
dánbhoth ór dhoichealgtha sinn,
roicheardcha ar n-ánroth innill.

Bergin’s Translation:
The house of reclining for such as we, 
the university of art, poetic cell that kept 
us from beguilement, this was the great
forge of our trained ánruith.

My response:
The second scullery of learning --
Light. Waxing through la petite fenêtre
Solas. Ach, och, find a metre!
Weemen needling, bleeding, earning.

7. 
Teach breithibh gach gréasa gloin
an treas tech dar ttrí cceardchoibh,
ór lia snáth feithleannta fis,
’nar ghnáth éincheardcha an oiris.

Bergin’s Translation:
The house of the critic of each fine work
of art was the third house of our three forges, 
which multiplied the clinging tendrils
of knowledge, wherein the very forge of science was wont to be.

My response:
The third scullery of learning --
Invisibility. Fingers strumming
chain stitching, index thumbing
White on white, yarns, yearning.

8.
Trí rómha a ngabhmaois grádha,
trí ceardchadha congmhála
do dhreamuibh dile re dán,
tighe ceanguil na gcompán.

Bergin’s Translation:
Three sanctuaries wherein we took rank, 
three forges that sus-tained 
the loving companies of artists, 
houses that bound comrades together.

My response:
Three sanctuaries sit in the whins,
nae maister poets revered in stane,
nae past pupils pupiling sons
and daughters of kindred yins.

9.
Beannocht leó a los a saoire,
dronga ar nár cheisd cruadhlaoighe,
an coimhthionál dar chóir searc,
doircheadhán dóibh nír dhoircheacht.

Bergin’s Translation:
A blessing on them for their nobility, 
men to whom hard poems were no perplexity: 
that gathering worthy of love, dark verse
was to them no darkness.

My response:
Little children, keep yourselves 
From painted idol poets. Seek
A wardrobe in the east, of meek-
ness. Sit lightly on any shelves.

10.
Ba haithghearr eatorra sin
lá earraigh, aghaidh gheimhrigh:
an lucht téarnó do-ní a-nois
mí don éanló ’na n-éagmhois.

Bergin’s Translation:
In their midst a spring day 
or a winter's night was brief: 
Lacking them those who have escaped 
make a month now of a single day.

My response:
In the time o poetry, lang agae,
a winter’s nicht was cutty linen.
In the time efter poetry weemen
thrangt in scullerys sewin. Sae,


11.
Ionnsa an t-anshaothar orra,
nach fuighid fir fhoghloma
gréas snáthsholas na suadh nglan,
dar dhual fáthfhoras focal.
Bergin’s Translation:

Hard is their toil when men of learning 
find not the bright-threaded artistry 
of illustrious scholars, to whom belonged the
mystic import of words.

My response: 
machars o mystic poetry, forget nat
dikters o mystic poetry, forget
nat broke, begotten, begat 
white satin thrieds of lore och, and but; 

12.
Dursan an taobh dhá dtáinig
a mhoille thrá thionáilid;
fatha sgaoilidh na sgoile
Gaoidhil Macha ag moghsoine.

Bergin’s Translation:
Woe to the quarter whence came their slackness
in meeting together! 
The cause of the dispersion of the school is that
the Gaels of Macha are in bondage.

My response:
Neamh is heaven. Nav, if you will.
Nyow in the quarters eight or seven
Ríocht na bhflaitheas, a Kingdom --
when heaven was a school on a hill.

Hopefully, the shape of things is a bit clearer. But what about the content? 

Here is a note from Osborn Bergin (1873-1950): 

The above poem probably belongs to the early part of the 17th century. The last of the bardic schools are said to have been closed about 1641. By that time the old profession of poet and man of letters in the traditional style had come to an end. The writings of those who had grown up under the old system, and had seen the downfall of the society on which their livelihood depended, are melancholy reading. The three forges referred to are the three grades or classes through which the students passed. In the second they were taught to compose in the dark, each in his own room, to avoid distractions. There are many indications that the student's life was a pleasant one. The Anroth was the poet next in rank to the ollamh. Macha - Eamhain Mhacha, the capital of ancient Ulster. There is another stanza in the MS. which is corrupt and unintelligible, and the poem is obviously incomplete. 


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If you manage to get hold of the latest Glynns, you'll learn a little bit more about this poem.

Now, for a note from me. It's odd to explain a poem, and so I won't go through it line by line. Hopefully you'll have enough GCSE French to get by! Also, I've tried to translate bits and pieces within the narrative while gyping about with words! 

In my yarn with the poet, I imagine the bardic school to be in the townland of Altscale in Kilwaughter. It is at the foot of Agnew’s Hill and has some interesting historic ruins. The area is now called Mooredyke and Hightown. In the 1600s, Kilwaughter parish had seven or eight quarters. 'The five quarters' was also known as Ogneeve lands or Agnew lands. The townland of Altscale had a portion called Lisnadrumbard. Kilwaughter parish, if you don't know it, is next to Larne parish in historical terms. It also overlooks Galloway in Scotland.

Gall Gael was the term used in the period of Scandinavian invasion in the Scottish Isles to denote a foreign gael. Somerled or Somhairle of the Isles (d. 1164) apparently had a Gaelic mother and Scandinavian father and many leading families were descended from him, including the MacDonnells of the Glens, whose influence included the Larne area.

A poet called Fear Flatha Ó Gnímh also claimed descendence from the MacDonnells/MacDonnells. (Ogniuu was the English transcription of his name, while his father’s name was transcribed Ogneif on a Latin document). Fear Flatha had the status of ollamh (professor) and ran a school of poetry. In one of his poems, he discusses his practise of lying in the dark to compose, and I allude to this in my novel. Fear Flatha wrote mainly for the MacDonnells, and his family appear to have had strong links with Scotland and the Agnew family, who also went by the name Ogneeve.

Kilwaughter was settled by Galloway people in the 1600s. They spoke both Irish and Scots. Irish was still relevant to Kilwaughter in 1700 when Eoín sold his family’s manuscripts. It possibly survived in some form throughout the 1700s, though in this period we can start to see how all the languages of the land meld to produce what we know today to be Ulster Scots. Kilwaughter remains one of the strongest Scots speaking areas in Northern Ireland, but the land saw various linguistic influences over time and you can learn about that on my Agnew Project page.

The history of the bardic women has not been recorded. In this poem, I imagine the women's descendants working in the linen trade, stitching white on white — invisibility being a symbol of women’s writing in the time of Fear Flatha and a symbol of the place of women in history: if we look closely, they are there, white on white. 

Anyone remotely interested or suis-je seule?

Oh, and in case I forget, please do tell your friends about my latest novel. It was written in English and it can be found here. 
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