Poet’s Corner

I have so many great memories of fabulous days at the seaside as a child. We used to wind down the car windows a few miles before and celebrate when we could smell the sea

At the Sea-Side

BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

When I was down beside the sea
A wooden spade they gave to me
To dig the sandy shore.
My holes were empty like a cup.
In every hole the sea came up
Till it could come no more.

SEA-WEED

Sea-weed sways and sways and swirls
as if swaying were its form of stillness;
and if it flushes against fierce rock
it slips over it as shadows do, without hurting itself.

D.H. Lawrence

eu.toa.st/blogs/magazine/bathing-in-seaweed-2

If you have not tried a hot seaweed bath give yourself a treat as soon as you can. Clare and Sligo have centres. If you are sea swimming find an area with seaweed and try it.

LOVERS ON ARAN by Séamus Heaney

The timeless waves, bright sifting, broken glass,
Came dazzling around, into the rocks,
Came glinting, sifting from the Americas

To possess Aran. Or did Aran rush
To throw wide arms of rock around a tide
That yielded with an ebb, with a soft crash?

Did sea define the land or land the sea?
Each drew new meaning from the waves’ collision.
Sea broke on land to full identity.

EXULTATION IS THE GOING

Exultation is the going
Of an inland soul to sea-
Past the houses, past the headlands,
Into deep Eternity!

Bred as we, among the mountains
Can the sailor understand
The divine intoxication
Of the first league out from land?

Emily Dickinson

DO THONN BHEAG A thonn bheag fhann, A ghluaiseas go mall Ag triall duit ar thráigh. Ní heol duit do thús Is ní dod’ dheoin A ghluaisis chun cinn Ar dhroim mhór na bóchna. Ní fada do ré, Óir ar ghainimh na trá, Is cúr bán do dheireadh. Ach ná bí in éad Leis an tonn mhór thréan; Cé nárbh ard do ghlór Rinnis do dhícheall, Is cúr ar thráigh A deireadh siúd freisin.

TO A TINY WAVE Weak and tiny wave Slowly rolling in On your way to the shore, You don’t know your genesis And it’s not of your own free will That you roll along On the vast back of the ocean. And your time is not long, For you end up as foam On a sandy beach. But do not envy Any high and mighty waves: Your voice may not have rung out To the skies But you did the best you could, And foam on a beach Is how they end up, too.

by Máirtín Ó Direáin
Translated by Frank Sewell