hm…thought it might be nice to have a thread to share our musings about piping…silly ones, touching ones…anything that’s poetry…
here’s one to start us off…a sonnet…
The Old Man’s Pipes
I do remember well the sound he made
As he rhythmically squeezed the old hide bag.
Tho’ I never knew the tunes that he played,
They played in my mind when his spirit flagged.
I recall with joy the hum of his drones
And the song of the regulator keys.
I relished each of his chanter’s sweet tones
As his fingers flew with deft expertise.
I see the old man’s pipes lay silent now
On the table in the room of the wake;
The aging wood and the tarnished brass once proud,
The still bellows that cannot music make.
I stare at them, the airless keys I touch
But cannot make the sounds I loved so much. -Antaine 2004
Here’s one written by my friend Jim Emmons, inspired by a few tunes by Mr. D’Arcy and myself one afternoon.
At Tea, With Píobaireacht
The tea on the table,
And the smiles all around,
Steam quietly mixed with
The wonderful sweet sound;
The drones played out the past,
Chords kept minds on changes,
Flying fingers flapped
Revealing sorrow’s ranges.
Their pipes down for luncheon,
But music still on air,
We ate cake and legend,
The joy of the píobaire;
The pipes breathed once again,
The chanter’s charm was cast,
Smiling sorrow swelled
Filling us to the last.
The pipes rested in case,
And we set out for home,
But the music lingered–
The melody and drone;
These pipes we’ll hear again,
When old friends we will meet,
Peeling pipes pounding
And with smiles in the street.
_____An Máistreás Píobaire
Is máistreás cruálach na píoba
Is fusaide é a dhéanamh
Bean a shásamh
Agus an bean níos teo
sa leaba.
__________ -Antaine 2004
