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The Brus Book III

The lord of Lorn attacks the king's men]

The lord off Lorne wonnyt thar-by
That wes capitale ennymy
To the king for his emys sak
Jhon Comyn, and thocht for to tak
5 Vengeance apon cruell maner.
Quhen he the king wyst wes sa ner
He assemblyt his men in hy,
And had intill his cumpany
The barounys off Argyle alsua.
10 Thai war a thousand weill or ma
And come for to suppris the king
That weill wes war of thar cummyng.
Bot all to few with him he had
The-quhethir he bauldly thaim abaid,
15 And weill ost at thar fryst metyng
War layd at erd but recoveryng.
The kingis folk full weill thaim bar

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poem by John Barbour
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As a Senator I am opposed to duelling. As Ben. Wade, I recognize the code.

quote by Benjamin F. Wade
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It was a very odd household, because the grandmothers were so different. Both of them had their own pianos. So it would be duelling pianos by grandmothers.

quote by Diane Cilento
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A Child is Born

A child is born as duelling parallels become one,
At this instant a star dissolves into the expanse of space
To be reborn as the most fragile of entities.
The death of the star is mourned throughout an eternity of sorrow
As news of new life is spoken upon the tongues of men.

poem by David Lacey
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Chasing A Memory

I thought i saw you
In the carriage of a train
I ran the platform
It wasn't you.
Yet I carried on in vain
Chasing a memory.
I thought I heard you
Say, 'Kevin i love you'
As I stood
A dreamer in a supermarket queue
I turned around
To misty visions of you.
And my heart still skipped a beat
Chasing a memory
With crippled feet.
I thought I felt
Your softest kiss upon my cheek
I went to hug you
And heard a lost angel speak.
Then I caught your scent

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poem by Kevin East
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Some Clerihews

David Attenborough,
nature lover thorough
Intrepid explorer
of fauna and flora.

James Hansen
claims sanction
for future wealth,
grandchildren's health.

Richard Dawkins
grew four paw-fins
picked carte blanche
from ev'ry branch.

Julia Gillard,
duelling for bill hard
Save carbon tax
from Abbotts's axe.

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poem by Diane Hine
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Migrants and the Breeze

Upon the shore by Goree Island,
The Green Cape's western coast
Senghor's spirit of poetry
Perfumes the evening smoke

The night vibrates to duelling drums
Youthful fingers point to the north
To trace a path for emigrants
By bearings that the slaveboats took

The breeze is a playful character
Dancing a funana with the trees
Teasing, arousing the rushing waves
That grasp for home on the narrow shore

Great masks guard the coastline from invaders
Insisting on history that Africa owns
The Wolof spirit exceeds the present
Beachwalkers hold the future close.

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poem by Frank Bana
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Punchestown

Twas the music took me there,
not the horses, funny that;
Bets and tunes in harmony interweaving,
busking like mad
the duelling whistlers
turned some heads
on ladies day.

Unlike Raifteirí we could
see our conceited audience
we played to the full
but tight pockets,
a crew that would make
Carolan himself cringe
or drive Dáibhí Ó Bruadair
into a rant
of satirical lampoon.

Hats, shades, zany dresses
and fake tan,

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poem by Ciarán Kelly
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Double Full Moons In The Thermal Panes Across The Street

Double full moons in the thermal panes across the street,
elaborate fractals of disproportionate replicates
in a seasick multiverse warped by the aging ripples of the glass.
I see Li Po drowning in all of them trying to embrace
the euphemistic screening myth of his suicide. I don't think
a lotus bloomed where he died, but Jesus has a star
where he was born, so let's put one there anyway
for a man who sang and drank and chanced his path
through life because no one offered him a job as a bureaucrat.
I love the double entendres of the unadorned.
How the waterlilies land like migrating swans
in the wetlands of the windows, and don't expect to drown
like Narcissus in the mirrors of their own reflections.
But then I'm not in the habit of looking at things
like the emergency mentor of telescopes that suffer
nervous breakdowns looking for their third eye among the stars
as if it were interred in neuronic masses of black matter
and you could uproot it like a grail quest for ginseng
in the deep woods of Lanark County if you know where to look.

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poem by Patrick White
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Letter To Sainte-Beuve

On the old oak benches, more shiny and polished
than links of a chain that were, each day, burnished
rubbed by our human flesh, we, still un-bearded,
trailed our ennui, hunched, round-shouldered,
under the four-square heaven of solitude,
where a child drinks study’s tart ten-year brew.
It was in those days, outstanding and memorable,
when the teachers, forced to loosen our classical
fetters, yet all still hostile to your rhyming,
succumbed to the pressure of our mad duelling,
and allowed a triumphant, mutinous, pupil
to make Triboulet howl in Latin, at will.
Which of us in those days of pale adolescence
didn’t share the weary torpor of confinement,
- eyes lost in the dreary blue of a summer sky
or the snowfall’s whiteness, we were dazzled by,
ears pricked, eager, waiting – a pack of hounds
drinking some book’s far echo, a riot’s sound?
Most of all in summer, that melted the leads,
the walls, high, blackened, filled with dread,

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poem by Charles Baudelaire
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