Listen to the song that inspired this poem.
How comes an ancient bard by firelight,
How comes the ringing that rushes the ears,
How tired these fingers, how frosty this heart
As the harp nestles into the shoulder's cradle,
And the music bleeds to life
Bells and dusk, the honey wine and cheers
No longer turn the years away
The blaze in your blood
Fades to a shudder, fades still
But they are rapt and counting
On you their attention lingers.
As your hands go to threads of brass
And pull them tightly into songs,
They wonder how a blind man finds a voice
That could burn cold castles to the ground.
Between the notes you gasp
And strain to hear.
Is anyone there,
Do they silence their breath?
Or is your audience this night composed
Of the hosts of fay, await with chariots of light?
From blind forests cries your closing tune,
A thing of pure ecstasy, knowing
That as its last refrains ring free from the cairns
You will be dancing with the sidhe,
Free of this terrible harp's pox.
And so your fingers lift once more,
Raging like Uaithne's sonic spellcraft
Which this time poisons your own mind.
Note after devastating note you finger your fate,
Each triplet imploring the Morrigan to dance.
For a moment longer you are entangled
In the filigreed edges of Ireland's last cry.
And then the strings melt beneath your touch,
Flooding golden into your veins, pumping your heart,
Becoming you as you become the melody.
Your body, shining white as the moon's burn,
Fades to the fire, leaving only crescent shadows.
The stairs, ascended by halves, carry you to the sky
Where your bones are scorched clean by gleaming ravens
And your eyes, for the first time since childhood, find the light.
(For Turlough O’Carolan)