For two weeks, I took creative inspiration from Irish Romantic poetry, Irish culture, and the landscape to help me write my own poetry collection in Ireland. I composed 80 short lyrical poems drawing from Romantic themes and traditions, as well as family stories of my own Irish ancestors. In Ireland, I spent my time reading and annotating Romantic Irish poetry, journaling, and writing poems. Mary Tighe, Robert Moore, and William Butler Yeats were my primary interests. Tighe and Moore were Romantic poets, while Yeats, a modernist, considered himself a mystic and wrote many Romantically influenced pieces, especially in his early works– my focus.
Original poem, "Yellow rose."
A collection of assorted pages of manuscripts from the National Library of Ireland Rare Manuscript Archives, including manuscripts from Thomas Moore, Mary Tighe, W.B. Yeats, and several Irish Romantic poetry chapbooks.
Gleann Cholm Cille, Co. Donegal.
Two weeks and 80 poems later, I've strengthened my ability as a poet and feel I've made great strides in finding my voice and style. I also deeply enjoyed reading so much of Tighe, Moore, and Yeats. I found that I was most drawn to the works of Yeats, and was profoundly moved and inspired by the same sites he was inspired by in County Sligo. I have a much better understanding of Irish Romantic poetry and have an even greater appreciation for its lush, emotive nature than I had before. The Irish landscape was essential in my works, as themes of nature were central to nearly all of my poems. It was quite sad leaving Ireland as I so loved my time there and I know that someday I'll return and continue to explore the rich history, scenery, and culture.
In lonesome cottage I mend my wear, The roof crumbles slow but not I care, For my Eion rests in the field o’er yonder, Years now make since that first weeping hour. The fields lay fallow but my flow’rs I tend, For each day at the stone I bend, And single blooming flower lay, To comfort him each passing day. The bog each walk does wet my feet, But I feel it not and gather my peat, That the hearth might warm me in the night, And warm my dreams with Eion’s sight. My hair each strand like the sky grows gray, And somber but eager I await the day, That my flow’rs by weeds are taken o’er, For when I’m with him, I’ll need them no more.
