On an Old Irish Hymn

AN OLD IRISH HYMN

. . . and two versions I made from it. I am particularly proud of the fact that the sestina kept all the rules. This is about the imagination. 

(Reputedly a Celtic Prince from Spain came ashore in Ireland singing this – not, I am sure, without previous arrangement, since he was instantly made welcome and offered a throne. As far as I can see it proclaims the singer an initiate of the very highest order.) 

I am the Wind that blows over the Sea 

I am a Wave of the Ocean 

I am the murmur of the billows 

I am the Ox of seven combats 

I am the Vulture on the rock 

I am a Ray of the Sun 

I am the fairest of Plants 

I am a Wild Boar in valour 

I am a Salmon in the Water 

I am a Lake in the plain 

I am the Craft of the artificer 

I am a Word of Science 

I am the spearpoint that gives battle 

I am the God that creates in the head of man the fire of thought 

Who is it that enlightens the assembly on the mountain, if not I? 

Who tells the ages of the Moon, if not I? 

Who shows the place where the Sun goes to rest, if not I?

VILLANELLE

(October 1998) 

I am the salmon vaulting up the stream, 

Wind’s force and wave’s form in the sea: 

I am the spark igniting thought from dream. 

I am rumbling surf, the oxen’s steam, 

I wait on a rock for carrion, gild the tree – 

I am the salmon vaulting up the stream. 

I am the frail rose in the hedge, the gleam 

Of a mad boar’s gnash, a fish-flick – see 

I am the spark igniting thought from dream. 

I am the low lake where the mountains seem 

Scattered by winds – I hold all arts in me: 

I am the salmon vaulting up the stream. 

I am the word of power, the cutting beam 

From the edge of war, mind’s energy – 

I am the spark igniting thought from dream. 

Who brings the tablets to the tribes, the scheme 

Of sundown and moonphase, if not me? 

I am the salmon vaulting up the stream, 

I am the spark igniting thought from dream.

SESTINA

(October 1998

What am I? I am the energy 

Of wind that howls on sea, I am the force 

Of yelling storm. I am the inner form 

Of lathering waves that this wild wind has made 

And the sound of their breaking. I am whispering deep. 

Purple beyond the headlands. All this I am. 

I am a slow red beast with sickle form 

Of horns upon my head, patient and deep 

In valour, yoked to haul the heavy force 

To war. My ruminant eyes have seen war made 

Seven times. I gaze. My energy 

Is rock where vulture sits. I watch. I am. 

Who will tell me what gold thing I am, 

Slanting from sunward? This my energy 

Is light, pure light, a finger from the deep. 

I am a sun’s ray and the flower made, 

Unfolding to my earthward driving force 

Young leaves, my tender petals, breathless form. 

I am the angered boar, a faster force 

Running than the eye conceives, and deep 

Cunning in a thicket, skew-backed, made 

For bravery. So fear my tusks. I am 

A salmon in the water, hidden form 

Bursting upwards, arch of energy. 

I am a lowland lake, who knows how deep? 

I contain the sky, I sleep. I am 

The skill of hands to shape the earth, energy 

Spitting to weld a wheel, the craft that made 

Blueprints and fabrics, ability to form 

Subtle objects. I am knowledge, force 

That words of power have, science deep 

In the head, the arrowpoint that’s made 

Exactly for its target, flight in form. 

I am fire in the mind. My energy 

Creates all thought. This is what I am: 

Strong current and still wisdom and brain’s force. 

Who gave the form of laws to peoples, who made 

Sense of the heavens, if not I? I am 

Energy of moon and sun’s deep force. 

Copyright Diana Wynne Jones

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