AtLast_[07]

Note from the editor: These poems came to me through a very strange mechanism. I am not Irish. I was merely one of several persons accompanying a common lady friend to a 'Gaelic cultural evening of entertainment'. Several of the Irish men seemed to be right out of central casting for a Jimmy Cagney movie. We had a good time. The program included singing, piping, and brief one act plays. I enjoyed those, especially the manner in which the repertory players transformed themselves for each piece. There was, of course, plenty of Irish clogging, which they call step dancing. The best of the evening was last, not advertised, unanticipated by the audience, and unlisted in the playbill - poems of G.F.E. McGuiness, recited by a master Irish seanachie. It was a Mister Burns, I believe. Presented in their native Gaelige, they were spellbinding, even though I didn't understand a single syllable. It just didn't matter. The brooding rumble of this ancient tongue was mystical. The previously vocal and upbeat audience became totally absorbed. Curiously, as it went on, there were tears on many cheeks, my first clue that there were actually many people there who spoke this language. At the end, the exodus was - silent. Just silent. Reflective dreamy faces filed out without conversation. What happened here? Off the main lobby, in a vestibule, three of our party chatted with old friends who had also attended the show. I was pretty much out of these conversations and so asked a passing usher if, perhaps, there were available a translation of the McGuiness poetry. "No!" The tone of the response conveyed, "What? Are you stupid?" I was sure he had misunderstood the simple question that I had asked. I hesitated a moment and was about to ask it again, but more clearly. But then, a nearby gentleman with dark glasses, out of place in this dim lighting, a woolen cap pulled low to one side, and a well weathered Donegal jacket, turned curiously up at the neck, began to paraphrase the poetical works as our portico became increasingly thick with listeners. Wow! This was another event in itself! Why hadn't I heard of this poetry before? The answer was simple. It existed only in Gaelige. "Gaelic?", I asked and was quickly trounced with the correct term 'Gaelige' - Gaelic being an English, therefore unacceptable in this crowd, word for Gaelige. My response was something like, "Oh. Gee. Is he still alive?". A few gagged on laughter and indicated affirmatively. I shrugged, "You know, he really ought to translate his works into English." A brutal, deep, and incisive, "Devil's tongue!", from behind, cut the painful silence that followed my question. It was eerie. I could feel my foot in my mouth. But now, trying to

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