I had to look up 17th century Irish poetry >>> -- Ladies of Lallybroch Literary Forum

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Date Posted: 16:42:36 04/21/10 Wed
Author: Fi
Subject: I had to look up 17th century Irish poetry >>>
In reply to: debikm 's message, "Now that tax season is over..." on 18:18:18 04/16/10 Fri

I had to look up 17th century Irish poetry for this exercise (I didn't think I could use the camera prompt). It's an addition to a scene I'd already written. This is a little later in the book than the other extracts I posted. Richard is 21 and he's showing a Spanish visitor one of the taverns in his native town.

As usual, any feedback would be appreciated.

(And I think a "reslut" is someone who had "gone good" but has now reverted to sluttiness ;)

*******
From Claddagh [working title]
by F.H. Hurley
Copyright April 2010
For critique only

Galway, Ireland, 1674

As Richard and Miguel opened the tavern door, the wind whipped up the orange flames of the hearth and made the braziers flicker. An incontinent mutt on a lambskin yipped at the rabbits in his dreams, his own aroma mingling with the turf smoke, sailor sweat, and slops of ale. Close to the hearth sat an old man holding a pipe with fingers like twigs. Near one of the braziers, a boy in his teens played a wooden flute while a red-bearded man beat out a rhythm with a pair of spoons.

A yellow-haired girl plonked two tankards of ale on the table and swept past Richard and Miguel to bump shut the great wooden door; she gave quite a thwack for such a skinny-hipped girl. The flames shivered a moment before steadying themselves, casting shadows on the dark walls and ruddying the faces of all around. There were no windows.

�It's as cold as the devil's hearthstone out there.� She sniffed.

Richard coughed; some smoke had caught in his throat. �You're right, Nelly. It would freeze a cat's bollocks off.�

�Haven't seen you around in months, Richard. Ale for yourself and the stranger?�

She nodded towards Miguel; the conversation had been in Irish and the Spaniard had not understood a word.

�Beautiful,� he said in English and gave an ostentatious bow. Nelly hid a giggle in her hand and returned to the bar. The two men found a seat near the musicians and unbuttoned their cloaks, Richard's smallsword clanking against the bench as he sat.

�She is a friend?� Miguel asked Richard in Latin, the language they both shared.

�I've just been here too often,� said Richard.

When Nelly returned with the drinks, Miguel leaned close to her ear and even in the half-light her blush was obvious. If he'd been an Irishman she would likely have slapped him, but it seemed that a foreign accent could excuse many sins.

�You'll sing for us, won't you, Richard?� said Nelly as the flute player finished his tune.

The man with the spoons gave an energetic final thump against his knee. �You've got a voice on you, then?�

�Oh, I can't really sing that well...�

Richard made the customary demurement and the crowd joined in with the customary encouragement, Nelly flicking her gaze from Miguel to Richard and back again. After the customary amount of protest, Richard cleared his throat and and the tavern went quiet, or at least that corner of it did.

"My little Rose, don't be sad, for all that has happened"

When he closed his eyes he could still feel the fire flickering on his lids. The music glowed within his chest, rose into his throat and swam out into the room.

�Long the journey that I made with her from yesterday till today,

Over mountains did I go with her, under the sails upon the sea,

The Erne I passed by leaping, though wide the flood,

And there was string music on each side of me and my Little Dark Rose!�

He had them all in his net: the old man with the pipe, the bearded spoon-player and his stilled hand, even Nelly and Miguel paused their play of eyes to listen. They belonged to him, and he belonged to the song, to the little dark Rose, and to the flame-shadows on the wall, and to the inhaled breath and heartbeat of everyone who listened.

He opened his eyes and the spoon-player slapped his back. �That's a fine voice that God has given you.�

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Replies:

[> [> And that's a fine story... -- Debi, 18:34:05 04/23/10 Fri

>(And I think a "reslut" is someone who had "gone good"
>but has now reverted to sluttiness ;)
*snerk*
>
>*******
Close to the hearth sat an old man
>holding a pipe with fingers like twigs. This was the only thing that tripped me up. It sounds like the pipe has fingers, not the old man.>A yellow-haired girl plonked two tankards of ale on
>the table The only table in the tavern?and swept past Richard and Miguel to bump
>shut the great wooden door; she gave quite a thwack
>for such a skinny-hipped girl. Nice image, I can just see her!The flames shivered a
>moment before steadying themselves, casting shadows on
>the dark walls and ruddying the faces of all around.

>�Beautiful,� he said in English and gave an
>ostentatious bow. Nelly hid a giggle in her hand and
>returned to the bar. The two men found a seat near the
>musicians and unbuttoned their cloaks, Richard's
>smallsword clanking against the bench as he sat.
>
>�She is a friend?� Miguel asked Richard in Latin, the
>language they both shared.
>
>�I've just been here too often,� said Richard.
>
>When Nelly returned with the drinks, Miguel leaned
>close to her ear and even in the half-light her blush
>was obvious. If he'd been an Irishman she would likely
>have slapped him, but it seemed that a foreign accent
>could excuse many sins. Don't they though? Sean Connery could read the phone book and I'd listen for hours.
>

>"My little Rose, don't be sad, for all that has
>happened"
>
>When he closed his eyes he could still feel the fire
>flickering on his lids. The music glowed within his
>chest, rose into his throat and swam out into the room.Love this image!
>
>�Long the journey that I made with her from yesterday
>till today,
>
>Over mountains did I go with her, under the sails upon
>the sea,
>
>The Erne I passed by leaping, though wide the flood,
>
>And there was string music on each side of me and my
>Little Dark Rose!�
>
>He had them all in his net: the old man with the pipe,
>the bearded spoon-player and his stilled hand, even
>Nelly and Miguel paused their play of eyes to listen.
>They belonged to him, and he belonged to the song, to
>the little dark Rose, and to the flame-shadows on the
>wall, and to the inhaled breath and heartbeat of
>everyone who listened.
>
>He opened his eyes and the spoon-player slapped his
>back. �That's a fine voice that God has given you.�

Beautiful excerpt! Aside from thos little things I noted, I think it's perfect. I am eager to read more of this.

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[> [> [> This is why an extra pair of eyes is good -- Fi, 09:25:49 04/27/10 Tue

>Close to the hearth sat an old man
>>holding a pipe with fingers like twigs. This was
>the only thing that tripped me up. It sounds like the
>pipe has fingers, not the old man.>A yellow-haired
>girl plonked two tankards of ale on
>>the table The only table in the tavern?and
>swept past Richard and Miguel to bump
>>shut the great wooden door; she gave quite a thwack
>>for such a skinny-hipped girl.

Nice catch! I've changed it to:
"Close to the hearth sat an old man, with fingers like twigs, smoking a pipe. A yellow-haired girl plonked two tankards of ale on a table..."

Glad you enjoyed the extract and I hope to post more soon

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