Showing posts with label Ireland. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ireland. Show all posts

Thursday, April 16, 2020

An Ancient Tale of Éire



HOW THE GUBBAUN SAOR WENT INTO THE COUNTRY
OF THE EVER-YOUNG 
by
Ella Young
From STORIES FROM THE WONDER SMITH AND HIS SON (1927)


"I had the Master-Word," said the Gubbaun. "I had knowledge enough to make a sky of stars. Now it is gone from me."
"You know the talk of the birds," said the Son, "and the talk of the beasts, and the talk of the grasses. Is that not enough?"
"I knew the joy that is in the heart of the sun! I knew the secret of life. Now it is gone."
He said no more. He sat day-long like a stone. He lay night-long like a stone; like a sea-crag when the water ebbs from it. For the length of time the moon takes to broaden and grow slender he was like that: strength ebbed from him.
"My thousand griefs!" cried the Son, "he will die: he will not leave behind him the wisdom of his craft!"
"Go to him," said Aunya, "when day whitens. Ask him what tree is king of the forest. It may be that the brightness of his mind will come back to him: if it comes back, cry out that the Dune of Angus is fallen!"
The Son of the Gubbaun rose early. He kindled a fire with boughs of the blackthorn. He dipped the palms of his hands in clear cold well-water. He wrapped himself in a cloak the colour of an amethyst stone.
He went and stood before the Gub­baun.
"0 Wonder-Smith, 0 Master-Builder," he cried, "The Sun is mirrored in the Sacred Well.  What Tree is King of the Forest?"  

"I know a Forest," said the Gubbaun, "the roots of it go down deep, deep into the heart of the earth: the branches of it spread among the stars: the stars are fruit upon its branches. The leaves of it make a singing in my mind — singing and sleep."


* Available in this collection: At the Gates of Dawn: A Collection of Writings by Ella Young.

Sunday, March 13, 2016

Easter Sunday, 1916


Below is an excerpt from Ella Young's memoirs, Flowering Dusk (Longmans, Green & Co., 1945), about her experience on that momentous day - Easter Sunday 1916. 
  • Memorial to the 1916 Uprising Executions (detail)
  •  
  •  © Denise Sallee 2008.
  EASTER SUNDAY - A day of uncertainty. Parades, maneuvers, and marches of the Irish Republican Army should have taken place today. We hear they have been called off. What does that mean? They were to be the signal for the Rising. After so much hope and preparation, has the Rising fizzled out? No one seems to know. It is said that Eoin MacNeill himself has called off the maneuvers. A slack, uncertain day filled with rumours.
   Easter Monday. The sun is shining, but it seems to be the only brightness. Nothing is happening. It does not seem as if anyone expected anything to happen. Sounds of shots! Everyone tense and alert. Something is happening! I hurry from my lodgings in Leinster Road to the town Hall at Rathmines...From Rathmines one can see Portobello Bridge. One can see the Portobello Barracks where the English Tommies for some time past have been leaning over brick-walls and trading rifles, blankets, and other equipment, for bottles of whiskey, pressed on them by eager patriots...There is a stir in the barracks...More and more shots!...News begins to to creep along the knot of bystanders. "They say that Pearse is in the General Post Office, that they have taken half the city..."
   Seumas O'Sullivan and Estella Solomons come up to me as I stand listening with all my ears to every shot, to every rumour. "The telegraph wires are cut! Railway stations are in the hands of the Volunteers," says Seamus. "It is terrible and splendid. If it could  only by true that they are rising everywhere in Ireland!" ~ 
   Easter Tuesday. News is filtering in. Constance de Markievicz, second in command with the Citizen Army, held St. Stephen's Green Park all Monday...Pearse, with Tom Clarke, Connolly, and The O'Rahilly, has taken possession of the General Post Office...There is fighting in the streets. How much or how little, no one can guess. But certainly dead bodies are in the streets. ~
   Easter Friday. Phyllis MacMurdo came to see me. Since she is the niece of General MacMurdo, and strongly pro-British in sympathy, she is in touch with the military here. She had authentic news: Pearse, Clarke, Connolly, The O'Rahilly, and others are still in the charred and fire-thridded Post Office. They must burn to the bone or surrender. 
   Easter Saturday. Firing has ceased. There is a horrible silence. They are all dead - or it is surrender!
   Wednesday...the third of May...England is again triumphant. Newsboys are crying the news! I buy a paper, and lean against a wall to spread it out. 


 EXECUTIONS
Executed this morning: Patrick H. Pearse, Thomas MacDonagh, Thomas Clarke

The sun is shining. This is a day of the days of the Festival of Bealtine: the old Celtic festival of the coming of the Gods of Dana, the young eager Gods who took on themselves the burden of heartening and fashioning the Earth...Gods do not die - nor do heroes!


Friday, July 17, 2015

Returning

Photo by Nuala McNulty. Image by Denise Sallee. 
© Denise Sallee 2015
Ella Young is a character in a novel I am writing. It is very exciting to bring her to life in this way. She has influenced my life in so many ways over the last eight years, not least of all by sending me off to live in Ireland for one very precious year.

I no longer live in an old stone cottage on a hill in North Leitrim. Instead, I find myself in a cozy space on a hill in California where the Pacific Ocean stretches before me to the west and to the south the Santa Lucia Mountains roll down to Big Sur.

Hawks and vultures circle above me like dark shadows against the blue sky. Tall pines stand sentry as they sing their ancient songs, their highest branches nodding to me as I walk among the quail and the rabbits and tall grasses of my meadow.

After a life time as a nomad is it possible to grow roots? Do they even want to find a home here?

Sometimes life hands you circumstances that leave you with little room for negotiation. Responsibilities finally outweigh the dream chasing. And perhaps, when the chasing has ceased, there is time to sort through what remains and hold close that which has always been the constant - the unwavering - yearning of my soul.

Saturday, October 18, 2014

Maud Lloyd is at home here...

“I am staying with Maud Lloyd, the artist, in her house at Inch, County Kerry. It is a strong two-story house built of stone and stands on a hill - the only house on the hill, with no other house in sight.  Far below stretches a whole countryside: the great strand of Inch, the Atlantic a-wash on its borders; the sand dunes; the deep inlet of the sea beyond and behind the sand dunes; the range of Macgallicuddy’s Reeks sharp-pointed against the sky. Maud Lloyd is at home here, for she loves to paint whole ranges of mountains, river-inlets, and meadows.“





Ella Young wrote this in her memoirs, Flowering Dusk, about her friend, Maud LLoyd.   She also describes an adventure the two of them had on Iona and it was Maud who painted Ella's portrait which in her later life she donated to the University of California, Berkeley.  This portrait is on the cover of the anthology of Ella's work, edited by John Matthews and myself and published by Skylight Press. 

I have been curious about Maud since "meeting" her in Ella's memoirs. I did a bit of digging around while living in Ireland and found a few notices from Dublin (1903 and 1904) papers of her exhibiting her work.  Recently I once again took up the hunt and now have a better picture of the artist's life.

Maud Young was born in Christchurch,  New Zealand in about 1870.  Her father, James Herbert Lloyd was an Englishman with a family in banking and the stock market, and a lineage that goes back to Edward I.  James seems to have made an attempt in the business world by going into partnership in Christchurch, but that was dissolved in 1863.  He then married Maud's mother, Elizabeth Mary Oakes, who had family ties to Dublin.  This may be what first brought Maud to Ireland.

Directly after Maud was born the family returned to London.  At least the mother and children returned because Maud's sister Edith was born there in 1872.  At this point I lost track of the family until the 1881 census for England that shows Maud and her sister living in London with Maud's paternal grandfather, James Farmer Lloyd. There is no trace of her parents and her older brother is listed in the census as a student at Oundle School in Northamptonshire.  Maud's parents seem to have dropped off their children and taken a runner.  Perhaps her mother died and her father did what he felt was best for them.  I have yet to discover this mystery. In any case, I think that Maud's unmarried aunt, Julia Lloyd, raised the two sisters. She leaves her estate to Maud and Edith when she dies in 1920. It is this probate record that informs me of Maud's full and legal name:  Georgina Frances Maud Mary Theresa Lloyd.

So Maud grew up and was educated in London. She came from a family of wealth and privilege and in the 1901 census for England she is listed as an "Artist - Sculptor" and Edith is listed as a "Musical Composer."  The Royal Hibernian Academy of Arts, Index of Exhibitors 1826 -1979, Volume II  (compiled by Stewart, Ann M., 1986) has a list of the paintings of Maud Lloyd that they showed.  The earliest exhibit was in 1887 and her address is given at the family home in West Kensington, London.  The two paintings,   A Lonely Home, Ireland  and Evening, Ireland  tell us that by 1887 Maud was already painting in Ireland. She may have been staying with her mother's family or she may have been on her own. 

In 1910, Maud has one painting listed in the catalog for an exhibit in Cork. The work is entitled Dalkey Rocks.  In 1912 she exhibited at the Royal Hibernian Academy a painting entitled  Portrait of Mademoiselle X  and I believe this is the portrait mentioned above of Ella Young.  Maud was known for her landscapes, not her portraits, and Ella's face is not in view.

This image is entitled The Old Village but I do not know its date.  It is the only example of her landscapes I have seen and was included in an auction this past July. 

Maud exhibited frequently with another woman, Elsie O'Keefe, and helped to erect her friend's tombstone when she died in 1948.  I have a feeling I will soon be exploring this artist, as well.

The 1911 census for Ireland, lists Maud as living on her own in Dublin - in St. Stephen's Green. She lists her occupation as "Artist."  

In 1912, Maud was arrested in Dublin for breaking windows as part of a demonstration demanding the vote for women. Maud served a 6 months prison sentence for her action in the name of women's suffrage.  As related by Maria Luddy in the Irish Times

   "Irish suffragists engaged in a militant campaign from June 1912, involving breaking windows in government buildings, and heckling at meetings..When the war ended [World War I], Home Rule for Ireland was on the statute book and in 1918 the British parliament, arguably because of womens war work, granted partial suffrage, confined to those over thirty with a property qualification, to women throughout the United Kingdom."

 Ella Young does not refer to dates in her memoir so it is hard to know exactly when Maud was living on Inch. But I have a feeling that she may have moved there soon after her prison term was over. In any case, she and Ella had adventures together, in Ireland and in Scotland. Based upon letters from Ella to other artists and writers I am quite certain she was very encouraging of Maud's art. Ella would leave for the United States in 1925 and her portrait by Maud came with her.

Maud died while living in an inn near Perth.  Was she only visiting or had she taken up residence there and, if so, why?  And what happened to all her paintings?



Friday, September 5, 2014

Pairings #1



By AE (George William Russell 1867-1935

First he was her mentor and her spiritual guide.  Then he was her dear friend. Then she left him when she left Ireland. 

 Ella Young's words and AE's images...

More of Ella Young's mystical poetry and her retelling of old Irish tales are available in the anthology I co-edited with John Matthews and published by Skylight Press. 

At the Gates of Dawn: A Collection of Writings by Ella Young.











CLEENA
Pale, in the twilight, the crested waves are falling
On a lone shore where never a sea-bird strays;
Softly the twilight wind is calling, calling,
Calling for Cleena of the olden days.

Once a thousand lovers sang her praises,
Wove her name in chant and storied rann;
Cleena, for whose sake the sea-god raises,
Wave on wave, his crested foam-white clan.

Gods and heroes once the battle-gear uplifted
All for Cleena of the curling, golden head;
O’er her beauty now the dust has drifted,
The songs are silent, and her lovers dead.

Only where waves in shadowy foam are falling,
Falling, falling ever, with a sound of tears,
Earth and sea a vanished joy recalling
Mourn for Cleena and the long-forgotten years.

Mournful wind, your grief cannot avail her.
Sea-foam drifting, drifting through the night–
She has peace and silence, why bewail her?
Cleena! Cleena! Dead, forgotten quite!

 - Ella Young from Poems (1906)




Sunday, August 11, 2013

The Celtic Twilight of Carmel, California. Part Two

It is tempting to compare Ella Young's Dublin connection with W.B. Yeats and his elusive love, Maud Gonne, with her later connection to Robinson Jeffers and his wife, Una.  There is, of course, the great-poet-and-his-inspiring-woman connection that links the two couples - but far more important - there is Ireland.

Una Call  - Mrs. Edward Kuster - a young, beautiful and vivacious graduate student, met Jeffers in Los Angeles in 1906. While traveling in Ireland in 1912, to sort out her feelings for both her husband and her new lover, Una wrote a letter to Kuster describing her ancestral land:

"We passed through a beautiful country Emerald - indeed…Meadow lands crossed by little wandering streams and everywhere amidst tall, lush grass great beds of golden iris growing wild. Giant trees and hawthorn hedges break up the fields and very often a crumbling tower in the midst of an utter solitude…"


Photograph © Denise Sallee 2010


A crumbling tower.  Little did Una know then how Irish towers - and their real and symbolic roles  - were to figure in her life with Jeffers.  

In a few short years Una's new poet-husband would build for her a tower of her own in Carmel from stones he hauled up from the beach and shaped into a fitting sanctuary for his beloved bride. In the foreword to his book, The Selected Poetry of Robinson Jeffers, the poet describes his first view of his new homeland: "A second piece of pure accident brought us to the Monterey coast mountains, where for the first time in my life I could see people living - amid magnificent unspoiled scenery - essentially as they did in the Idyls or the Sagas, or in Homer’s Ithaca. Here was life purged of its ephemeral accretions."


I think this poem by Jeffers reveals what he felt while building Hawk Tower:


To The House
I am heaping the bones of the old mother
To build us a hold against the host of the air;
Granite the blood-heat of her youth
Held molten in hot darkness against the heart
Hardened to temper under the feet
Of the ocean cavalry that are maned with snow
And march from the remotest west.
This is the primitive rock, here in the wet
Quarry under the shadow of waves
Whose hollows mouthed the dawn; little house each stone   
Baptized from that abysmal font
The sea and the secret earth gave bonds to affirm you.
From Roan Stallion, Tamar and other poems. Boni and Liveright, 1925
Credit:William Brooks Collection, Henry Meade Williams Local History Room, Harrison Memorial Library, Carmel, CA


In another letter, from 1927, Una tells her dear friend Albert Bender how much she treasures her inscribed picture of Yeats' own tower and cottage, because, as she writes "Yeats is one of my most honored authors - because its on a coast I love - and because it seems unbelievable that another poet should have a tower and cottage on a western shore!"

In 1929 the Jeffers went to Ireland - staying for the most part in County Antrim but also touring throughout both Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland. By now Una and Ella Young were very close friends. Ella wrote letters of introduction for the Jeffers to take to Maud Gonne, but cautioned Una about Maud, saying "Hope Maud Gonne won't be in prison or deported when you arrive." Ella goes on to reassure Una, telling her "I know she would enjoy you all."  Ella wrote to Maud prior to the visit, describing Jeffers as "the big poet of America" and Una as "his Irish wife." 

Robinson Jeffers was drawn to the many ancient towers and sacred ruins of Ireland. He wrote several poems while he was there - poems that often merged the local mythos with the land. A theme that was prominent in his California writing, as well. 

The Low Sky
No vulture is here, hardly a hawk,
Could long wings or great eyes fly
Under this low-lidded soft sky?

On the wide heather the curlew's whistle
Dies of its echo, it has no room
Under the low lid of this tomb.

But one to whom mind and imagination
Sometimes used to seem burdensome
Is glad to lie down awhile in the tomb.

Among stones and quietness
The mind dissolves without a sound,
The flesh drops into the ground.
From Descent to the Dead. Poems, etc.  Random House, 1931 

Photograph © Denise Sallee 2010

Una Jeffers met Ella Young in the spring of 1926 when Ella lectured at the Golden Bough Theatre (owned by Una's former husband Edward Kuster). Ella's lectures were entitled "Nature Magic" and "The Celtic Myth of Creation." How I wish I had been in the audience on that enchanted evening!  

Una was there and later she wrote this description:

“Ella Young was like a Druidess that first time I saw her, in flowing gown, against the lovely blue-green curtain of the Golden Bough stage, a wisp of veil about her head, gray eyes shining and hands weaving magic as she named the old Irish gods and heroes and told the deeds they wrought. Since that night I have seen her in many different settings; kneeling to succor a wounded snake; hovering on the seat of my car... [on] that terrible old coast road...peer[ing] into the chasms at our side, following a hawk’s flight as carefree as if she too had wings.”   The Carmel Pine Cone.  December 20, 1935 pg. 9

And so we further explore a little of what made Carmel, in the first decades of the 20th century, such a Celtic and magical refuge for so many people - both ex-pats like Ella Young and those who feel an Ireland of their own possessing their souls. I fall into the latter category and yearn most for what Una perfectly captured when she wrote "an utter solitude…"