{"id":419,"date":"2015-10-06T10:24:25","date_gmt":"2015-10-06T09:24:25","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.guidekillarney.com\/?p=419"},"modified":"2015-10-06T10:25:08","modified_gmt":"2015-10-06T09:25:08","slug":"the-call-of-the-wild","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.guidekillarney.com\/index.php\/2015\/10\/06\/the-call-of-the-wild\/","title":{"rendered":"THE CALL OF THE WILD"},"content":{"rendered":"

This voice has called through ages – the pinnacle of wild nature<\/p>\n

\"Photo:<\/a>
Photo: Valerie O’Sullivan<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n

The annual rut of the Irish red stag is now at its height. \u00a0Close-by our ‘Gallan Eile<\/em>‘ holiday home the mountains reverberate to the wild bull-like bellow of the stags guarding their females and warning off any challenger. \u00a0The heart of the red stag territory is in the valley between Torc and Mangerton mountains, about an hour’s walk away. \u00a0Do not venture too close. \u00a0The blood is up.<\/p>\n

As well the Sika buck’s triple whistle-like roar is most frequently heard on lower ground. \u00a0The Sika is smaller, much darker and has a flared white rump.<\/p>\n

What better way to mark the red stag rut – that has sounded in these hills since the end of the Ice Age some 14,000 years ago – what better way to mark this annual ritual than with Paddy Bushe’s poem, which he kindly dedicated to me.<\/p>\n

Listening to the Roaring of the Stags<\/p>\n

for Frank Lewis<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The sun is making love to winter in the glen<\/p>\n

And a calling can be heard as it echoes here and there,<\/p>\n

An imperious ululation that rolls from ben to ben.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Between us and the light, sharp as a blade’s edge,<\/p>\n

See the seven-horned stag, etched deep into the air.<\/p>\n

The sun is making love to the winter in the glen.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The elemental bodhr\u00e1n grows more and more intense<\/p>\n

As the piping of the birds becomes antiphonal prayer,<\/p>\n

And an imperious ululation rolls from ben to ben.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The spear-wail of the Fianna lives on in branch and stem<\/p>\n

With leaf and nut and berry in rampant display,<\/p>\n

While the sun is making love to the winter in the glen.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The music of what happens is music without end<\/p>\n

And a universal note now permeates the air,<\/p>\n

An imperious ululation that rolls from ben to ben.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

This voice has called through ages in story and in verse<\/p>\n

And if we lose its echo, the loss will cost us dear.<\/p>\n

The sun is making love to winter in the glen<\/p>\n

And an imperious ululation rolls from ben to ben.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Killarney, October 2003<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

Paddy Bushe wrote the original version of this poem in Irish. \u00a0If you would like to have the Irish version (Ag \u00c9isteacht le Dord na nDamh<\/em>) let me know and I will email it on to you.<\/p>\n

Frank Lewis<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

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