#amhrán

[graismil]

Cad a cheapann sibh fén amhrán nua IMLÉ?

Do chuir IMLÉ leagan nua dena n-amhrán "Cathain a d'fhill tú ó Shasana?" amach le déanaí, muna bhfuil sé cloiste agaibh, is féidir libh éisteacht leis anso! (Níl sé ar Spotify ná Youtube, fiú agus iad ar fáil níos luaithe ar na hardáin sin? Tá sé ar Bandcamp fós afách!)

[charmtion]

Let them sit like brothers, then. Later it will be the three of them, gathered at the dining room table for a feast. Her with the steam of roiling water laying colour to her cheeks. Them dark-eyed, expectant. They will sit, the three of them. Sit and eat together; pick the flesh of a lamb from its pink-hued bones, darken their teeth with wine. After, Robb will take his leave: to the pine-scented chasm of his car, to the shadowed workings of the streets he runs at night. And Jon—Jon will follow her wherever she treads. Tend the pale crook of her finger as a flock its shepherd.

→ for the dvd commentary please!

from chapter six of in every little scar—a story steeped in religious imagery & all its invocations that form its central setting; it starts with a burial, moves on with a wake, & ends with a memorial mass. when I first started writing this fic I wrote down its recurring images/motifs (oak tree; silver flask; gold ring; amber etc.) which included ideas around the bonds that come from blood: Sansa is always quick to reduce her relationship with Jon down to “a bit of metal” aka their wedding rings, she ignores the familial connection, she buries it; contrast this with how she thinks of Robb, their blood-bond is something she continually reinforces, & he stays carefully housed within both her inner framework & wider network as “her brother,” despite the tangled mess their dynamic becomes over the course of the story.

this scene is in the hazy crux of the gathering following the memorial mass, a year to the day of the Ned’s death, & once again the house is transformed into a very masculine space—Sansa owns it now, of course, but the set-up to the scene is how she moves apart from what is collected there: “men muffled,” the way they sound, the way they move their whiskey glasses, the shadowy physicality of them all, their singing, their stories, the way they fill her house to its rafters—so there is the initial idea of domesticity that the words of the scene impart: Sansa as an almost-housewife, subservient, traditional, cooking a meal for her estranged husband & her brother, waiting on them as they sit & she sweats over the stove, presents it to them on a plate. but it’s like is this meal even real? are we actually talking about lamb chops? are we talking about an actual dinner? or is the feast something else: is Sansa herself functioning as a sort of sacrificial lamb, readily pulled to pieces by the wolfish men that surround her?

then the inversion: that the lamb might actually be the wolfish men (one sent off to his car after he’s had his fill; the other at her heel, at her beck, her call; the men gathered in the living room parting for her like a bible-story sea) themselves, & Sansa the danger, the devourer.

DVD COMMENTARY ASK GAME

[tealoola]

doodle dump!!!!

amhrán, henrik, amhrán again, sai and auril

[anragaire]

if anyone wants another layer to Butchered Tongue, consider Hozier's choice mention of Hushpuckena (Choctaw) and look up what the Choctaw nation did for the Irish during an Gorta Mór (The Great Hunger).

https://www.choctawnation.com/about/history/irish-connection/

[cinematicjourney]

Song of the Sea (2014) | dir. Tomm Moore

[heliphantie]

10 years ago, September 6, 2014, world premiere of Tomm Moore's "Song of the Sea" took place at Toronto International Film Festival.

This is my anniversary tribute to the beautiful movie.

[the-carpediem]

Been I watching the Olympics for nearly two hours and I finally saw a blurry, 1 second, zoomed out clip of Ireland

Sinne Fianna Fáil, atá faoi gheall ag Éirinn ladies and gentlemen 🫡🇮🇪🇮🇪

Go raibh maith agat, an Fhrainc

[arcane-vagabond]

Surprise self-rec time! Pick 3 of your favorite things you’ve written and share them here, then put this in the inbox (anonymously or not) of your fellow writers to spread the positivity and help celebrate already written fics 💞

Hi Rachel!!

Let's see....

Don't Hang'em Til Noon - Wild West!Cowboy!Jake "Hangman" Seresin

Fool's Fare - Pirate!Jake "Hangman" Seresin

Amhrán Na Farraige - Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Selkie!Reader

[brotherdusk]

there is a full on united ireland gathering going on outside my house at the moment with microphones and everything WHAT is going on

[mariemariemaria]

Tá mo spotify wrapped an-Cheilteach. Lmao :/

[hyacinthsdiamonds]

Butchered Tongue has completely shattered me. The slow, painful erosion of culture and language, of identity. The faded memories of those who came before us. The desperate yearning for a past that you don't remember because it was ripped from you long before you ever came to be. It makes me think of my great-grandfather, who left to work in America and who only returned, decades later, in a coffin. I wonder if he ever sat in some random Irish pub and simply listened to those around him, hoping to find a connection, for a glimmer of familiarity in the faces and voices of strangers. I think of my granny's cousin, the spit of my uncle, who embraced me and held me close as we said our goodbyes. He never lost his mother tongue even after decades of living far from home. He may have made a life on a foreign soil but home remains the quiet Irish village where he was born and which he might never see again. It's the stack of old photographs sitting in the attic, photographs from all over the world, that are all full of smiling, happy faces but there is not soul left who can name them. All we know for sure is that they were once cherished and that has to be enough. It's the names on headstones, of the many souls buried under names they never used in life, anglicized even in death. Síle became Cecilia, Máire Mary, Dónall/Domhnall Daniel, so on and so forth. It's the words my granny used to use, we don't where those words came from, whether it's older Irish words passed on to her before they faded to the sands of time or words lost in translation through learning English words from various relations returning home after working in the fields or in construction in Scotland, Wales or England for a season or if it's one of those unique sayings, the amalgamation of sayings and inside jokes every family has and that are unique to each individual one. We'll never know which, the knowledge passed with her. We still use those words, carry our memories with us but we feel that loss of history and their true meanings. How does anyone carry the weight of all that loss, all of that heartbreak, all that visceral grief? And how do we prevent more loss, how do we keep the fire burning, keep the glowing embers of our past alive? Keep them from fading into the darkness, never again to warm the heart? This song is beautiful and haunting and it's never going to leave me alone.

[graismil]

[AMHRÁN NA MÍOSA] - Caoineadh faoi bhainne doirtithe le Rís

Mo bhrón nach rabhas in ann an amhrán na míosa don mí seo chaite a roinnt libh! Do bhí seo in ainm a bheith mar an t-amhrán san, ach, do cheapas go mbeadh sé níos fearr don Deireadh Fómhair. Mar sin féinig, 'sé amhrán na míosa do mí Dheireadh Fómhair ná: Caoineadh faoi bhainne doirithe. 'Sé Caoineadh faoi bhainne doirtithe ná an 5ú amhrán san albam "Sa Leaba le Groucho" a chum an banna "Rís" i 2019. Faraor, ní dheineann an banna Conamarach so mórán rudaí sna laethanta so in aon chor, nó ar a laghad, is rud deacair é a fháil amach cad atá á dhéanamh acu má táid ann fós fiú. Pé scéal é, is féidir éisteacht leis an t-amhrán so ar a gcuntas Spotify, Youtube Music, agus Amazon Music.

[charmtion]

snippet from the upcoming fic? x

The Ned would have them hear mass, take it: the body, the blood. The Ned would have them in their Sunday best, lined up and filing in to fill a few pews, the church roof what he paid to repair bearing its beams down on their heads. The sprigs of lavender still fragrant there in a garland the little women wove the summer just gone, dried flowers and the smell of sage. (Cast the bad ones out, they whispered as they wove: ancient, toothless. Keep the spirits quiet.) But that is past. There is no father here, cold as he is under the turned earth, the black earth. There is only the daughter, only the son; a pair of tawny shades showing the week’s end their tangled tepid skin.

[stairnaheireann]

#OTD in 1933 – The Irish Free State government purchases the copyright of Peadar Kearney’s, ’The Soldiers Song’ (Amhrán na bhFiann) which becomes the national anthem.

The lyrics of ‘The Soldiers Song’ were written by Peadar Ó Cearnaigh (Kearney), an uncle of Brendan Behan, who together with Patrick Heeney composed the music. Before the present-day National Anthem was adopted, “God Save Ireland” was the unofficial anthem used by the Fenians and the official anthem was “God Save the King” until the Irish Free State was established in 1922. The official anthem…

[chiropteracupola]

on drawing prompts: keith and ewen sharing a tender moment or some such?

continuing with my 'what if keith was in gitn' thoughts

[cinematicjourney]

Song of the Sea (2014) | dir. Tomm Moore