24/09/16

Aislinge Meic Conglinne - The Vision of MacConglinne

Penny Averill

Visions were common in mediaeval literature, ordinary folk would see Mary or one of the Saints in the clouds, up a tree, in the porridge, or just suspended in the air. The Vision of MacConglinne (Aislinge Meic Conglinne) is regarded by many as the finest satire in the Irish language. Written in the late 11th century it recounts the valiant efforts of Aniér MacConglinne to purge the King of Ireland, Cathal mac Finnguine of his gluttony – which is portrayed as a devil living in the King’s throat.

Disappointed by the hospitality of the people of the city of Cork, who are less than impressed by his singing, he composes a satire on them which results in his being imprisoned and condemned to crucifixion. On the eve of his execution, Meic Conglinne is visited by an angel of God and granted a vision, not of divine inspiration, but of a land made entirely of food. A concept close to the heart of Modern Salt.

Here is a small part of this delightful poem, translated into English. The original Irish and the full text can easily be found online.

A vision that appeared to me,
An apparition wonderful I tell to all:
A lardy coracle all of lard
Within a port of New-milk Loch,
Up on the world’s smooth sea.

We went into the man-of-war,
‘Twas warrior-like to take the road
O’er ocean’s heaving waves.
Our oar-strokes then we pulled
Across the level sea,
Throwing the sea’s harvest up,
Like honey, the sea-soil.

The fort we reached was beautiful,
With outworks of custards thick,
Beyond the loch.
New butter was the bridge in front,
The rubble dyke was wheaten white,
Bacon the palisade.

Stately, pleasantly it sat,
A compact house and strong.
Then I went in:
The door of it was dry meat,
The threshold was bare bread,
Cheese-curds the sides.

Smooth pillars of old cheese,
And sappy bacon props
Alternate ranged;
Fine beams of mellow cream
White rafters-real curds,
Kept up the house.

Behind was a wine well,
Beer and bragget in streams,
Each full pool to the taste.
Malt in a smooth wavy sea,
Over a lard-spring’s brink
Flowed through the floor.

A loch of pottage fat
Under a cream of oozy lard
Lay ‘tween it and the sea.
Hedges of butter fenced it round,
Under a blossom of white-mantling lard
Around the wall outside.

A row of fragrant apple-trees,
An orchard in its pink-tipped bloom,
Between it and the hill.
A forest tall of real leeks,
Of onions and of carrots, stood
Behind the house.

Within, a household generous,
A welcome of red, firm-fed men,
Around the fire.
Seven bead-strings and necklets seven,
Of cheeses and of bits of tripe,
Hung from each neck.

- Aniér MacConglinne
"Smooth pillars of old cheese", The Little Milk Co

Irish was the main language of the people of Ireland and spread to other parts of the British Isles, notably Scotland. Predictably, the expanding English empire, under Elizabeth I did not look kindly on it, and the decline in its use started in the 17th century. During the Great Famine (1845-52) a quarter of the population of Ireland disappeared, either through death or migration and, by the time the British finally departed the language was spoken by around 12% of the population.

Irish is now taught in schools and current estimates suggest that there are up to 80,000 speakers.

Louis de Paor was born in Cork and was a key figure in the Irish language literary renaissance of the 19080s and 1990s. He is one of Ireland’s leading Irish language poets. He is Director of the Centre for Irish Studies at NUI Galway, and his work is published by Bloodaxe Books

Most Modern Salt readers will not know Irish, here is Louis reading one of his own poems. It is translated, but, on first listen just focus on the rhythm and beauty of the sound of the language.