30 Days of Truth, Day 5 ~ Something You Hope To Do In Your Life

In preparing for this entry, I did some background research, only to find that something I had long believed to be true wasn't.

I hate that about life, sometimes.

I've lived most of my life believing something about my ancestry that isn't accurate, though the actual story is fascinating for its own reasons.

The first time I wrote on this topic, I talked about all the places I wanted to visit one day.

This time, it's a smaller list. For a reason.


Day 5 ~ Something you hope to do in your life

I still want to travel and see so many places in this world, but if I had to just pick one, it would be simple. I want to visit Ireland.

I want to visit the village where many of my distant relatives still live. I want to drink in the beauty of the rolling hills. I want to sit in a pub and listen to old Irish men tell old Irish stories.

I want to find the grave of my great, great, great, great uncle, James Clarence Mangan. I want to sit there for a while and talk to him. I want to channel his energy. I want to spend time in the place where he rests. I want to be inspired.

I just want to be where he is.


You see, for almost all of my life, I have believed that he wasn't just a writer, but that he was friends with Poe. The Poe.

Which would have been awesome, of course. I'd been told that they were friends and wrote and did a great many drugs and drank together, which all makes for a fabulous story.

Alas, as I discovered just yesterday, it's not true. They never met in real life. They weren't even in the same part of the world.

Sigh.

The things they had in common, though, might be just as fascinating.

They were both writers, they were both troubled souls. They both wrote dark tales, haunting poetry. Only one of them is famous the world over, the other you have never heard of. For a while, there were many who accused my kin of taking from Poe, of using his style, of copying his methods.

It was actually the other way around, if one of them was ever inspired by the other at all. My uncle wrote and published his most pivotal works before Poe did. Whether the two of them ever knew of each other and to what extent, no one may ever know....but whatever the connection is, my uncle did it first.

And that's pretty kickass.

My distant uncle was a fabulous writer. He never got the credit he deserved, especially outside of Ireland. Even if he and Edgar never knew each other, they lived what seem to be oddly parallel lives, both addicts, both disturbed, both writers, both even dying within months of each other.

Someday I'd like to go visit him.

I think he and I would have a lot in common.

The poem below is probably his most famous piece, Dark Rosaleen,

O MY Dark Rosaleen, 
   Do not sigh, do not weep! 
The priests are on the ocean green, 
   They march along the deep. 
There 's wine from the royal Pope, 
   Upon the ocean green; 
And Spanish ale shall give you hope, 
   My Dark Rosaleen! 
   My own Rosaleen! 
Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, 
Shall give you health, and help, and hope, 
   My Dark Rosaleen! 

Over hills, and thro' dales, 
   Have I roam'd for your sake; 
All yesterday I sail'd with sails 
   On river and on lake. 
The Erne, at its highest flood, 
   I dash'd across unseen, 
For there was lightning in my blood, 
   My Dark Rosaleen! 
   My own Rosaleen! 
O, there was lightning in my blood, 
Red lightning lighten'd thro' my blood. 
   My Dark Rosaleen! 

All day long, in unrest, 
   To and fro, do I move. 
The very soul within my breast 
   Is wasted for you, love! 
The heart in my bosom faints 
   To think of you, my Queen, 
My life of life, my saint of saints, 
   My Dark Rosaleen! 
   My own Rosaleen! 
To hear your sweet and sad complaints, 
My life, my love, my saint of saints, 
   My Dark Rosaleen! 

Woe and pain, pain and woe, 
   Are my lot, night and noon, 
To see your bright face clouded so, 
   Like to the mournful moon. 
But yet will I rear your throne 
   Again in golden sheen; 
'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, 
   My Dark Rosaleen! 
   My own Rosaleen! 
'Tis you shall have the golden throne, 
'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone, 
   My Dark Rosaleen! 

Over dews, over sands, 
   Will I fly, for your weal: 
Your holy delicate white hands 
   Shall girdle me with steel. 
At home, in your emerald bowers, 
   From morning's dawn till e'en, 
You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers, 
   My Dark Rosaleen! 
   My fond Rosaleen! 
You'll think of me through daylight hours, 
My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, 
   My Dark Rosaleen! 

I could scale the blue air, 
   I could plough the high hills, 
O, I could kneel all night in prayer, 
   To heal your many ills! 
And one beamy smile from you 
   Would float like light between 
My toils and me, my own, my true, 
   My Dark Rosaleen! 
   My fond Rosaleen! 
Would give me life and soul anew, 
A second life, a soul anew, 
   My Dark Rosaleen! 

O, the Erne shall run red, 
   With redundance of blood, 
The earth shall rock beneath our tread, 
   And flames wrap hill and wood, 
And gun-peal and slogan-cry 
   Wake many a glen serene, 
Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, 
   My Dark Rosaleen! 
   My own Rosaleen! 
The Judgement Hour must first be nigh, 
Ere you can fade, ere you can die, 
   My Dark Rosaleen!