On Poetry, Prose, and Videogames

JLawrence Kenny

An Drochshaol

on April 2, 2012

Some would call it a Famine,
But that is a torrid falsehood.

In Famine, no food is to be found.

Here, there is plenty of food,
But none of it is for us.

Carrots had we plenty,
But sold by the English they were.
Cows had we plenty,
But forcibly taken they were.
Foods of all kind we grew,
But none had we but the abundant potato,
And milk, and water, and grain.

Then came the Blight, and suddenly we found
Our potatoes rotted within the ground.
Yet still we survived the Spring.
Food was donated to our starving country,
And so we carried on through Summer.
The gifts dried up soon,
But we still endured through the Autumn.

But then came Winter,
And no crops had we.
By the thousands we died,
By starvation and disease.

But Winter came to an end,
And we looked forward with hope
to a new harvest of abundance.

Alas, no such luck had we.

The Blight ravaged the land once more,
And so still what little we had was taken from us,
Torn from our homes if we had naught to give,
And the process repeated for years to come.

A wicked cycle of death and dying.

But still, we were not without hope.

We continued to survive,
Despite horrible odds.

Some stayed in their homes.

Some looked to the horizons.

And though hundreds of thousands
Only found homes within the ground,
Millions more carried on.
The Hungry, and the Poor.

Even beyond our own borders
We found opposition,
But we had suffered worse.

And even today, we look behind us
To see how far we’ve come.

And we take heart,
And remember those we have lost,
And how their sacrifices
Have made our new lives possible


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