Chapter 17. Kissing the Leper: The Excluded Poet in Irish Myth

In 1596, Edmund Spenser wrote, Ireland has a rich dossier of the themes we have been considering so far; in fact, when parallels for Archilochus and the Lycambids are sought, the most striking comparanda have been found in Ireland, whose myth and folklore are full of powerful poets causing death, exile, and regal abdication through their satirical poetry, curses, and spells. [2] What has received less attention is the question of what happens to such powerful figures in Irish society. Again, the same social mechanisms seem to be in effect: the blame poet in Ireland often cannot be tolerated by society. Irish satirists are often imprisoned, killed, and exiled by political leaders and warriors; there seems to be a continual tension between king (or powerful political figure) and satirical poet, just as there is a mutually enriching bond between the king and poet who specializes in praise. In addition, important ancillary themes we have seen in the Aesop, Archilochus, and related traditions are in evidence here also: for instance, the poet as prophet; the poet as warrior; the poet as victim of inhospitality; and legislation directed against the satirist. If Ireland has a strong note of individuality that it infuses into these themes, it is the note of poetic malevolence. As has been noted earlier, the theme of the unsympathetic blame poet is also found in Greece (notably in the figure of Thersites). [3]

However, as has also been noted earlier, the moral standing of the poet is not absolute, but is often in the eye of the beholder. The documentary record for the malevolence of the Irish poet is a complex cultural and textual phenomenon, and one must at least try to arrive at a more ancient palimpsest of culture. John Rhys gives an example of tribal tension possibly causing animus against a famous poet, Aithirne from Ulster: the poet’s story, in which he is seen as a most malevolent and amoral satirist, “comes to us from the Book of Leinster, written by the scribes of the hereditary foes of Ulster.” [4]

But another, more widespread reason for the poet’s unsavory reputation in Ireland could be the tension between the druid (priest, with poetic aspects) and fili (poet, filid plural) and the Christian priest and monk. For example, St. Patrick forbids poetic and mantic practices. [5] Scribes would of course tend to be Christian or Christianized, but according to the Chadwicks, the druid, unlike the fili, could not coexist with Christianity at all. [6] Robin Flower writes, “In the lives of the saints the poets are usually represented in a somewhat unfavourable light. They are called “mimes and histrions” (mimi et histriones) or joungleurs (joculatores) and they constantly appear extorting gifts under the threat of a satire.” [7] However, as Flower notes, there may also have been some cooperation between the two groups, as St. Columba at one point saves the poets of Ireland from exile. [8] But this may merely symbolize the saint’s dominance over the weakened poets. The church could “co-opt” poets by becoming their patron. [9] Christian scribes apparently were especially disapproving of Irish poets who specialized in satire. [10]

In the same way, a tale that is “one long riotous attack on the poets and their ways,” the Proceedings of the Great Bardic Institution, has a saint save the chief poet Senchán, whose satire on the chief cat of Ireland, Irusan, has gone awry, and who is about to be killed by the violent beast. [11] The tale satirizes the satirist and points up his subservience to the Christian saint. Though the saints are not exempted from the power of the satirists, “in general, when the satirists confront the saints, their sorcery is forced to succumb to a higher power.” [12]

Interestingly, in an Irish document that is a miscellany about poets in Ireland, there is a tradition that views Aithirne in a sympathetic, moral light; the poet is the enforcer of moral law where the legal law cannot extend; [13] Aithirne the Importunate is quoted as prescribing “to poets a high standard of conduct.” [14] Such a hint of a possible earlier tradition of the moral blame poet in Ireland is tantalizing. [15] In legislation relating to Irish poetry, there is a sense of moral and immoral satire, [16] and some stories support the necessary morality of the blame poet. The poet Dallán satirizes a king with flagrant injustice, and though he leaves the palace exulting, three days later he is dead. [17] In the ceremony for the famous Irish satire genre, glám-dichenn, the poets (who have been denied proper payment for a poem) [18] pray that “if it were they that were in the wrong, the earth of the hill would swallow them up.” [19] This emphasis on the punishment of unlawful satire again is evidence for a strong tradition of moral blame. [20]

The moral issues of “justified” satire in Ireland are further complicated by legalistic interpretations of justification. The story of the poet Nede and the ruler Caier is a good example of the lengths the poet will go to find a “just” pretext for his satire. Through Caier’s wife, Nede learns that Caier has a knife that he has been forbidden by a geis (taboo) to part with. When Nede asks for the knife as a present and Caier is unable to give it, the king lays himself open to “just” satire through his apparent lack of generosity. This seems to be the moral casuistry of culture in which shame is a dominant component. [21]

Despite these ambiguities, the malevolent power of the Irish poets is most striking. Their lethal skill is exhaustively documented in Fred N. Robinson’s classic essay, “Satirists and Enchanters in Early Irish Literature.” [22] The poet Senchán kills ten mice through a satire; [23] a poetic curse ceremony provides that a stingy, oath-breaking regal patron will be swallowed up by the earth, along with his family and possessions. [24] Caier, after being dethroned by the satire of the poet Nede, flees from his kingdom, but dies of shame when the guilt-driven Nede seeks him out and he sees the poet face to face. [25] Though technically the poet’s satire only causes the king’s abdication, it effectively causes the shame that eventually kills him also. In much the same way, Aithirne and his sons, repulsed in their amatory advances by Luaine, the beautiful fiancée of King Conchobar, satirize her three times, leaving the customary blotches of Shame, Blemish, and Disgrace on her face, and she dies of shame. While there has probably never been a “pure” shame culture, clearly shame was a major component of this milieu, at least as reflected in such texts as these. [26]

Ferdiad, the friend of Cuchulainn, is threatened with death by satire, so prefers death in battle instead. [27] The woman Maistiu is satirized to death by a female satirist, Gris. [28] Another female satirist, Dub, finding out that she is married to a polygamist, kills her rival wife through a “sea-spell.” [29] The Welsh Dafydd ap Gwilym is a historical figure, nearly contemporary with Chaucer, who was reputed to have killed through satirical poetry. He wrote a satire on a rival poet, Rhys Meigen; when Rhys heard it read, he reportedly fell dead on the spot. [30] The druids had the same lethal power as the later poets: according to the Dindsenchas of Laigen, “the druids of Ireland nearly exterminated by their songs the tribe of the Gaileoin.” [31] There are two apparently historic instances from Ireland: the poet Hugh O’Higgins and his son kill through poetry an Englishman, John Stanley, in the fifteenth century. This is a just poetic execution: Stanley mercilessly persecuted churchmen, laymen, and scholars, driving them to homelessness and starvation. After being satirized, he lived only five weeks, then “died of the virulence of the lampoons.” [32] Egan O’Rahilly, in the eighteenth century, kills a man through poetry and barely survives a poetic attack himself. [33]

The poet’s destructive power was often less than lethal, but still dreaded. Irish poets traditionally disfigured their victims with three blisters on the face, variously named with allegorical words of shame and defilement. In the story of Nede and Caier, they are “Stain, Blemish, and Defect” (on, anim, and easbaidh) and are red, green, and white. [34] One poet melts his enemies through his reviling. [35] One proposed victim of satire, when he cannot remove a ring the satirist Aithirne has asked for, hacks off the finger to avoid the attack; [36] a king, the oneeyed Eochaid, plucks out his eye and gives it to Aithirne to avoid a similar attack. [37] Kings surrender their wives to the demands of the same satirist. [38] The blame of Irish poets can even attack nature, the productivity of the land: in the story of Niall, Echu, and Laidchenn, Laidchenn’s satires cause the trees and grains of Leinster to become barren; the poet Ferchertne causes a lake to rise or fall by praise or blame; the poet Forgoll threatens to curse waters to be barren of fish, woods to lack fruit, and plains to lack grain. [39] The poet can also attack the productivity of the land indirectly, by attacking the king, blemishing him. [40] But the poet can attack the king because he does not provide the required prosperity. [41]

As has been noted before, this kind of power will inevitably lead to friction with persons in high places, notably the king, and our central theme, the poet’s exile or death, results. On the other hand, sometimes the Irish satirist is so powerful that the obverse of our theme, the satire-induced exile of the king, results (as in the remarkable story of Nede and Caier). As in Greece, it is the poet’s ability to shame and exile his or her enemy (often the king or equivalent) that drives him or her into the persona of the pharmakos and practical exile. The agony of the poet-scapegoat is the obverse of the shame and agony he or she has caused (even if he or she has caused it with full justification). [42]

There were four different occasions when poets as a group were exiled from Ireland. In each case, a powerful protector (the first three times in Ulster) saved them from their fate. The first time (when they numbered twelve hundred), they were protected by King Conchobar of Ulster; the second time they (Eochaid, kingpoet, and his seven hundred) were protected by King Fiachna mac Baedan, and the third time they (including Eochaid, Dallán, and Senchán) were saved by King Maelcobha mac Deamain. King Aed mac Ainmiri tried once more to exile them at the assembly of Drumceat, but now they were protected by a Christian saint, Columba, who did, however, limit their numbers. [43] These stories are curious in that they involve the themes of tension between poet and king, and unity of poet and king at the same time (one king exiles; another king saves).

In the case of the dreaded satirist Aithirne the Importunate, a kind of preventative exile is practiced; the men of Leinster meet the poet on the borders of their land and offer him jewels and treasures so that he will stay away. (The poet subsequently levies a tax of women and cattle, and a war results.) [44]

Laws passed in Ireland often legislated against the poet [45] and sometimes they provided for his exile. A law passed in 1579 provided that a seneschal of O Byrnes county should “make proclamation that no idle person, vagabond or masterless man, bard, rymor, or other notorious malefactor, remain within the district on pain of whipping after eight days, and of death after twenty days.” [46] Here we have the exile theme combined with an evaluation of the poet as the worst, ranked with tramps and “notorious malefactors.” Similar evaluations are found in other Irish laws: “Thus satirists are classed among the men for whom no one may go surety; and woman-satirists, along with thieves, liars, and bush-strumpets, [47] are said to have no claim to an honor-price. Similarly, the son of a woman-satirist, like the son of a bondmaid, is declared to be ineligible to chieftaincy.” [48]

The implications of these and numerous other laws regulating satire are numerous. The blame poet will be punished for practicing his art, either by fine, loss of rights, corporal punishment (such as whipping), exile, imprisonment, or death. Sometimes the poet’s tongue was even cut out of his mouth. [49] Moreover, these laws were presumably produced either by powerful political leaders or by bodies of legislators representing their society. They imply the theme of selection and condemnation (of the poetic class) in a public meeting.

Leaving the theme of exile proper, we also find the theme of the violent killing of the poet to be common in Irish mythical tradition. In one case, satirists accuse a tribe, the Cenel Fhiachach, of being lowborn; in retaliation, the Cenel Fhiachach murder the poets. [50] Cuchulainn on three occasions was confronted by satirists; on all three occasions the poets died. In one case, the satirist Redg, king Ailill’s jester (cainte), is sent against Cuchulainn. He asks for the hero’s spear, and when he is refused, threatens to take away the hero’s honor through satire. Then Cuchulainn throws the spear through the back of Redg’s head, a seemingly cowardly act. “‘Now, that is a stunning gift,’ the satirist cried,” presumably immediately before he died. [51]

In another case, Riches, a female satirist, attacks Cuchulainn because he has killed her son. She assaults him by exposing herself, causing Cuchulainn to turn his head in shame, leaving him open to attack from her fosterling nearby. But Cuchulainn’s charioteer levels Riches by slinging a stone at her and breaking her back. This allows Cuchulainn to regain his self-possession and kill the fosterling. [52] In both these stories, the psychological advantage of the satirist is obliterated by the brute force of the warrior. Cuchulainn kills three more satirists, much as he killed Redg, before his death. [53] However, in the story of Cuchulainn’s death, in which three satirists demand his spear, and he “gives” it to them in the head, the “giving” of the spear eventually lays him open to a lethal return cast of the spear; the satirists, though they have died themselves, have helped cause his death.

Exactly parallel to these Cuchulainn stories is the story of Laidchenn’s death, for this satirist is killed by a “champion’s stone” hurled at him by Echu, when Laidchenn is melting the hero through satire. [54]

A classic poet–king conflict brings about the death of the poet Fafne. [55] Fafne’s sister is transformed into a fawn by enemies and then is killed by the king’s men. In retaliation, Fafne satirizes the king, blemishing him in the customary way. In return, Fafne is arrested and executed. This story is noteworthy not only for its paradigmatic clarity, [56] but for its sympathetic poet, who blemishes the king only because his sister has been murdered, and who then is killed for this just satire.

Divine vengeance overtakes three poets who threaten to satirize St. Laisren; they are swallowed up by the earth. [57] This kind of death is found also in the legendary scapegoat tales of Greece. [58]

The poet Gris’s destruction of Maistiu has been referred to above; Maistiu’s lover then killed the poet, breaking her head with a rock. [59] Dub, also referred to above, is another lethal female satirist who is killed violently in revenge for a murderous chant. [60]

Aithirne’s destruction of Luaine through satire has been referred to above. [61] The aftermath of this tragedy was the destruction of the poet and his family: King Conchobar and his Ulstermen trap the poet and his sons in their fortress, wall them in, kill the poet’s two daughters, and burn down the structure. Again, despite the power of the poet, the power of force prevails, though the story ends with a prophecy of woe for the murderers delivered by other poets.

Another extraordinary satirist, the blind Cridenbel (“whose mouth was out of his breast”), is also murdered. When he demands the best three portions of his host’s meals, and when his host, the Dagdae, begins to lose his health as a result, the Dagdae puts three golden coins in his food and gives these three bits to the insatiable lampooner, who dies of the golden dose. [62] Again, the story is set up so the unsympathetic poet receives his just deserts; but once again the poet is murdered—here in the house of his host, and by stealth. Though Cridenbel and Hesiod are far apart in character, they share this theme: the poet, perceived as criminal, is murdered by his host, by stealth, in a house where he should have received hospitality. [63]

A similar configuration of themes occurs in Vision of MacConglinne. [64] The scholar Aniér MacConglinne turns poet, and makes his first journey as a poet to receive a king’s hospitality in Munster (8). But on the way he stays in a guesthouse in Cork; it turns out to be dirty and verminous (10). The abbot in charge of it, Manchín, sends out meager ration of food, and MacConglinne, when he sees it, refuses the meal and sings bitter satirical quatrains about it. The servant boy memorizes the verses and repeats them to the abbot. Manchín is concerned that unless the wandering poet is punished, other little boys will sing the same verses (16). He subsequently accuses the poet of attacking the Church verbally (18). Accordingly, MacConglinne is stripped, scourged until his skin separates from his bones, immersed in the river Lee, and kept prisoner in the guesthouse in preparation for his crucifixion the next day. There is a curious trial, in which the abbot and monks accuse the poet unjustly (20). He in turns abuses them freely: “Ye curs and robbers and dunghounds, ye monks of Cork!”(22). [65] He is tied all night to a pillar-stone, but it is at this point, when he has been reduced to his lowest ebb of misery, that he receives a vision from an angel (30); he puts it into rhyme, recites it to Manchín, and the abbot reluctantly is forced to spare the poet’s life.

There are parallels to Aesop in this tale; the poet is inhospitably received, and satirizes his ungenerous hosts, who worry about the effect of the satire; so he is unjustly tried and sentenced to death. As an ironic reversal, the Christian monks sentence the poet to crucifixion. The archaic theme of the poet inhospitably received lies behind the Christian overlay.

The story in the Táin of the death of the jester, Tamun, “the Stump,” [66] has a king subject his “camp fool” to military murder; since the king dresses Tamun as himself, this murder has therapōn, ritual substitute resonances. [67] While Cuchulainn is holding off the Connacht army in his famous solitary defense of Ulster, King Ailill sends Tamun, made up to look like him and with a king’s crown on his head, to try to deceitfully distract the hero from his defense. But when Cuchulainn hears Tamun’s voice, he “knew by the man’s speech that he was the camp fool. He shot a slingstone from his hand and pierced the fool’s head and knocked out his brains.” [68]

Another fool, DoDera, dies as his master’s champion. Foreseeing defeat for his master, Lugaid Mac Con, he volunteers to go against Eogan “with your diadem on my head and wearing your battle-dress.” [69] “The jester was exactly like Mac Con in form and appearance.” [70] (Interestingly, the first mention of DoDera describes him as drúid, though this is probably simply an error for drúth). Eogan kills the fool after seeing through the disguise. This is a striking example, with a “fool” as the martial victim. [71] In Hittite ritual, there is emphasis on the ritual substitute victim’s dressing like the king, being anointed with regal oil, and being given the king’s crown. Then bad fortune is told to attack this substitute. [72]

The parallel with Achilles and Patroclus is obvious; [73] in both situations a man of high status, king or hero, sends a servant dressed as himself to face the greatest hero of the enemy’s forces, and the servant is killed. Here the therapōn explicitly moves in the sphere of the satirist, for a number of passages in Irish literature show that the satirist and the fool are closely associated, [74] though such an association would seem natural even without such evidence. [75] Also significant is the fact that the poet is substituted for a king.

The story of Nede and King Caier, referred to briefly above, also ends with the poet’s death. Nede, King Caier’s nephew and adopted son, at the urging of Caier’s wife, has caused the abdication and exile of the king through satire that is only technically justified, leaving the king’s face blemished. “Caier fled thence that none might see the disgrace, until he was in Dun Cermnai” (Atloi caieur as arnach nacedh nech fond aithis combæ in dun cermnai …). This is a classic case of the poet creating a regal pharmakos. Nede ascends the throne and marries the former king’s wife. But after a year, a remarkable thing happens. Nede feels guilt or pity for the exiled king: “Grievous unto him was Caier’s torment” (Ba haithrech lais cradh caier). Thus, even in archaic Irish myth, guilt seems to obtrude into a culture in which shame and dishonor are dominant motivating forces. Nede travels to the fort where Caier is receiving hospitality; he drives Caier’s chariot, and is accompanied by Caier’s wife and greyhound. When Caier sees them he inflicts another exile on himself: “Caier fled from them out of the house, till he was on the flagstone behind the fort.” After entering the fort, Nede evidently pursues Caier with his dogs, who track him to the flagstone, under which he is hiding. When Nede approaches, “Caier died for shame on seeing Nede. The rock flamed at Caier’s death, and a fragment of the rock flew up under Nede’s eye, and pierced into his head.” [76]

This story is remarkable for the humanizing of the previously ruthless poet. Driven by guilt and pity, he follows Caier into exile. There his own death complements the death of the king, which he unintentionally causes; paradoxically, the king seems to unintentionally cause Nede’s death also, though there is a supernatural force involved. Like Caier, Nede exiles himself and suffers death far from his home. It would be hard to imagine a more symbiotic relationship of persecutor and victim; both men end up as exiled pharmakoi, and each destroys the other. [77]

These legendary accounts of the persecution of poets are paralleled by some historical accounts. In 1572, the Earl of Thomond hanged three poets whom he found offensive, for which offense against the bards he was satirized himself. [78] During the reign of James I, a poet named Teige Dall O’Higgin had his tongue cut out, and his wife and child were murdered, by the O’Haras, the recipients of one of his lampoons, who had abused his hospitality. [79]

Thus, we see that, on the one hand, the poet is one of the most important members of Irish society, whose power rivals that of the king on occasion; but, on the other hand, as blame poet, he is often intolerable to the king and society, and must be expelled, exiled or killed (as the cases of Redg, Riches, Laidchenn, Fafne, Aithirne, Dub, and Gris show us). This aspect of the poet—his inability to fit into society, his marginality, his criminality—is expressed in the law discussed above, where the poet is grouped with tramps and the lowest criminals. Thus, in a description of a “DemonBanquet,” poets are ranked among the offscourings of society again: this is a banquet “forfeited” to a demon which is awarded to “sons of death and bad men, i.e. to lewd persons and satirists [caintib] and jesters [oblairaib], and buffoons, and mountebanks, and outlaws [merlechaib], and heathens, and harlots and bad people in general …” [80] It is the satirist, not the eulogist, who is ranked with the worst of society. A similar estimation is given another satirist, the avaricious Fland, “the first professional poet of Ireland.” The Yellow Book of Lecan describes three chief bards: “There were three learned poets of Connaught, Mac Liac and Mac Coise and Fland mac Lonain, that is, the son of God, the son of man and the son of the demon. Fland mac Lonain was called the son of the demon, for his covetousness and surliness; for he never entered a house without causing loss therein.” [81]

The association of poet with outlaw in Ireland has been well documented in Joseph Nagy’s The Wisdom of the Outlaw. [82] This theme is, of course, intimately related to the theme of poetic exile. In fact, the outlaw, fénnid, “is frequently an exile.” [83] He becomes an outlaw “when his rights have been violated … having lost his social status, the new fénnid can find a life and identity in the world of fellow fénnidi and fíana.” [84] The central figure of Nagy’s book, Finn, is both fili ‘poet’ and fénnid ‘outlaw’; both highly honored and an outcast at the same time. Another poet-outcast is the hermit Marbhán, also a swineherd, who wins a poetic knowledge contest with the assembled poets of Ireland, and sends them off on a quest for the Táin Bó Cúalnge. [85]

Also marginal is the physically disfigured person. We find a number of blind poets in Ireland, notably Cridenbel, [86] but also Lugaid, who divines the destruction of a naval expedition when he is brought the skull of the captain’s pet dog. [87] Dallán, who satirizes King Hugh unjustly, is also blind. [88] Amairgein, chief poet of King Conchobar, has a loathsome appearance. After going fourteen years without speaking, Amairgein is described as follows: “His belly grew then until it was the vast size of a big house … And the mucus ran out of his nose into his mouth. His skin was black … his face was pallid … His feet had crooked toes … Knobby, bony, scabby his back. And so he was not handsome.” [89] When Amairgein’s first statement is a subtle riddle, the chief poet Aithirne tries to kill him out of jealousy. When he fails, he is obliged to take the loathsome, but brilliant teenager in fosterage. [90] The loathsome, clever Amairgein reminds one of Aesop.

But most significant are two stories of leprous poets who act as champions for their poetic companions. First is St. Caillín, who joins, under the persona of a leper, the expedition of poets and musicians, led by Senchán, seeking for the tale of the Cattle Raid of Cúalnge. When the poets seek to land on the Isle of Man, they are refused harbor until they can finish a group of half-quatrains called out to them. Only Caillín is able to finish the verses, enabling the poets to complete their quest. Thus the lowest, the diseased, is also the best, and the means of the group’s salvation. [91] Earlier in the narrative Senchán is required to kiss the leper, a powerful expression of the ambiguous nature of the poetic vocation. [92]

A story with the same structure is told of a leprous boy in ragged clothes who accompanies Senchán on another quest. The company, after some initial hesitation, accepts him in their group. When they reach their destination, a hag starts quatrains and demands that Senchán finish them. But only the diseased boy is able to meet the challenge. When the ollam and the boy return home, the latter turns into a handsome blonde hero in royal clothing, then vanishes. He was “the spirit of poetry.” Dubium itaque non est quod ille poematis erat spiritus, our text explains, slipping into Latin. [95] Thus this supernatural poet, the spirit of poetry itself, is diseased, leprous, the worst, then experiences an upward peripety, conquers an evil being in a poetic agōn, and becomes Senchán’s savior and a beautiful, royal youth; he encompasses polar opposites. These two stories are worthy of note for their depictions of benevolent, if revolting, poets—benign bards seem rare in Ireland. [96]

Thus Ireland has no paucity of exempla for our central themes: the exiled blame poet, the killing of the poet by king or society, the poet as worst. The poet is too dangerous, or powerful, morally just or unjust, or unclean, to be endured.

Despite the Irish poet’s malevolent reputation, he nevertheless clearly had a sacral side. As in Greece, the Irish poet was to a great extent mantic. Nora Chadwick writes, of early Celtic literature, “Probably no other literature offers such a wealth of material for differentiating between various types of manticism, and various classes of mantic persons, such as the druid, fili, geilt, awenyddion … among the early Celtic peoples the inculcation of poetic inspiration and the entire mantic art were developed and elaborated to a degree for which we know no parallel.” [97]

Indeed, the chief difficulty in dealing with the Celtic poet is the profusion and complexity of data available on the subject. Simply unraveling the names of the different kinds of poets, prophets, and priests is a confusing task. [98] But for our present purposes, we need merely emphasize that the poet (fili, vates, bardos) developed from the seer, and inherited many of the mantic and hieratic functions of the druid. The most common name for poet, fili, derives from a root meaning ‘to see’. [99] Gerard Murphy writes that “filid [poets] and fátha [prophets] were originally the same.” [100]

Interestingly, to my knowledge, in Ireland there are no elaborate theophanic poetic consecration scenes comparable to those of Greece; however, we find a comparable theme in later Irish folklore, where the poet receives inspiration only after a first-hand experience with the fairies or old gods of Ireland. [101] The related theme of receiving inspiration through eating a supernatural food or drink is very common in Irish myth, however. Finn, for instance, receives wisdom by drinking at the otherworld well. [102] In one account, he drinks the liquor of inspiration. [103] In another account, Finn gets wisdom by eating the “Salmon of Wisdom,” at which time his name changes from Demne to Finn. In a kindred Welsh motif, Gwion Bach, an earlier incarnation of Taliesin, receives drops from a magical cauldron of inspiration and immediately foresees the future in its totality. [104]

In a parallel to Aeschylus, some Irish poets gain knowledge while sleeping. Often poets receive a concrete symbol of their poetic consecration after such experiences—Dermot O’Shea receives a book from a mermaid, for instance. This parallels the consecrations of Hesiod, Archilochus, and Marsyas. Another poet sleeps, then finds beside him a sword, bagpipes, and a book. [105] The unsacralized person does not become a poet.

The mantic ecstasy that the poet experiences has led some scholars to associate the Irish poet with the warrior in his war fury. “The preoccupation of vates (and probably of filid) with inspiration … seems to connect them with the function of the warrior—débordant, berserk …” write the Rees brothers. [106] The medieval Irish court poet often went on campaigns with his chieftain. [107] As has been mentioned, the hero Finn is both fennid ‘warrior, hunter, outlaw’ and fili; his poetic mentor is named Cethern mac Fintain; Cethern probably derives from ce(i)thern ‘band of fighting men, warrior’. [108] This kind of dual identity is not uncommon in Ireland and other Celtic cultures, just as it was widespread in Greece (Archilochus, Alcaeus, Aeschylus, Tyrtaeus, and Socrates come quickly to mind). [109] The Irish warrior-poet Suibhne Geilt, cursed vagabond, madman, dweller in trees, is another example. [110] A number of the poets referred to above were also warriors; Cridenbel, for instance, [111] and Casmáel. [112]

The Irish goddess of war, Morrigan, appears to Cuchulainn in the persona of a satirist, riding in a chariot, clad in red, and with red eyebrows. A henchman drives a cow in front of her. “I am a female satirist” (Am banchainti-sea em) she tells Cuchulainn, after evading his questions for a time. [113] A description of an Ulster warriorsatirist, Dubthach Chafertongue, shows the paradoxical duality of the martial poet: This description captures the essential ambiguity of both the warrior and the poet. The state depends upon the warrior’s talent for mayhem, yet it is endangered by it, and finds it difficult to control. A good example is the well-known story in which Cuchulainn, in the grip of battle fury, nearly turns on his own army. [115] This is one of the primary themes of Dumézil’s investigations into the warrior function in Indo-European traditions. [116] The poet, especially the satirist who uses words as weapons, is equally dangerous and valued.

The Welsh court poets, pencerdd and bardd teulu ‘bard of the troop or royal retinue’, were customarily warriors, [117] and the bardd teulu would sing paraenetic poetry to the army before it went to war. An elegy on the poet Bleddyn Fardd extols his prowess in battle: “The terror of warriors, in valor irresistible, ever leading, savage as a wolf was Bleddyn Fardd.” Like Archilochus, he was killed in battle: “Bearing death-dealing blades, in his blue-enamelled armor the lion was slain.” [118] A number of legendary Welsh and British poets were also warriors: Taliesin, and “Three Red-Speared Bards of the Island of Britain,” Tristfardd, Dygynnelw, and Afan Ferddig. [119]

Just as Greece has famous warrior-heroes who are secondarily poets (Achilles, Heracles), so Ireland has a dominant warrior such as Lugh, who, in his mastery of all arts, is also a poet. Lugh is first described as “A handsome, well-built warrior with a king’s diadem.” [120] Later he enables the Tuatha De to win the second battle of Moytura by slinging a stone at the giant evil eye of Balor and turning it against the Fomorian forces (Gray, #135). Yet in the first doorway interview with Lugh, he describes himself as a poet (file, #62), harper, sorcerer, and historian (#60, 63, 62). He is also a smith, a wright, a champion, a hero, a cupbearer, a brazier, and a leech (#56–68). [121]

Indeed, the power of poetry was so great in Irish myth that satirists were sometimes used, as poets, in war. In the Second Battle of Moytura, Carpre, in a battle muster, offers his services in battle: “I will make a glám dícinn against them, and I will satirize them and shame them so that through the spell of my art they will offer no resistance to warriors.” [122] Kings employed bands of satirists. [123] Mebd uses “druids and satirists and hard-attackers” (na drúith & na glámma & na crúadgressa) to force Ferdiad into battle. [124] Though this may seem to merely precipitate the combat, there is a fine line between the attack of satire and the attack of weapons. In the second battle of Moytura, Lugh uses a curious mixture of paraenesis and sorcery in battle: “Lug was urging the men of Ireland to fight the battle fiercely so they should not be in bondage any longer, because it was better for them to find death while protecting their fatherland than to be in bondage and under tribute as they had been. Then Lug chanted the spell which follows, going around the men of Ireland on one foot and with one eye closed.” [125]

Yet the two actions are more closely related if the spell is a satire. O’Davoran’s Glossary tells us that the satirical spell, the glám dícenn, is made on one foot, with one eye open. [126] The close association of the spell with the paraenesis shows their parallelism: through his command of reputation, shame and honor, the poet had almost a magical power.

The use of shame language on the battlefield recalls Tyrtaeus or Agamemnon in Greece. Agamemnon would exhort the courageous soldiers, but he would “reproach very bitterly,” “in words of anger” those who were avoiding the battle. [127] He cries out, “Argives, you arrow-fighters, have you no shame, you abuses?” (Ἀργεῖοι ἰόμωροι, ἐλεγχέες, οὔ νυ σέβεσθε;) and then uses an animal simile, comparing the skulkers to fawns. [128] The war goddess (scaldcrow) Badb mocks the boy Cuchulainn, after a setback on a battle field, as “a poor sort of warrior” (olc damnae laích), which inspires Cuchulainn to renewed effort. [129]

The poet as warrior is related to the theme of the poetic agōn as we have encountered it in the lives of Aesop, Homer, and Hesiod, at least to the extent that participants in the agōn are fighting against each other. (And we remember that losers in mythical riddle contests often lost their heads). The poetic agōn is also a persistent theme in lives of the Irish poets. We have already mentioned the diseased supernatural poet who saves Senchán twice through his prowess in a poetic quatrain contest. [130] One thinks of Aesop’s salvific nature and mastery of riddles. Aithirne the Importunate, consuming a pig and mead alone in miserly fashion, has it taken from him when a fellow poet recites a line of poetry and Aithirne cannot make a rhyme to it. [131] In the Proceedings of the Great Bardic Institution, the poet-hermit Marbhán defeats all of the burdensome poets in riddle contests, and forces them to go off on a quest for the Táin. [132] One Irish text, “Colloquy of the Two Sages,” has two prominent poets compete in a riddle contest for the office of chief poet of Ulster. [133] One is reminded of the two chief poets of Greece, Homer and Hesiod, meeting to decide ultimate precedence. [134]

Dáithí Ó hÓgáin notes that there are many examples of the poetic agōn in modern folklore, some involving riddles. [135] There is, of course, a continuum between poetry and riddle, and a range of enigmatic poetry and speech in the middle. [136] Huizinga notes the connection of ainos ‘tale, praise’, and ainigma ‘enigma, riddle’. [137] The poet must be the person of knowledge, often otherworldly knowledge, [138] which brings to mind the almost encyclopedic tone of Hesiod’s two extant poems. [139]

The archaic riddle contest is an Indo-European theme, strongly attested in India, Greece, and other Indo-European countries. “The function of … ritual riddle solving competitions is shown at its clearest in Vedic lore,” writes Huizinga, who collects examples of the theme of the riddle contest with death as the stake from India (Yājñavalkya), Greece (Mopsus and Calchas) and Germany (Odin and the giant Vafthrúdnir). [140]

A tale from modern folklore offers a complex network of important themes: the poetic agōn; satire as a defensive weapon; art as an aggressive response to aggression; the poet satirizing poet; the poet as possessed: In the same way, Archilochus, the beautifully singing cicada, responded with bitter satire, the defensive satire of righteous indignation, when he was maliciously tortured; and Hipponax retaliated similarly when an artist lampooned him. This person-to-person artistic combat recalls the earlier combat of Irish poets explicitly in war, Cridenbel trading spells with enemy enchanters. [143] But the satirist is, as it were, always a warrior. The persistent use of terms implying aggressive blows or weapons to refer to satire is entirely in keeping with this aspect of the satirist’s vocation. In a text on the diction of poetry collected in Robinson we find a number of weapon terms, especially rindad ‘cutting’. [144] Ail, one of the three blemishes raised by satire, is the same as ail ‘stone’ “in the sense of a bump caused by a blow or metaphorically by a slur,” writes Howard Meroney. [145] A poem on satire reads, “It’s extempore bane that will stab in the face anybody it’s flung at! / Not long is the respite from slaughter with spears of injurious gibing!” [146] Glám of glám dícind means ‘attack, gibe’, “the basic idea being to nab or nip—an action of fangs or fingers.” [147] The poet Nede describes his profession as rind feola, “piercing flesh,” and a glossator adds, “faebur a aire hi feoil amail, ‘the edge of his satire like a point in flesh’.” [148] Thus the poet is a warrior wielding razor-sharp weaponry; but he is also a predator whose tooth and claw can be lethal. Poets’ tongues were widely thought of as “sharp” and “keen.” [149] A folk etymology for cáinte ‘satirist’ is from dog, “for the satirist has a dog’s head in barking, and alike is the profession they follow.” [150] The most common word of laughter in early Irish literature, tibid, “combines the sense of ‘laughter’ with that of ‘striking’ or ‘shoving’.” [151]

Another metaphor for destructive, lethal poetry is that of poison, and the image of poetry as poison is common in the Irish tradition. A folk etymology derives fili ‘poet’ from fi ‘poison’ (satire) and li ‘praise’. [152] The blemishes the poet produces on his victim’s face are referred to as “poisonous ulcers [cnuicc nemed].” [153] A poem on satire speaks of the “venom of verse.” [154] Weapon and poison imagery are combined in the poem’s phrase “shaft of poison” (gai fi). [155]

We have already met the ominous satirist-warrior Dubthach Chafertongue, almost schizophrenic in his division between gentleness and savagery. After the description of the poet, which includes the metaphor of a spear dipped in poison, Mebd exclaims, “By our conscience, the description is venomous!” Cu Roi answers: “Venomous is he whose description it is.” [156] As in Greece, the poet is the lethal gift, the dosis of poison; he causes wars and strife, [157] kills with blame, destroys honor, and is a revolting leper. Yet he also is sacred, [158] has priestly functions, [159] has martial functions, and is indispensable to the king. Watkins writes, “For the patron, the rí … molad, clú, blad, ainm [praise], were a moral necessity … and the poet alone could celebrate this fame, and make known [noid] the name of his patron. A ‘king without poets’ was proverbial in Ireland for ‘nothing’.” But “The patron in his turn was obligated to maintain the poet munificently, often to the detriment of his own wealth.” [160]

And, as in the case of the vilelooking leper, the poet can act as a savior figure. [161] However repulsive the experience may be, one must still kiss the poetic leper.