The Irish Poet

It was getting late one Saturday evening in the spring of 2002. I was about to wiggle out of my promise. It had been a long day, I was tired, didn't feel that great, and (probably above all): what if I were just plain unable to do it? Maybe I'll just rest in front of the TV tonight, and we'll have a go tomorrow...

My mind had doubtless begun to broadcast my weasle thoughts, because Fionnbharr, my Irish wolfhound, who had been resting peacefully on his bed on the other side of the coffee table, suddenly pulled himself upright, fixing me with a keen gaze filled with mingled anticipation and reproach. His beautiful, expressive eyes stayed upon me, waiting. I looked back and laughed, "Okay, baby, okay. We'll try it now."

A month or so earlier, in the course of a conversation Fionnbharr and I had with our animal communicator, Cathy Malkin, she told me that Fionnbharr had the soul of a poet. and he said he would love it if I could write down his poetry for him. She suggested I sit quietly with pad and pencil, tune in and listen, and see what happens. I was certainly intrigued enough to want to try it, but had not found the time or quietude. Finally, I had told Fionnbharr that this Saturday would definitely be the day.

Cathy had been acting as a communications bridge between Fionnbharr and me ever since his January 2002 diagnosis of osteosarcoma. I had called her at the urging of a dear friend of ours, and it turned out to be just what was needed. Cathy had been helping us to find our way through the terrifying array of hard treatment choices. Learning what Fionnbharr felt about them and about his situation helped us both tremendously.

We had always been very close in heart and mind, yet the intensity and intimacy of communication we found with Cathy's help while under the spectra of this disease was astounding. Even in the midst of all the fear, pain and sorrow, the important thing remained that we were together, and could love and care for each other, taking each day as it came. So we also experienced deep joy and took immense pleasure in little things and daily accomplishments. There were many times during our process that my boy's behavior following one of our talks with Cathy had confirmed beyond a doubt that he had been involved in the same conversation and understood it well. I had also come to trust our own mutual communications even more.

Fionnbharr had told Cathy he'd once been an Irish poet and that he and I had known one another in that and other lives, and been close many times before. Here was my poet, watching me and willing me to be true to my word and attempt this for him. I smiled again; I had to try to listen to the poet's heart and interpret as best I could for friendship's sake. I reached for the tablet of paper I'd put on the table earlier that day and Fionnbharr relaxed again, lying down on his bed with a deep sigh.

The candle light gave a peaceful atmosphere to the room as I sat, pencil poised, reaching out to my friend and opening my mind, waiting. Suddenly images began tumbling into my head, followed by words which I began to record. Then it was done. Just like that, a poem fully formed was on the page. I read it back to Fionnbharr, tears streaming as it moved my heart. The next day brought another poem in the same way, and, over time came another and another. Some arrived complete, some in bits and pieces. Before I knew it, we had a collection of the most wonderful poetry.

I am so grateful that I was able to hear Fionnbharr that Saturday night and kept my promise to him. All too soon he had to leave me. He crossed the Rainbow Bridge on August 17, 2002. My heart aches and I miss him so terribly now that he is gone from this physical life. Luckily, his poetry has itself become a bridge that helps us to stay connected across dimensions, spirit to spirit, and it is also means he has left his presence in the world to live on.

Like most poets, Fionnbharr loved/loves for friends to share his poetry and I promised him that I would share them. (The titles are in Irish with an English translation.)

The Irish Poet

by Nikki Ragsdale and Fionnbharr, Irish Wolfhound

Idirbhealach (A Way Between or Communication)

An t-Earrach Geal (The Bright Spring)