Frank Corcoran

I honour and mourn for Patrick Creagh . He died last week in Tuscany. His eighty two years were full of words, literatures,
poets and poetry, his own and others, his translations of his beloved Leopardi and of so many. A gentleman and a scholar and a grand man, Irish and English roots in his “Brasier-Creagh” of North Cork, Oxford, Radda-in-Chianti. The ´O Cré s were fiddlers and pipers and sheriffs and racy gentry and Old Irish and New. Patrick inherited so much, passed it on, crafted the right word and the well-crpentered phrase and tittle . How honour and mourn for him ? Respect that legacy? How keep my, his respect for language ? For the pared down pen? He shall not go gentle. A tone or three , too, to sing his praise, I would think, a finely jewelled work for Flute and Viola and Guitar , their sighs and tuttis and solos, legato upon staccato, Juan Gris browns and the brighter colours, of course, also. Music has been at this for so long now in our cultural history, crooning or keening our beloved dead. Praise a good man, Patrick! MOLADH!