Anita Mawhinney talks about her composition 'Quicksilver' - the story of Macha, goddess of Ulster

Anita Mawhinney talks about her poem and choral composition 'Quicksilver', which tells the story of Macha, goddess of Ulster.

The work was funded by the National Lottery via the Arts Council of Northern Ireland.

It will be premiered by Cappella Caeciliana (conducted by Matthew Quinn) in Belfast Harbour Office on Friday 9th June at 7.30pm. More details and booking are available at https://www.caeciliana.org

Text of the poem:

Misty morning lights her dance,
Each joyful step a lightsome chance;
Skimming over mossy stones.

Water droplets burst and flicker,
She floats through foliage ever quicker,
Prism wind dogs beneath each step.

Furze and fearsome brambles prickle
Her bare legs as her feet break sticks;
But she sings softly as she flies.

A brooch of gold, braids like fire,
She crosses the morning glen, soaring higher,
A mother’s heart beats fast and strong.

Quicksilver, deadly as lightning;
Small white fists tightening.
The leaping hare cannot escape her.

Never breathless, always restless,
She takes her quarry back to the hearthstone.
There she will cook for her famished children.

At sunset her husband returns.
Macha, reddened, now burns
To hear of Cruinniuc’s broken pledge.

This drunken fool
Had broken her one rule
And boasted to the king of his wife:

"Tell no one of me
For no one can see
That Macha can run like the wind!”

In burst Conor’s band of kerns
To take her from their peaceful glen
And challenge his chariot’s racing team.

Her streaming eyes are wild
“Can’t you see that I’m with child?
Macha will not race!”

“The wench must comply,
Or her husband will die!”
“Will no one defend me?” she cries.

And Macha’s blood boils
As she begins her deathsome toil:
Her race against the champion horses.

The laughing, goading men have placed all their bets
And the racers run the muddy course.
But Macha can outrun any horse!

Screaming, collapsing as she wins
Macha gives birth to twins
And dying she begins her mallacht:

“For failing to help in my time of need
Men of Ulster, your strength will fail
Whenever you need it most.
For nine times nine generations
You will endure the pain of a
Woman giving birth.”