Frank Corcoran

I almost weep this almost May evening here in “Duck-Egg-Purple ” Tramonto Lazio for “my” great poet, a ” WORDSMITH” , for great Patrick Creagh, I weep for his ” LAMENTO FOR THE BORDERGUARD”. For that great man. Walk tall !
In those -for me- mythic Patrick Creagh Seventies , I and my ” family” ( I´ll explain these inverted commas very painfully; see below ) experienced ( -here my weeping breaks / brakes me / he ) Patrick´s and Ursula´EXTRAORDINARY hospitality in their “Spanda”, their Radda-in-Chianti of the vipers. I see Tuscan Patrick´s gently ironic , his quizzical look at my young Tipperary non-hurler´s search for yet another, for a father, for my father, for any father. Patrick ( for me almost an elder Corcoran brother ) respected tones,. ( My composer´s seventies had started slowly; heavily clotted; these delightful nine early choral MEDIEVAL IRISH EPIGRAMMES are certainly and still me; the great 1974 to 1975 THREE ORCHESTRAL PIECES are heroically painted )
-each Leopardi word was for Patrick ( -was he a Creagh ? Maybe ´O Cré ? a Brazier ? whence the Mac Cre ? ) a musical tone or a chord, an orchestration.