🔥 Yeats: From the Page to the Peat-Fire

Yeats Unwrapped
v01

“Where poetry remembers it was once story.” 

Step out of the printed page and into the flicker of story, where poems become voices, and voices become living things once more.

In this brief fireside session, a handful of Yeats’ most haunting works are retold as tales—of broken promises, stolen children, wandering souls, and loves that refuse the grave. The veil between worlds grows thin, as it always does in Yeats, and what was once written becomes spoken… and heard.

No stage. No spectacle.
Just a voice, a fire, and the old stories finding their way home.

If you’ve ever found Yeats a little distant on the page…
this might be the night he feels close enough to hear.

Each story today will be followed by a short musical composition inspired by that tale. 

To Some I Have Talked With By The Fire

The Story of the Unfaithful Guest
[based on The Grey Rock]

The Tale of the Rosses’ Boy
[based on The Stolen Child]

The Sidhe's Card Game
[based on The Host of the Air]

The Ghost-Ship of the North
[based on The Shadowy Waters]

The Two Trees of Baile and Aillinn

INTRO

They say W.B. Yeats wrote for the gods, but tonight,
we’re bringing him back to the fire where the rest of us sit. And when you sit long enough by a fire like this…
the stories don’t come in order.
They come the way the sparks do—
one at a time… and never quite where you expect.

 

To Some I Have Talked With By The Fire

 

The hearth in the old stone house didn't just provide warmth; it provided a rhythm. Outside, the Sligo wind tore at the heather, but inside, the peat fire pulsed like a slow, glowing heart.

Ansell sat in the high-backed chair, the same one his father and grandfather had used to watch the shadows dance. He wasn't alone, though a stranger looking through the window would have seen only a solitary old man and a half-empty glass of whiskey.

"You’re quiet tonight, Fergus," Ansell murmured, his eyes fixed on a corner where the firelight failed to reach.

From the gloom, a soft, metallic rasp answered—the sound of a scabbard brushing against a ghost’s thigh. Fergus didn't manifest as a mist or a cliché; he was a sudden density in the air, a shadow with the sharp profile of a king from a forgotten age.

"The wind has the cry of a hunt in it," Fergus said, his voice like dry leaves skittering over stone. "It makes the old blood restless."

They were the "companions" Yeats had whispered about—the ones who didn't care for the price of cattle or the local gossip in the village. Ansell had spent his youth trying to outrun them, seeking the loud, bright distractions of the city. But the city was thin; it had no roots. He had returned to the fire because only here, in the company of the noble and the dead, did the world feel solid.

A third chair, tucked near the bookshelf, creaked.

"He’s right, John" said a woman’s voice. This was Emer—not the queen of legend, perhaps, but a woman who had walked these hills five hundred years ago with a heart just as fierce. She stepped into the amber light, her hair a wild spill of silver and raven-black. "There is a shift coming. The 'unquiet ones' are gathering at the gate."

Ansell took a sip of his whiskey, feeling the burn settle in his chest. "Let them gather. We’ve kept the fire for them, haven't we?"

"It’s more than that tonight," Emer said, leaning forward. Her eyes were like salt water. "The world outside is forgetting how to dream, Ansell. When they stop dreaming, the paths between our world and yours begin to callus over. Soon, even this hearth won't be enough to call us back."

The room grew colder. The "clashing of swords" Yeats wrote of wasn't always a physical battle; often, it was the friction between the eternal and the mundane. Ansell looked at his guests—the warrior and the weaver of shadows. They were his secret aristocracy, the ones who had taught him that a life spent pondering the "God-fired" mysteries was worth more than a century of common toil.

"What would you have me do?" Ansell asked. "I am one man with a dying fire."

Fergus stood, his stature seemingly growing until his head nearly brushed the blackened rafters. "Write it down," the shadow commanded. "The stories are the anchors. As long as the words are spoken, the path stays open. Talk to us, Ansell. Tell the world that we are still sitting by the fire, waiting for someone to be brave enough to look into the dark."

Ansell reached for the pen and the tattered notebook on the side table. His hands shook, not from age, but from the sudden weight of the task. Outside, the storm shrieked, a thousand "desolate" voices demanding to be heard.

He began to write, his pen scratching a frantic rhythm against the silence. He wrote of the kings in exile, of the ladies who died for love and woke up as birds, and of the quiet, holy madness of sitting in a room filled with people no one else could see.

As the sun began to grey the edges of the curtains hours later, the chairs were empty. The peat had turned to white ash. But on the table lay a stack of pages, still warm to the touch. Ansell leaned back, exhausted and exhilarated. He had talked with the spirits, and for once, the spirits had talked back.

He closed his eyes, hearing the faint, fading echo of a sword being sheathed. The fire was out, but the light on the page was just beginning to burn.

 

They speak of many things, those who linger by the fire…
but more often than not, they speak of the old bargains.

The kind made when the world was younger—
and far less forgiving.

There’s a place not far from here…

 

"The Grey Rock" - A broken promise, a secret world, and the stubbornness of the heart. It’s got that "old gods vs. new world" tension that audiences love.

________________________________________

The Story of the Unfaithful Guest
[based on The Grey Rock]

You know the big, flat rock up on the ridge? The one the sheep won’t graze near even when the grass is lush? That’s the Grey Rock. And it wasn’t always just stone.

A long time ago, when the Tuatha Dé Danann—the old, tall ones—were fading into the hills, they held a final feast at the top of that rock. They weren't eating bread and butter; they were drinking the wine of the gods, the kind that makes a man feel like he can catch a falling star in his palm.

Now, there was a woman there named Aoife. She wasn't of our world, but she loved a man who was. His name was Brian. He was a hero, a fighter, the kind of man who looked good in the sunlight but struggled when the shadows got long.

Aoife brought him to the Grey Rock. She gave him a gift—a pin for his cloak made of silver that never tarnished. "As long as you wear this," she whispered, "no blade will touch you. You will be a king among men, but you must promise me one thing: Never fight for a cause that isn't your own. Keep your heart here, with the quiet things."

Brian took the pin. He took the protection. And for a while, he was the greatest warrior Ireland had ever seen. He walked through battles like he was walking through a summer rain, the swords just sliding off him.

But men are fickle things. A king from the south offered Brian gold and fame to fight a war that had nothing to do with honor and everything to do with greed. Brian looked at the silver pin, then he looked at the gold, and he chose the gold.

He marched to the battle of Clontarf. He fought like a demon, but halfway through the slaughter, he felt a cold wind. He looked down, and the silver pin was gone. It hadn't fallen; it had melted away.

Without the magic, the first spear that found him went straight through.

Back at the Grey Rock, Aoife sat waiting. She didn't cry. The gods don’t cry like we do; they just turn cold. She watched her people leave, slipping into the mounds, but she stayed on that rock for two hundred years, waiting for a man who had traded eternity for a moment of fame.

When you pass that rock now, and you hear the wind whistling through the cracks, that’s not the wind. That’s Aoife, still calling out to a ghost, asking him why the gold was heavier than her love.

 

 

Some promises are broken with a sword in hand…
and some are broken with a single step in the wrong direction.
And sometimes…
it’s not a promise at all that’s lost—
but a child.

Theme shift: choice → consequence → longing

 

 

The Tale of the Rosses’ Boy
[based on The Stolen Child]

 

You’ve seen the lake water lapping at the reeds near Sleuth Wood, haven't you? It looks peaceful. But the old folks don’t go there after the sun dips behind the mountain. They know about the ones who live in the "leafy island."

There was a boy once—let’s call him Liam—who lived in a house full of noise. There were five brothers, a crying baby, and a father who always had a chore for a pair of idle hands. Liam loved them, but his head was full of the quiet places.

One evening, he wandered too far. He found a spot where the ferns grew taller than a man’s waist. And there they were.

They didn't look like monsters. They looked like starlight caught in human shape. They were dancing on the shore, their feet not even bending the grass. One of them, a girl with eyes the color of a deep well, held out her hand.

"Come away, human child," she sang—and her voice made the sound of his mother’s kitchen seem like a clanging iron forge. "To the waters and the wild. The world you live in is full of weeping. It’s full of taxes, and broken hearts, and heavy boots. With us, you’ll feast on vats of stolen cherries. You’ll chase the moon until it tires."

Liam looked back toward the smoke rising from his chimney. He thought of the cold winters and the way his hands would eventually grow calloused and tired. Then he looked at the faeries, who would never grow old and never feel the bite of a frost.

He took her hand.

The moment his fingers touched hers, the world went silent. He felt himself being pulled into the deep green of the woods. He saw the "ferns that drop tears" and the "slumbering trout" they teased in the stream. It was beautiful. It was perfect.

But here’s the thing about the stolen: a year in that world is a lifetime in ours.

One night, Liam looked through a gap in the hills and saw his old house. It was quiet now. The "kettle on the hob" was singing, just as the poem says. He saw his brothers grown into men, sitting by a fire that looked much warmer than the pale moon-fire of the Sidhe. He heard the lowing of the cattle in the distance—a heavy, earthly sound.

He tried to run back, but his feet wouldn't touch the ground. He had "solemn eyes" now. He was no longer a boy of the earth; he was a ghost among the living. He realized then that while the world is full of weeping, it’s also full of warmth.

So, if you’re out near the lake and you hear a laugh that sounds a bit too much like a bird’s cry, don’t follow it. Stay by your fire. The cherries are sweet in the woods, but nothing tastes as good as a piece of bread toasted by a hearth you call home.

 

Now the Fair Folk will take you with a song…
if you’re willing.
But there are others—
who don’t ask at all.

 

Shift: seduction → danger

 

"The Host of the Air"- A chilling "vanishing" story. In Irish lore, the "Host" (the Slua Sídhe) aren't just playful faeries—they are the restless, high-born dead who travel in a whirlwind and take what they want.

________________________________________

The Sidhe's Card Game
[based on The Host of the Air]

There’s a spot where the river curls like a silver snake, and the old bridge—the one they say was built in a single night—still stands. That’s where O’Driscoll lived. He had a young bride, Bridget, with hair the color of ripe wheat and a laugh that could wake the spring.

One evening, O’Driscoll was walking home. The air went strangely still—the kind of silence that feels heavy, like wool over your ears. He saw a light through the trees, a fire that didn't smoke.

He followed it, thinking it was a neighbor. But when he stepped into the clearing, he saw them. Men and women in cloaks of silk, their faces pale as bone, sitting around a table of polished stone. They were playing cards.

"Sit," one said. His voice was like a blade being drawn from a sheath. "Play a hand for your luck, O’Driscoll."

He should have run. He knew the stories. But the cards were painted with stars and moons, and he felt a pull in his chest he couldn't fight. He sat. He played.

As he dealt the deck, he looked across the fire. There, standing behind the tall, pale king of the company, was Bridget.

She wasn't tied. She wasn't crying. She was just... still. Her eyes were wide and vacant, staring at nothing. She was dressed in a gown of grey mist, and she was pouring wine into a silver cup for the things that weren't human.

O’Driscoll’s heart nearly burst. "Bridget!" he cried.

The players didn't look up. One of them, a woman with fingers like bird claws, reached out and touched O’Driscoll’s hand. "She belongs to the Host now," she whispered. "She took the bread. She drank the wine. She’s forgotten the smell of the peat fire and the sound of your name."

O’Driscoll grabbed for his wife, but his hands passed right through her, as if she were made of smoke. The Host began to laugh—a high, thin sound like breaking glass. They rose up, and the fire turned into a whirlwind of dead leaves.

"Come away!" they shrieked, and they ascended into the air, a "cloud of birds" that were actually souls.

O’Driscoll woke up the next morning at the edge of the river. He ran home, praying it was a dream. He burst through his door, and there was his mother, weeping over a cold bed.

Bridget was there, lying on the sheets. Her body was perfect, not a mark on her. But when O’Driscoll touched her cheek, it was like touching a winter stone. The life was gone.

The Host had taken the real Bridget—the spark, the soul, the laugh—and left behind a "changeling" of clay and silence.

So, if you’re ever out by the old bridge and you hear the sound of cards being shuffled in the wind, don’t stop. Keep your eyes on the road. Because the Host of the Air is always looking for a fifth player, and the stakes are higher than any man can afford to lose.

 

Some men lose what they love…
and spend the rest of their lives grieving.
And some…
go looking for something the world was never meant to give.

 

Shift: loss → obsession

 

The Shadowy Waters. Yeats at his most occult and atmospheric.

________________________________________

The Ghost-Ship of the North
[based on The Shadowy Waters]

 

There was a man once, Forgael, who didn't want a wife of flesh and blood. He didn't want the "short-lived" love of the village, the kind that ends in a quiet grave and a grieving widow. He wanted a love that was written in the stars—a love that had no beginning and no end.

He followed a dream. He took his ship, a black-hulled thing with sails like the wings of a moth, out into the grey, misty wastes of the North Sea. His sailors were terrified; they said the water there didn't splash, it whispered.

And then, out of the fog, came another ship. It moved without the wind. It was silent, save for the sound of a harp that seemed to be played by the air itself.

On that ship was a Queen, Dectora. She was beautiful, but her eyes were the color of the deep Atlantic, and she looked like a woman who had been walking in her sleep for a thousand years.

Forgael stepped onto her deck. He played his own harp—a magic thing made of whalebone and the hair of a dead goddess. As he played, the world around them began to dissolve. The sea turned into a field of white lilies, and the stars came down to rest on the masts.

"Who are you?" Dectora asked, her voice sounding like it came from the bottom of a well.

"I am the man who has been looking for you since the world was made of clay," Forgael said.

But here is the haunting part: They weren't alive anymore. Not really. To find that "perfect love," Forgael had led them both into the land of the Ever-Living, which is just another name for the beautiful, glittering kingdom of the dead.

His sailors looked on in horror as the two ships drifted further into the mist. They saw Forgael and Dectora standing at the prow, their shadows merging into one. They weren't breathing, but they were smiling.

The sailors turned their own ship around and rowed for their lives, back to the world of hearth-fires and dirty dishes and growing old.

Now, they say that on the coldest nights, when the fog is so thick you can’t see your own hand, you might hear a harp playing far out at sea. It’s a lovely sound, the loveliest you’ll ever hear. But don't listen too closely. If you do, you’ll start to find the world of the living a bit too loud, a bit too bright—and you’ll find yourself wandering toward the water, looking for a ghost-ship that will never bring you home.

 

And then there are those…
who find love true and perfect—
and lose it anyway.

Shift: eternal love → tragic love

 

Baile and Aillinn - Less of a ghost story and more of a haunted monument to a love that was too pure for the ground.

________________________________________

The Two Trees of Baile and Aillinn

 

Now, you’ve heard of lovers who died of a broken heart, but have you heard of the love that was murdered by a lie?

Baile was a Prince of Ulster, as handsome as a summer morning and just as bright. Aillinn was a Princess of Leinster, with a heart that beat in time with his across the miles. They were to meet at the edge of the sea, at a place called the White Strand, to finally be together.

But there are things in this world—and things not of this world—that hate a perfect love. A "Stranger" appeared to Baile as he raced south. He was a grey man with eyes like cold ashes.

"Why do you hurry, Prince?" the Stranger asked.

"To meet my love," Baile said, his horse lathered with sweat.

The Stranger shook his head. "Turn back. Aillinn is dead. The breath left her when she heard you had fallen in battle. They’re digging her grave even now."

Baile didn't weep; he simply stopped. His heart shattered like a dropped glass, and he fell dead on the sand right where he stood.

The Stranger then flew north—for he was no man, but a shadow of the air—and found Aillinn. He told her the same lie: Baile is gone. And just like that, her spirit fled to find him in the dark.

The people found them, miles apart. They buried Baile in the north and Aillinn in the south. But nature has a memory that humans lack.

From Baile’s grave, a Yew tree grew, dark and stubborn. From Aillinn’s grave, an Apple tree grew, sweet and white-blossomed. For seven years they reached out, their roots pushing through the cold Irish earth, their branches straining against the wind.

Eventually, the poets of Ireland came. They cut a tablet of wood from the Yew and a tablet from the Apple, and they carved the greatest love stories of the world upon them.

When those two pieces of wood were brought into the High King’s hall at Tara, something happened that silenced the room. The two tablets jumped from the poets' hands! They didn't just touch; they fused together. The Yew and the Apple became one grain, one wood, one life.

You couldn't pull them apart with a team of oxen.

So when you see two trees in the wild with their branches tangled so tight you can't tell where one ends and the other begins, don't think of them as wood. Think of Baile and Aillinn. They found each other in the sap and the leaf because the world of the living was too small to hold them both.

ABOUT JOHN ANSELL

The Legend of Ansell: The Keeper of the Unquiet Page

They say every house in Sligo has a shadow, but Ansell’s house was built of them.

He wasn't born to the name. In the old tongue, Ansell means "God’s Helmet"—a piece of divine armor meant to protect the head from the things the eyes shouldn't see. He was a man who had walked the "thin" cities of the east, where the lights are so bright people forget they have souls. But the wind of the West kept calling him back, whispering through the cracks of his ambition until he traded his fine suits for a coat of heavy wool and a pen of cold silver.

Ansell became a "Collector of the Fading." He realized that when a story is no longer told, the spirit inside it begins to starve. The kings turn to dust, the lovers turn to salt, and the "stolen children" lose their way home forever.

He took up residence in the stone house on the ridge, the one where the hearth never truly goes out. He made a bargain with the "Wayward Twilight Company": I will give you a voice, if you will give me the truth.

He is the Witness. He sits in the high-backed chair, his notebook open like an altar. He doesn't just write words; he anchors the ghosts to the earth. When the wind shrieked "desolate" outside, Ansell didn't bolt the door—he pulled up an extra chair.

He knew that the only thing more dangerous than a ghost is a ghost that has been forgotten.

He is the bridge. He is the one who sits between the "weeping of the world" and the "laughter of the Sidhe." And tonight, he has invited us to sit by his fire. He has unwrapped the poems and found the living marrow inside.

Listen closely. For in Ansell’s house, the ink is still wet, the peat is still glowing, and the stories… the stories are finally finding their way home.

Again, thank you for attending our stories today.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!