In the seventh century, a king named Suibhne was cursed at the battle of Mag Rath and driven
into the trees. He lost his throne, his mind, his place among men. What he gained was poetry —
verse born from cold branches, rushing water, and a long argument with God about whether exile
is punishment or gift. The Irish tradition calls his story Buile Suibhne, the Frenzy
of Sweeney.
Centuries later, the MacSweeney gallowglass carried the name to Donegal, building Doe Castle
on Sheephaven Bay and holding it through wars, plantations, and the slow weathering of Gaelic
Ireland. They adopted Suibhne as ancestor — not by blood, but by claim. A spiritual lineage.
The wild king became their founding story.
I carry the name too. Whether the thread connecting a seventh-century king to a
twenty-first-century writer is genealogy or myth or something in between, the name is the
bridge. This project is an attempt to walk across it — to retell the old story in prose, to
trace the ancestry in the landscape, and to ask what it means when a name outlives every
person who bore it.