KNOCKANURE
================================
By Harrison Smith
September 4, 2024 at 10:18 p.m. EDT
Steve Silberman, a journalist and author who helped shift the national dialogue around autism and disability rights with his 2015 book “NeuroTribes,” a surprise bestseller that promoted understanding and acceptance for people who think differently, died Aug. 29 at his home in San Francisco. He was 66.
His husband, Keith Karraker, confirmed the death but did not cite a cause.
A stylish, erudite writer whose interests ranged from Zen Buddhism and Beat poetry to the inner workings of Silicon Valley, Mr. Silberman spent much of his career at Wired magazine, exploring the intersection between science and pop culture.
==================================
=============================
Tue 11 Mar 2008 Mr Lysaght (or ?Paud?
A celebrated writer himself, Mr Lysaght (or ?Paud? as he was affectionately known to all in Duagh) won a number of prizes at Listowel Writers? Week. He published three well-received books, his collection of poetry, A Torrent of Versatile Verses, Duagh: Its Story and History of the River Feale.
Mr Lysaght was waked at his home in Thomondgate, Limerick, with his Requiem Mass held in St Munchin?s church, before being taken to Springmount Cemetery, Duagh, for interment.
-----------------------------------
Summer Song an evening of song & poetry with Mary Culloty O
Sullivan, with special guests North Kerry Community Choir. Thursday June
20th 2024 at Listowel Arms Hotel 7:30pm. Fundraiser for Listowel Community
Centre, free entry, donations gratefully accepted.
==========================
Poetry
Knockdown News – 4/6/24- by DomhnallDB under News
https://www.athea.ie/2024/06/knockdown-news-4-6-24/
by Peg Prendeville
I wrote this little poem during the week for one of my grandchildren who is on the Autism spectrum. She is lucky to have her own pony Sunny.
I don’t like people but I like ponies
My grand-daughter told me one day
Ponies make me happy
And with them I want to play.
People ask me questions
And this can annoy me
But ponies let me be myself
With them I can feel free.
Each morning I wake early
And run out to the stable
So I can have some time with them
And for school then I am able.
If Mom and Dad would let me
I’d stay at home all day
I’d never want to go to school
With the ponies I would play.
But that is not an option
So I’ll do what I have to do
I’ll paint a smile upon my face
Til I can finish school.
And then I will be famous
Watch out and you will see
I’ll be the best in the whole world
Riding and feeling free.
===============================
===================================
The Valley of Knockanure
(Tim Leahy)
1. You may sing or speak about Easter Week or the heroes of Ninety-Eight
Those Fenian men who roamed the glen for victory or defeat
Their names on history's page are told, their memory will endure -
Not a song was sung of our darling sons in the valley of Knockanure.
2. There was Walsh and Lyons and the Dalton boy, they were young and in their prime,
They rambled to a lonely spot where the Black and Tans did hide
The Republic bold they did uphold though outlawed on the moor,
And side by side, they fought and died in the valley of Knockanure.
3. It was on a neighbouring hillside we listened in calm dismay,
In every house, in every town, a young girl knelt to pray:
They're closing in around them now, with rifle fire so sure
And Lyons is dead and young Dalton's down in the valley of Knockanure.
4. But ere the guns could seal his fate, young Walsh had broken through
With a prayer to God, he spun the sod as against the hill he flew
And the bullets cut his flesh in two, still he cried with voice so sure
"Oh, revenge I'll get for my comrades' deaths in the valley of Knockanure."
======================
Muirsheen Durkin
In the days I went a courtin', I was never tired resortin'
To the alehouse and the playhouse or many a house beside,
I told me brother Seamus l'd go off and go right famous
And before l'd return again l'd roam the world wide.
Chorus:
So goodbye Muirsheen Durkin, l'm sick and tired of working,
No more I'll dig the praties, no longer I'll be fool.
For as sure as me name is Carney
I'll be off to California, where instead of diggin' praties
I'll be diggin'lumps of gold.
I've courted girls in Blarney, in Kanturk and in Killarney
In Passage and in Queenstown, that is the Cobh of Cork.
But goodbye to all this pleasure, for l'm going to take me leisure
And the next time you will hear from me
Will be a letter from New York,
Chorus.
Goodbye to all the boys at home, l'm sailing far across the foam
To try to make me fortune in far America,
For there's s gold and money plenty for the poor and gentry
And when I come back again I never more will stray,
-----------------------------------
The Rose Of Tralee
The pale moon was rising above the green mountain
The sun was declining beneath the blue sea
When I strayed with my love to the pure crystal fountain
That stands in beautiful vale of Tralee.
She was lovely and fair as the rose of the summer
Yet, 'twas not her beauty alone that won me
Oh no! 'Twas the the truth in her eye ever beaming
That made me love Mary, the Rose of Tralee.
The cool shades of evening their mantle were spreading
And Mary all smiling was listening to me
The moon through the valley her pale rays was shedding
When I won the heart of the Rose of Tralee.
Though lovely and fair as the rose of the summer
Yet, 'twas not her beauty alone that won me
Oh no! 'Twas the the truth in her eye ever beaming
That made me love Mary, the Rose of Tralee.
=======================
Sing along now:
"Some say the devil is dead, the devil is dead, the devil is dead,
Some say the devil is dead and buried in Killarney.
More say he rose again, more say he rose again, more say he rose again,
And joined the British Army…."
===============================
Sing along now:
"When boyhood's fire was in my blood,
I read of ancient freemen,
For Greece and Rome who bravely stood,
Three hundred men and three men;
And then I prayed I yet might see,
Our fetters rent in twain,
And Ireland, long a province, be?
A Nation once again…!"
========================
Hail Queen Of Heaven – LYRICS
Hail, Queen of heaven, the ocean star,
Guide of the wanderer here below,
Thrown on life’s surge, we claim thy care,
Save us from peril and from woe.
Mother of Christ, Star of the sea
Pray for the wanderer, pray for me.
O gentle, chaste, and spotless Maid,
We sinners make our prayers through thee;
Remind thy Son that He has paid
The price of our iniquity.
Virgin most pure, Star of the sea,
Pray for the sinner, pray for me.
Sojourners in this vale of tears,
Blest advocate, to thee we cry,
Assuage our sorrows, calm our fears,
And soothe with hope our misery.
Refuge in grief, Star of the sea
Pray for the mourner, pray for me.
And while to Him Who reigns above
In Godhead one, in Persons three,
The Source of life, of grace, of love,
Homage we pay on bended knee:
Do thou, bright Queen, Star of the sea,
Pray for thy children, pray for me.
https://www.catholicforlife.com/hail-queen-of-heaven-lyrics
========================
Sing along with the lyrics:
There was a bog
A rattlin' bog
It was a rare bog
He was a rattlin' bog
And the bog down in the valley-o
Ho, ro, the rattlin' bog
The bog down in the valley-o
Rare bog, the rattlin' bog
The bog down in the valley-o
Now in the bog there was a tree
A rare tree, a rattlin' tree
The tree in the bog
And the bog down in the valley-o
=================================
Ballydonoghue Bardic Festival 2023, March 23rd to March 26th
Jun 1, 2017
From Lisselton Bardic School to Ballydonoghue Bardic Festival
Until Tony O’Shea wrote his fine article as Gaeilge in 2018’s edition of The Ballydonoghue Magazine, many of us were only vaguely aware of this highly significant chapter in the story of our extensive literary heritage, The Lisselton Bardic School.
The account by Tony of the work of Padraig Liath Ó Conchubhair, the unsung literary giant of Lisselton, inspired a group of people in the parish to get together to explore the possibility of initiating a weekend festival in honour of Padraig Liath, maybe even an annual event, located in Ballydonoghue and centred round the themes of poetry, music and song.
A few short months later, after several meetings, the forming of a committee, hosting of a very enjoyable coffee-morning fund-raiser in Tomáisín’s Bar and a highly successful Christmas Market in The Thatch, the parish was on the way to having its very own Bardic Festival, the highlights of which you can view on our GALLERY page.
https://wordpress.com/read/blogs/141344593/posts/15
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The Rose of Newtownsandes
One evening fair to take the air
As the summer sun went down,
My heart being gay sure I chanced to stray
Towards the village of sweet Newtown.
In a neat abode longside the road
Where a nice plantation stands,
And in it there dwells my lovely belle,
She’s the Rose of Newtownsandes.
Her nut-brown hair I cannot compare
With anything I’ve seen;
Her snow-white neck the heart would wreck
Of any human being;
Her ivory teeth and snow-white feet
Are fairer than the swan’s;
She’s the lovely maid I’ll see someday
She’s the Rose of Newtownsandes.
Oh I’d give all the diamonds
If she was only mine
And all the lands along the Bann
The water and the tide.
Oh! ‘Tis not for me or it could never be
That we’d join up in wedlock bands:
She’s that lovely maid that I’ll see one day.
She’s the lovely Rose of Newtownsandes.
Oh! I’d give all the earthly treasures
For to gain this fair one’s heart
And all the gold and silver now
That glitters o’er the land.
Oh! Americay lies far away
With scenery so grand
But there’s nothing there that I can compare
With the Rose of Nwtownsandes.
Oh! ’tis the time to close in sweet repose.
‘Tis time to draw nigh,
So Irishmen from hill and glen,
I bid you all goodbye.
Oh! fare thee well for ever
Till in some distant land,
My bones might mingle in the clay
For the Rose of Newtownsandes.
==========================
The Rattle Away Breed
by Paddy O’ Connor
I have written you verses full ninety five score,
On Hurling and football and fashion galore,
Camogie and racing and coursing as well,
From famous Clounanna to lovely Clonmel.
But I’m finished with hurling and football and togs,
For it’s plain to be seen that I’m going to the dogs.
Now I take up my pen with unusual speed,
For to write you a verse on the Rattle-Away Breed.
In Clonmel at the Derby we saw sixty four,
Of Ireland’s best puppies in action once more.
Each one there determined to bear home the Cup,
Though some that we saw, faith! they were hairy old pups.
Of the sixty and three there was none fit to lead,
The little red dog of the Rattle-Away Breed.
When his name was called out Dainty Man cocked his ear,
Then as fit as a fiddle we saw him appear.
He walked into slips as if he owned the park,
How he wagged his big tail at the slightest remark.
Twas no nickname at all for the dog “All Forlorn”,
His chances of victory to pieces were torn,
“Take him home”, Greaney shouted, “And give him a feed,
He’s no match for my dog of the Rattle-Away Breed”.
With our hearts stout and brave and with Pussy in view,
Sure the brindled dog there met his first Waterloo.
To slips with the dog from the Blackwaterside,
Sure a Kerryman’s courage can ne’er be denied.
Though running unsighted behind the great hare,
No one for one moment are we in despair.
The cradle of coursing it is famed Ballyduff,
In Tommyo’s kennel you’ll find the right stuff,
With that soar to sweep over the watery plains,
And the bluest of blood running right through their veins.
However, to Tommy the honour must go,
For there’s nought in the game that this genius don’t know.
Being a sportsman a thousand times over indeed,
It was famous for years in the O’Sullivan breed.
Three cheers for Tom Connor to give now we must,
That his hammer and anvil might never show rust.
That we may all in the future around Newtownsandes
See more Coneen Brosnans and more Dainty Mans.
Then our heart with emotion were ready to bleed,
When the Derby was won by the Rattle-Away Breed.
---------------------------------------------------------------
An Old Poem
A Paddy Drury ditty remembered by Brigid O’Brien in San Francisco
Oh sweet Knockanure may the heavens still bless you
That dear little spot where the dead do resort
You can stand in her Abbey on a bright Autumn morning
And see the ships sailing to many a port
You can see Co. Clare and the fair town of Ennis
And the tide at Duneen as it do rise and fall
Travel the wide world over for a burying plantation
Knockanure Church you’re the pride of them all.
My Grandfather< Jack Casey of Lower Athea taught me that as a kid!
-------------------------------
<<<<<<<<<
More Success in the U.S. for a Young Listowel Lady
( Thank you Mary Ursula O’Rourke for alerting me to this story)
Irish Central, November 2023
Dr. Elizabeth Stack has accepted an offer to become the new Executive Director of the American Irish Historical Society (AIHS) in New York.
The AIHS announced the news on X, formerly Twitter, on Tuesday, November 21 and said that Stack will begin her new position on February 1.
Stack, a native of Listowel in Co Kerry who moved to New York in 2009, had been named to the interim board of directors.
was appointed the Executive Director at the Irish American Heritage Museum in Albany, New York in 2018.
Announcing her appointment at the time, the Museum said that Stack would be responsible for all aspects of the Museum’s operations.
Stack previously taught Irish American History and was an Associate Director of the Institute of Irish Studies at Fordham University, where she completed her Ph.D. She also has a master’s degree in Anglo-Irish Relations in the 20th Century from University College Dublin.
When she was appointed as the Irish American Heritage Museum’s Executive Director just over five years ago, Stack said: “I have learned that because emigration is part of the Irish story, and immigration part of the American, there is a reciprocity that exists between both countries that exceeds familial ties or time of arrival. “
-----------------------------------------
A Poem
Mick O’Callaghan muses on the little trials of life when one shares space with a cat or dog
Feline and canine indiscretions
I must say I love gardening.
I get such mental and stress relief
From my regular communing with nature
Gardening is a very relaxing exercise.
When I am planting and weeding,
While pruning roses with my sharp secateurs
Digging up the fresh earth to the delight of birds
As they forage for any worms around
Which are silly enough to stick a head above ground,
In my raking, hoeing, and forking in fertiliser.
In bending, stretching, and pulling,
Pushing the wheelbarrow along
My muscles are stretched on a regular basis.
Relaxing too as I sit on my garden bench
Sipping coffee, nibbling fruit or scoffing biscuits
Soaking up the lovely perfumed natural aromas around
From carnations, azaleas, dahlias, and roses
It is all sheer heavenly bliss.
But occasionally I am taken aback.
While on my knees weeding
I touch some offending matter
In the form of feline indiscretion
The scent and aroma are rather foul .
Disgusting, stomach wrenching stuff
I curse the cats with expletives most foul.
Their owners too,
Who allow them to relieve their bowels
Onto my hallowed lawns edge
And on my manicured flower beds
I arise from my knees, cursing internally.
I scramble indoors to clean off the offending matter.
Scrubbing my fingers and hands with soap and hot water
With annoyance and anger bubbling up inside me
I now just abandon my gardening for a wee while.
And decide to head for a walk in the Town Park instead
To becalm my rising feline aroused anger.
I don my runners and progress out the front door
I pass by Sean Lios Houses and arrive in The Park
To begin my circuits before it gets dark
While strolling, I scent a strange smell
Which follows me around and lingers like hell
In the air around my personal space.
I bring it home to the hall in my head.
As I cross the threshold, I get a strange feeling
Senior house management greets me strangely,
Commenting on the stinking smell now pervading the house
I am quickly banished outside the front door
To take off my runners and examine them more
Whereupon I note some foreign matter
In the form of stinking rotten dog poo most foul
All clogged between the ridges of my runners.
I take them off and I was banished to the yard.
And am ordered to do some immediate de-fumigation
So, I take out garden hose, brush, and disinfectant
To clean doggie poo matter
From the parts of my runners that were canine infected
So now disinfected I’m allowed back into the hall.
I reflect on my day, and I curse humans who have the gall
To let their darling four-legged friends
Deposit their excrement in public at their will.
I don’t own a cat or dog, never did, never will.
And still here I am, inconvenienced, discommoded.
By the indiscriminate depositing actions
Of purring feline and barking canine household pets
Whose owners are not fully aware just yet
Of the toileting habits of their darling pets
And certainly, need more training
In poo bagging and binning
To avoid poo litter sinning.
https://listowelconnection.com/2024/02/
=====================================
I was born in Queensland the fourth of six children, Fourth generation Australian born on my mother’s side who were predominantly of Irish stock who came to Australia post the famine years (for the most part from the counties of Tipperary, Wicklow and Donegal). My father came to Australia from Dublin in the 1950s; his father was raised in Maam Connemara and later in Kilkee County Clare but the Moore family going back were from Kilmorna, later known as Kilmeany near Listowel. His mother, was a Barrett from Ennis, County Clare, that whole family very involved in those troubled years of the war of independence in Ireland. Also just out of interest I was part of a little Folk/Irish trio called Welder’s Dog for 10 years or so, with a brother of mine David and our friend Peter Harris, some of our music is still on YouTube I believe. If you listen to Castle Hill Patriots, that is my Dad singing Boolavogue at the start of that song.
https://tintean.org.au/2023/04/10/poetry-from-michael-patrick-moore/
---------------------------------------
Poetry
Poetry from Michael Patrick Moore
This entry was posted on April 10, 2023 by huntrogers, in creative writing, diaspora, News, Poetry and tagged Poetry. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment
MORNING
Woken by sunlight upon me that shone
Through my bedroom window the morning seen,
A raucous riot of red and green,
Lorikeets adorning callistemon.
An avian chorus announcing the day
From perfumed Eucalypts promising rain,
And now seeking flowers and seeking grain,
All manner of creatures at work and play.
Thankful am I for this sensory feast
Thankful am I for the gift of this day,
The return of light after night times’ fall.
Just to be part of this morning released,
For the few precious lines, mine in this play,
Just for the gift of this morning at all.
THE NEWNESS OF THINGS
The stars are fading,
To the east a match is struck
Heralding the dawn.
At one with the sun,
With gratitude I rise now
With the rising world.
Synchronicity,
My heart beats in perfect time
With the woken day.
The lines become blurred,
Between all that is and I
Such affinity.
No mere backdrop this,
I feel all, I am part of
The fabric of things.
=================================
===========================
Another Listowel Poet
It is always a pleasure to be contacted by a Listowel emigrant who is discovering Listowel Connection for the first time. Such emails are less frequent now as there is a great bush telegraph that alerts Listowel people to home news.
It was a great thrill to be contacted by John Leahy and to discover that he is a poet.
Here is his email;
Dear Mary
I have just found the Listowel on Line and subscribed.
Billy MacSweeney’s article was an absolute pleasure to me, since Jack
Leahy was my grandfather.
My dad was Sean Patrick Leahy and I still remember his brother Patsy
Leahy who had been a successfull boxer. (I remember well, Nora his wife)
There was also his sisters Maureen (married a vet in Sligo, name of
Gilmore, their son Connor is a accountant living in Hammersmith), Peggy
Murphy (married the barber in the square), Margaret Bennett (moved to
Harlow) and his younger brother Michael Leahy (Who moved to Manchester). Of course last, But not least there was Bridie O’Donnell (who owned Leahy’s Corner shop for many years with her
husband Michael. I would sometimes go with Michael to buy cattle and
horses, which he would then sell at the local cattle market.
I myself am a writer living in Brighton, Google: Leahy in Kemptown
All the Best
John J Leahy
……………
I did the Googling for you. The site is here
The Kemptown Verses
Here is John’s photo from his website;
He has led a very varied and full life as a poet, painter, songwriter, writer, musician, DJ, political activist and more.
Many of John’s poems address the issues he cares about.
Here is his lovely love poem to his wife.
My Love
Allegro
We sleep, we doze and closely nuzzle
We fit together like a jigsaw puzzle
You are my collaborator for life
My partner, my everything, my beautiful wife.
There could be no replacement, always together
We are one in harmony – forever and ever,
You are soft and gorgeous like butterfly’s wings
I’ll protect you from all – monstrous things
I tried to plan, for us in advance
If I was to lose you, I wouldn’t stand a chance;
Your qualities of dignity, kindness and allure
And your opinion on others – so true and so pure
I may not be very dynamic, rich nor clever
But at least you know, I’ll stand by you forever.
You have never, never been cruel
To animals, to people, too this incurable fool,
We laugh, we love, and we totally connect
For your insight is always completely correct.
When other people will never understand
You are always kind and take my hand
I am Yin and your are Yang;
You are my woman and I am your man.
We can respond each other – without blinking
Just cos we know what the other is thinking,
Most beautiful thing ever has happened to me
My undying love, is plane to see.
Affection I’ve given, returned a million fold
Necessitated this sonnet, twixed these pages told
When time collapses, I want to be with you
For the end of the world party, just for two.
https://listowelconnection.com/2023/04/
There is a selection of over 100 poems written between 2009 and 2016.
This material was complied sitting on a bench at Black Rock, on Kemptown’s stony beach, in Tey Garden or in a pub in St James Street.
John J. Leahy considers it is actually the obligation of the Poet to be the voice of the silent individual and the downtrodden. To recognize and applaud society’s alternatives. Also to highlight, construct and illustrate situations, in the roll of Story Teller.
http://thekemptownverses.co.uk/
------------------------
Poetry
THE IRISH PEOPLE
SATURDAY, AUGUST 18,1973
The Lament Of Joe McCann
By Robert Lowery
(Air: The Valley of Knockanure)
I
Come gather round while I sing to you, Of a lad named Joe McCann.
Whose praises will be sung for years, In many a foreign land.
Wherever Britain's Empire's shed, The blood of martyrs true
0 they'll sing and talk of our Joe McCann, How he died for me and you
II
The first we heard of our gallant Joe, Was that night in '71.
Six hundred strong, the Crown did send, To take away our sons.
Internment had arrived at last, The night that we all feared
But Joe McCann, the Pastry Man, Called out his volunteers.
Ill
At Inglis' they made their stand, With Connolly at their side.
For six long hours, their Thompson's blazed, Their spirit would not die.
"Surrender now," they called to him, "You'll not save nary a man."
But the I.R.A. had won the day, With a lad named Joe McCann.
IV.
0 the Yellow Card was tossed aside, By that murdering Para corps
In their red berets and alien ways, Who came to conquer the poor.
"O we'll shoot to kill, this Joe McCann, Whoever he may be
And we'll send him off to join his friend, The one called Connolly."
O he walked the streets of his Belfast town, Heedless of the threats
that came
And the people saw he was unafraid, They sought to do the same.
But the bullets tore his flesh in two, On that Black April Day.
And as he clutched his wounds and fell, The Paras blazed away.
VI
They shot you in the markets, Joe, You were unarmed it's true
As you fell to the street, a nation wept, They riddled your body thru
"McCann is dead, McCann is dead!", There came the anguished cry
And from out the soul of Ireland, The bitter question, "Why?"
VII
He died to make our country one, In a way not known before
No more said he can we fail to see, The rich betray the poor
We'll drive away all those who seek, To take away our land
For the wealth belongs to only one class, The Workers of Ireland.
Taken from Irish People
============================
Poetry
JERRY GRIFFIN R.I.P.
1937-2016
He awoke to the sound of the rippling stream,
flowing down by the house, for years it had been,
little feet paddling through gravel and sand,
the pastimes of youth sure life would be grand,
and as the stream grew so he grew fine and tall,
always willing and able to answer one’s call,
as he did in the days when I was lad,
in nineteen sixty two building Bridie’s new pad,
helping out Scanlon Mick mixing mortar and stone,
laying down the foundations of that stately home,
and when I would tell Mick that chimney was leaning,
is that so says Mick with a smile that was beaming,
and Jerry would laugh at this not so innocent boy,
for he knew only too well that I wasn’t that shy,
and soon that leaning chimney would carry the smoke,
as we sat round the fire playing cards ‘twas no joke,
there was Bridie, her mother Julie, Jerry and me,
single hand forty one for a nominal fee,
and sometimes they would speak about themselves and others,
as we listened to the sounds of the great Clancy brothers,
and that day on the hill how I fondly recall,
Jerry sowing potatoes coming down with the fall,
when grandfather looked up being sure of himself,
he shouted to Jerry, ‘go home young man and don’t be making a fool of yourself’
and again Jerry laughed as that was his way,
never known to take insult from whatever may,
‘twas around that same time we were making a furrow
when grandfather tackled the grey horse to a harrow
the horse he got frightened then jumped out the gap
tearing grandfather’s waistcoat right off his back
Jerry saw what was happening then he ran down the hill
got a hold of a bicycle and followed at will
catching up with the horse at the bounds of the county
that was his kind nature never looked for a bounty
and no matter how hard he toiled by that stream,
was always at the ready to join our young team,
when we gathered at eve’ about seven or eight,
to line out for a game at his own roadside gate,
the football was rough for a high ball I rose,
a crack, then silence, I had broken Jerry’s nose,
with fear I ran off as the blood it did flow,
I could hear Mikie say, to doctor Browne we must go,
and I remember the all Ireland of nineteen sixty eight
when we all made our way towards Mick Feury’s gate
there weren’t many TV’s in the houses around
so in Mick’s spacious kitchen we all could be found
for the clash of the Kingdom’s that‘s Kerry and Down
but no joy that same year for the men from the Laune
then we replayed that great game on the Kerryline road
with Jerry at full back, strong and stalwart he stood
later on that same week to the races we’d go
always gave me a lift to Listowel don’t you know
in nineteen seventy one on my James motorbike
coaxed Jerry to take a ride and it wasn’t no hike
as fast as ‘twould go you could hear Jerry’s screaming
when we arrived at Mullane’s, the tears they were streaming
it was there Mullane Danny stood agasp by his shed
‘boyeen’ he whispered you must be clean off your head
and as Jerry jumped off he gave a loud moan
‘I can tell you’, says he, ‘well I’m walking home’
soon a job came my way ‘twas nineteen seventy two
a guardian of the peace, with our own boys in blue
yet on each yearly visit to my dear Kerryline
for a visit to Jerry I would always make time
and there we would talk of old times and the weather
of those all Ireland games that we watched together
as we did July past recollect you might say
‘twas to be our last meeting we didn’t know it that day
our dear Lord needed men and Jerry was his man
and so he was taken, ‘twas part of God’s plan.
Rest in peace my dear friend.
George Langan, January 2017.
=========================
John McGrath - Poetry Workshop
John McGrath is a poet, writer, publisher and retired teacher who lives in Lisselton, North Kerry with his wife Kate and from where he runs his not-for-profit publishing company, Moybella Press. He is a founder member of the Seanchaí Writers’ Group in Listowel and was a member of the Listowel Writers’ Week committee for 15 years. He is co-founder and current Chairperson of The Ballydonoghue Bardic Festival.
John’s first collection, Blue Sky Day, was published by Moybella Press in 2007. His second collection, Closing the Circle, was published in 2015. He is currently working on a third volume. He has edited and published twenty books of poetry, short stories and memoir by local writers under the Moybella Press imprint. He also co-wrote Rebel Mind, Conor O’Sullivan’s biography, published by Moybella Press in 2011.
His work has previously been included in The Ballydonoghue Parish Magazine, Still in the Dreaming and in The Malpais Review, Santa Fe, and also online in The First Cut.
https://www.ballybunionartsfestival.ie/programme
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Poetry
A Nostalgic Poem from John McGrath
(from John’s anthology Blue Sky Day)
Once in the Long Ago and Far Away
Once in the Long Ago and Far Away
I ran barefoot along bright boreens,
Dashing through pools of morning blue.
Over the dry-stone walls I flew,
Crashing through cobwebbed meadows,
Dew-drenched; phlegmed with cuckoo-spit.
Paused to wish by the whitewashed well.
Fished in its never-ending silver stream
For shining silver treasures.
All through the ringing fields I ran
All through the live-long, lark-song day,
Tireless as Time
‘Til time and hunger called me
Back to buttermilk lamplight, Banshee dreams,
Once in the Long Ago and Far Away.
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Poetry
Mary Cogan Listowel Connection
Saturday June 5 2021 Guided Forest Bathing in Garden of Europe as part of Listowel Writers’ Week 2021.
Feeling Creative after my treat for the senses I wrote this little poem
A Sense of Place
I am in Kerry, a carpet of green and gold before me.
I am in Europe, Schiller and all that is best in Europe to my right.
The Holocaust and all that is worst in Europe to me left
All around me is all that is most beautiful in Nature
Forty shades of green to see,
Birdsong to listen to
Scents of flowers
A taste of summer all around
Here I can touch all that is beautiful in Creation.
http://listowelconnection.com/
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Poetry
Poll an Eas in the sunshine by Tom
Poul an Eas … never more shall I see thee dark Poul an Eas
Shall I behold or hear thy flood,
For thy loved banks no more I’ll pass
Or wander by Killeany woods. It was there the cowslips were first seen,
To deck those sheltered banks so green.
For they loved banks no more I’ll pass
Or wander by Killeany woods. Turn then to where my youth was spend
Long beside my native home
Where Saxon rents and Saxon Laws
Compelled us here from there to roam
But if her sons united were,
There need not be an exile here
For grave should be the grabbers end. Written by: Kathleen Dillane
Glin, Co Limerick Composed by: The Late Timothy Costello
Killeany Cross, Glin
https://glin.info/2021/04/25/poll-an-eas-in-the-sunshine-by-tom/
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My days working in the library are coming to an end as I am retiring in June. This past year has seen the libraries closed more often than open so it has been a strange final year of work. I sent in my retirement notice in poetry as follows:
The 4th of June is a special date
‘Twas the day I wed my faithful mate
On that date too I began my career
As a branch librarian for 19 years.
These years have given me much joy
And, in truth, this time has flown on by.
But now my life has changed its plan
And I must adapt as best I can.
So I pick the 4th of June once more
To hand in my keys of Glin Library door.
I am grateful for the years within
This lovely place in the town of Glin.
Poetry by Peg Prendeville
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Poetry
A Prayer for all Archivists
by Margie Buttitta, coordinator
Nations and institutions have archives - and you and I do, too! My personal archives go deep into my past, their vaults and drawers holding the history of my life, my mind, my heart, my relationships, my soul...Lent is a good time to go through my personal archives: to do some sorting and reviewing, to better understand the person whose history I'm living and making...Here are some suggestions for searching through your archives...
Archivist Katie McNally, from Boston CSJ Archives | Sisters of Saint Joseph of Boston, shared this poem below from unknown author.
How often do I consult my archives, Lord,
the filing cabinets of my life's story?
When I go to my archives, what do I find there?
what records, reports and transcripts,
what files marked PERSONAL and CONFIDENTIAL?
Have I locked up files that need to be read,
to be aired in the breath of your mercy?
Are there files in my archives I'm slow to pull,
slow to read, slow to bring to you in prayer?
Are some of my records in need of correction,
any balance sheets in need of adjustment?
As I go through my archives,
do I focus on files of failure,
letters of losses, memoirs of grief?
Are there files of joy I need to review,
memos of good times I ought to recall,
treasure, savor and keep?
In reopening my personal files,
do I remember what's stored there is history,
that I live in the present moment,
that I need not be chained to my past?
Have I taken the time to find in my archives
the documentation, the proof,
that you've always had my back, Lord,
that your file on me is always active?
Have I read and treasured the folders of stories
of those who've befriended, helped and loved me?
Have I opened the files on the good I've done
for those I've cared for, loved and befriended?
Have I found and read with a grateful heart
the minutes and notes on my hope and trust,
my desire and efforts to grow in faith?
As I go through my archives, remind me, Lord,
how you know every fact that fills my file yet you love me still,
wanting only and always to heal and forgive, refresh and redeem me...
Lord, give me the grace, the courage I need
to open my personal archives
to my files, the permanent record,
of your kindness, compassion and love...
Amen.
1) Were I to choose 3 files from my archives this Lent
to share in prayer with God,
which files would they be?
2) Will I pray for the Spirit
to help me with files I need to open
but I know I'll be slow to read?
3) Do I trust the Lord to review my files
with understanding, healing and pardon?
4) Do I trust Jesus to expunge the files
he seals with his mercy
and free me from consulting, ever again,
all he's erased from my heart and his?
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Feb 2021
POETS: Five Kerry poets were among the artists to take part in the 15 hour-long readings in the recent Crossways Festival. Poets Nuala Ní Dhómhnaill, Ailbhe Ní Ghearbhuigh, Pádraig Mac Fhearghusa, Simon Ó Faoláin, and Ceaití Ní Bheildiúin were the Kerry delegation.
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https://northkerry.wordpress.com/
Poetry
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the world that should be
it's the simplest thing we can do
that we don't find it the hardest
life has become a survival yet God never planned it that way
we call on his name all in vain for we only fear those who can fire us
true woship among belivers has been replaced with love for money and power in the church
the family unit established by God in the garden of Eden has been threatened by the rampant divorce and marriage separations among believers
the power to preach the truth and to receive spiritual guidance has been given monetary value
we no longer fear the giver of life but fear things created by God
we are afraid of loosing class and influence as that would make us seem weak
we are all competing just to educate our children yet we fail to teach them love,trust and patience
we are the modern day believers of Christ yet we are responsible for snatching and destroying other people's marriage
behind bars of alcohol and the bars of justice majority in there are born again Christians..
why because after children are born they only hear the word of God on Sunday yet the family is the basic primary church
we love those with money power and despise the poor for they cannot buy us'love'
Dear God have mercy on us for we love public praise rather than submitting to your will
we seek peace from God through phones yet God's word is now written in our hearts
we steal the young girls virginity just to satisfy our sexual lust
majority of our problems today are as a result of our lustful style of living..
many also are dead because of lust,envy and too much earthly pleasures forgetting God Almighty
no money can buy us freedom or peace
if love is not in you, you cannot offer it but hate and lust
if peace and patience are not your virtuals how can you then invest in time or talk about Faith and trust in God
Love God as He deserves and treat others as you would like to be treated for
what goes around will come back the same way
#chuimunga the poet
#made from Africa
#2020
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/the_world_that_should_be_1275887
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SEÁN Ó h-AIRTNÉIDE 1928 - 2017
I met an old friend in Mountmahon today
And he said Jackie Thady had just passed away.
The great Seán Ó h-Airtnéide has gone to his rest.
Devon Road is in mourning. He was one of the best.
https://abbeyfealeonline.blogspot.com/p/poetry.html
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John McGrath
usstSmpoNovuenmbeur sou25 iaants fr7:0eefiu9do ooPoMghm ·
Ballybunion Community Market
will have a book stall at their Christmas Market in
Ballybunion Community Centre
on Sunday 6th December, featuring books from local authors. I'm pleased to have 'Closing The Circle' included on this stall. Please come along and support a great cause.
At Corcomroe Abbey
The Japanese tour-bus leaves,
Taking with it the voices of the living.
Silence floods back, filling the cloisters.
Among the tombs and effigies,
The long-dead whisper their secrets
To the listening stones.
Thrushes serenade a thousand souls
In the green sward beyond the Abbey walls
And everywhere the hum of trees.
A solitary blackbird calls me to prayer
And I respond. My pain slips away
Between the arches and the bell-tower.
#ballybunioncommunitymarket #supportkerrybusinesses #buylocal
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CS O Sullivan - File Éireannach - Irish poet.
One can't rise
by digging holes,
Look at all you have done
rather than what you haven't done.
Look at all you have
rather than what you don't have,
Look at all you have become
rather than who you are not.
Look at all the battles you have won
rather than at the ones you haven't yet won,
Remember
win or lose, we grow.
Look at your strengths
your talents, your skills, your loves.
Look at how blessed
you are,
Look at the times
you have already come through.
Look to your wellbeing
your spirit, your morale,
Raise, don't dig.
Why criticise when you can cheer?
focus on action not fear,
You can build
so why dig?
Self sabotage is beneath you,
attend to what serves you.
Give yourself a break
and give yourself a raise.
Cornelius Simon.
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The Toys
BY COVENTRY PATMORE
My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes
And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,
Having my law the seventh time disobey'd,
I struck him, and dismiss'd
With hard words and unkiss'd,
His Mother, who was patient, being dead.
Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,
I visited his bed,
But found him slumbering deep,
With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet
From his late sobbing wet.
And I, with moan,
Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;
For, on a table drawn beside his head,
He had put, within his reach,
A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone,
A piece of glass abraded by the beach
And six or seven shells,
A bottle with bluebells
And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art,
To comfort his sad heart.
So when that night I pray'd
To God, I wept, and said:
Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath,
Not vexing Thee in death,
And Thou rememberest of what toys
We made our joys,
How weakly understood
Thy great commanded good,
Then, fatherly not less
Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay,
Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say,
"I will be sorry for their childishness."
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The Corona
Oh Corona, you’re the devil
You’ve brought such hurt and fear
Since you floated sneakily into our lives
At the beginning of the year.
Yes, we thought we had you captured
When we went into lockdown
We thought we’d frighten you away
From county and from town.
But you went spreading with a vengeance
Like the thistles and the weeds
As soon as some are cleared away
Another comes with ease.
You show no love nor mercy
As you watch some people die
You laugh at people mourning
When they cannot say Goodbye.
You’ve struck terror into people’s hearts
And questioned our belief.
Who do we trust? What can we do?
When will we get reprieve?
But the Irish you’ll not conquer
We’re made of stern stuff
We’ve beaten enemies before
Now we say Enough’s Enough!
So we’ll wash our hands and wear our masks
And keep two metre distance
And soon we’ll wave goodbye to you
And blow you from existence.
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By Peg Prendeville.
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Local singer Francis Kennedy she hosts concerts featuring music, song and comedy.
Frances Kennedy lives in Listowel, she is very much a Cork woman also. The youngest of a family of eleven, songs and stories were always part of her home life. Neighbours called at night and her father would fill them up with all sorts of stories. Her mother, a great believer in ghosts would tell of strange lights seen and things going bump in the night.
https://youtu.be/D8D7eX0FBhM
Francis Kennedy October 2020
The Banks of the Abha Bhán
How often in the years that’s passed I walked with fishing gear
Along the banks of sweet Abha Bhán as big trout did appear
What a thrill to see them leap and see the rod aquiver
As we hooked them, fresh and pure, from the lovely Abha Bhán river.
Here the anglers came from far and near and were always satisfied
As many hours passed quickly by along the riverside.
And many’s the pleasant chat we had as we all walked along
Our relaxed minds so free from care on the banks of the Abha Bhán.
For here amid the fragrant flowers the spirit seemed to rise
With the skylark singing overhead and we heard the cuckoo’s voice
The hawthorn blossoms, pink and white, were beautiful to scan
Like a bridal silken veil adorning the banks of the Abha Bhán.
Paddy Faley R.I.P.
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“Begin”
Begin again to the summoning birds
to the sight of the light at the window,
begin to the roar of morning traffic
all along Pembroke Road.
Every beginning is a promise
born in light and dying in dark
determination and exaltation of springtime
flowering the way to work.
Begin to the pageant of queuing girls
the arrogant loneliness of swans in the canal
bridges linking the past and future
old friends passing though with us still.
Begin to the loneliness that cannot end
since it perhaps is what makes us begin,
begin to wonder at unknown faces
at crying birds in the sudden rain
at branches stark in the willing sunlight
at seagulls foraging for bread
at couples sharing a sunny secret
alone together while making good.
Though we live in a world that dreams of ending
that always seems about to give in
something that will not acknowledge conclusion
insists that we forever begin.
— From The Essential Brendan Kennelly
Life in the time of Covid. A poem by Marian Relihan
Enveloped by four four-legged
who don’t watch the news
they don’t listen to Dr Holohan
they do not hear Trump
What is the HSE?
Even when I was covid-ed
they did not practice social distancing
No, they sat on my lap
curled at my feet
seeking closest contact
Cowslips and primroses
joyfully present themselves
Blackthorn and Lilac blossom
reach down to shower their scent.
Young calves run and frolic
Crows rush around building homes
Mornings full avian songs
Grass competing to be tallest
Life when we are gone
Life in the time of covid.
I live in North Kerry and attend regular writing groups. I published a book of poetry ‘Skyland ‘ a few years ago. I work as a creative writing tutor.
A Hare
by Walter de la Mare
Eyes that glass fear, though fear on furtive foot
Track thee, in slumber bound;
Ears that whist danger, though the wind sigh not,
Nor Echo list a sound;
Heart — oh, what hazard must thy wild life be,
With sapient Man for thy cold enemy!
Fleet Scatterbrains, thou hast thine hours of peace
In pastures April-green,
Where the shrill skylark’s raptures never cease,
And the clear dew englobes the white moon’s beam.
All happiness God gave thee, albeit thy foe
Roves Eden, as did his Satan, long ago.
Glin Site
https://glin.info/2020/04/24/the-knights-walk-video-footage-of-mr-hare/
RESPONSORIAL PSALM
Show us, Lord, the path of life.
Preserve me, God, I take refuge in you.
I say to the Lord: ‘You are my God.
O Lord, it is you who are my portion and cup;
It is you yourself who are my prize’. (R)
I will bless the Lord who give me counsel,
Who even at night directs my heart.
I keep the Lord ever in my sight:
Since he is at my right hand, I shall stand firm. (R)
And so my heart rejoices, my soul is glad;
Even my body shall rest in safety.
For you will not leave my soul among the dead,
Nor let your beloved know decay. (R)
You will show me the path of life,
the fullness of joy in your presence,
At your right hand happiness for ever. (R)
Rainbow Books
April 9 at 3:14 PM ·
The churches are empty,
The schools are empty,
The shelves are empty.
But that’s OK because
The tomb is empty too!
The theaters are empty,
The arenas are empty,
The offices are empty.
But that’s OK because
The grave is empty too!
Don’t touch your face,
Don’t touch your mouth,
Don’t touch your eyes.
That’s OK because
He touched my life.
Wipe clean your house,
Wipe clean your car,
Wipe clean your food.
Yes, and Jesus
Wiped clean my heart.
The President said
Stay safe, Stay home,
The Governor said
Stay safe, Stay home,
The Doctors said
Stay safe, Stay home.
Jesus said
You’re safe,
Your heart is my home.
The tiny, invisible enemy may be here for now, But My God is Real, Bigger and Forever!
This poem was written in 1869 by Kathleen O’Mara:
And people stayed at home
And read books
And listened
And they rested
And did exercises
And made art and played
And learned new ways of being
And stopped and listened
More deeply
Someone meditated, someone prayed
Someone met their shadow
And people began to think differently
And people healed.
And in the absence of people who
Lived in ignorant ways
Dangerous, meaningless and heartless,
The earth also began to heal
And when the danger ended and
People found themselves
They grieved for the dead
And made new choices
And dreamed of new visions
And created new ways of living
And completely healed the earth
Just as they were healed.
Reprinted during Spanish flu pandemic, 1919
The following poem, written by Sr. Maud Murphy SSI. and submitted by Fr. Brendan Duggan
The Challenge of Corona
We were flying to the Moon
We were finding life on Mars
We were dropping bombs with drones
We were getting bigger cars.
We were building finer homes
Flying out to warmer lands
We were busy buying clothes
We were brushing up our tans.
We were throwing out good food
While we watched the starving poor
We kept burning fossil fuels
And our oil became less pure.
We were warned by our Pope
Need to mind our Common Home
Need to watch our Carbon Footprint
Try to save our world from doom.
But we didn’t want to listen
And we didn’t want to hear
We just watched TV and Tablets
Drank our wine and quaffed our beer.
Then Corona chose to visit
We were all caught unprepared
This wee microscopic VIRUS
Has our whole world running scared.
So our hands we keep on washing
And we’re careful when we cough
We stand six feet from our neighbour
‘Cause this virus might jump off.
Now we live in isolation
While our hearts are full of fear
And we fill our fridge and cupboards
Just in case it lasts a year.
Pubs and cafes are forbidden
And we dare not go to Mass
Nursing homes we must not visit
Hospitals we have to pass.
But this enforced isolation
Gives us lots of time to think
Time to clean the kitchen cupboards
Time to make our wardrobes shrink.
Could it be that this Corona
Is a blessing in disguise
Makes us think about our lifestyle
Makes us open wide our eyes.
We thought we were all important
Greatest beings on this earth
So we used it and abused it
As if it were ours from birth.
But Corona is a challenge
Makes us take a different view
Helps us see what really matters
What it is we need to do.
We must watch out for our neighbour
Doing everything we can
We are all in this together
Let us love our fellow man.
God is with us every moment
Minding us with loving care
Now we know how much we need Him
Let us talk to him in prayer.
So Corona, thanks for coming
Truth to tell we needed you
But don’t overstay your welcome
That, alas, would never do!
Jack Ash writer poet Listowel
verses 1935
1.
The world and his wife were there to see the contest played.
The ploughman left his horses and the tradesman left his trade.
Excitement spread, like lightning flash through every house in town.
The night the Boro' Rovers met in combat with the Gleann.
2.
The father and the mother, yes, the husband, wife and child.
Were there in great profusion and went mad careering wild.
Said the young wife to her husband: "Sure, I'll pawn my shawl and gown
And I'll bet my last brown penny on the fortunes of the Gleann"
In later years, 1953, once again those great rivals met in the final, well known All Ireland
footballer, Jackie Lyne was the referee, afterwards Lyne remarked, that the match
was as exciting and the play as skillful as any inter-county match he had ever played in.
Once again Ashe's 2 first verses were classic in their descriptive lines.
1
T'was the thirteenth of August and the year was fifty-three,
And the bustle and excitement filled expectant hearts with glee,
So we all stepped off together to the field above the town,
To see those faultless finalists, Boro' Rovers and The Gleann.
2
The game began at nick of time, the "Ref" was Jackie Lyne,
The whistle held in master hands was an inspiring sign,
It was an epic struggle and to history 'twill go down,
An eventful, epic final twixt the Boro' and the Gleann.
Michael Langan poem
must have been around this time that he composed the following poem entitled Clounleharde, which was given to me by the late Thomas Michael Feury (Buddy) of Glenagragra, Glin that he recited for me verbatim during one of my many visits to his homestead.
The Praises of Clounleharde.
My fickle fancies and inclinations oft times did lead me from place to place
I’ve been prone to ramble by perambulation while life remains I shall never cease.
One day per chance while for recreation to view the beauties of this verdant lawn
In deep reflection, I chanced to stray through the pleasing landscapes of Clounleharde.
As if enchanted my senses scattered when I beheld the surrounding scenes
While abundant nature clad every meadow with vernal robes of delightful green
Each airy silver and each nymph and eagle each comely Saturn silver fawn
Are always sporting with sprightly motion through the pleasing landscapes of Clounleharde.
But in vain my efforts towards delineations the super subject of my infant thyme
Crown pagan Rick and that oration would not be adequate to paint the same
Oh hath I the eloquence of famous Cicero or like Juvenis or Mercury at dawn
Or like Jesurius could I paint the muses I’d write the beauties of Clounleharde.
‘Tis there you’ll see the thrush and blackbird wild goose and eagle and well fed stare
The jolly huntsman with his hounds and horn the fox the rabbit and the bounding hare
Its sterling springs are of the best spa-water, which my fond verses can be debarred
In spacious providences scattered wildly the blissful rarities of Clounleharde.
You’ll see the lark, the linnet, snipe, curlew and seagull the joyful songsters of the liquid air
The crake, the cuckoo, with gentle voices, the honest pheasant in her park doth cheer
The friendly neighbours or participators of the alterations of each other’s gains
While the numerous herds o’er the fields are grazing to crown the beauties of that rural swain
Abundant cares with all her graces for my dear subject has such regard While each yellow Autumn and yearly season smiles with complacency in Clounleharde.
It was there famed Daveron was by Goldsmith pictured and all the beauties this place can vie
The fields of Elysian whom poets treat of in super couplets of sweet poetry
Or the beauties of old Tara’s green or the splendour prospect of Rathcrahane
Cannot bear a ratio in point of beauty to the charming landscapes of Clounleharde.
Pray-gentle editor will you excuse me for many a defect this may comprise
Let friendship glow within each poets bosom rather pity such than criticise
A noble genius a joyful Tyro a humble scholar and a fearless bard
Can raise you up to famed Parnassus’ steps and paint you more pleasingly sweet Clounleharde.
georgelangandotcom3.wordpress.com/
Written by John McGrath and Neil Brosnan, September 2019 and sung by Neil at John B's, Listowel, January 2020
Never did what I was told. I dug the field but not for gold,
Though long ago my father told me how.
‘Forget the cows,’ the old man said, ‘to make it pay, plant trees instead,
This boggy ground is far too poor to plough.’
But land, like poetry, draws you back, to write a line and leave your track.
Dry summers gave a glimpse of buried store.
I dug where mighty trees had grown, where cows had grazed and crops were sown
And men had thrived two thousand years before.
‘Too poor to plough,’ my father said, ‘Forget the cows, plant trees instead.
Plant trees and then sit back and watch them grow.’
But I was wilful, I was bold, and far too smart to heed the old,
With much to learn and still too young to know.
Golden roots of deal I found, and as I raised them from the ground
I filled each space with fine and fertile soil.
Now the grass grows sweet and green, the finest sward you’ve ever seen,
A rich reward for all those years of toil.
‘Plant trees, my son,’ the old man said, but I dug deep for trees long dead
And found the gold of myth and ancient lore.
Now I sit beside the fire. I watch the bog-deal blazing higher
And drink a toast to all who’ve dug before.
‘Too poor to plough,’ my father said ‘Forget the cows, plant trees instead.
Plant trees and then sit back and watch them grow.’
But I was wilful, I was bold, and far too smart to heed the old,
With much to learn and still too young to know.
John McGrath
Plays by John B. Keane: Sive, The Field and Big Maggie
Nov 1, 2019
Big MaggiedramaIrish dramaIrish theatreJohn B. Keane
I read three plays by the late playwright, author and publican John B. Keane: Sive, The Field and Big Maggie. I will discuss their plots (spoilers) and the social issues addressed in the plays.
Keane lived in Listowel, Co. Kerry. Despite the popularity of his plays, it took many years for him to be accepted by the Dublin literary establishment. He sent Sive to the Abbey Theatre, where it was rejected by Abbey director Ernest Blythe and set designer Tomás MacAnna, who thought it was too melodramatic. The play was staged by the Listowel Drama Group in Walsh’s Ballroom in Listowel, where it became a local phenomenon that eventually spread across the country. His work became tremendously popular with audiences. Joe Dowling, who directed the 1980 Abbey revival of The Field, said that Keane was ‘neglected for too long by the Abbey. People didn’t regard his work as important; they saw it as commercial and tawdry – and it’s not true’ (Smith and Hickey 246). His plays reflect rural Irish society. They address harsh themes such as poverty, religious oppression, land-hunger, and societal pressure to conform.
https://wordpress.com/read/blogs/167547056/posts/42
#OTD in 1928 – Birth of playwright, novelist and poet, John B. Keane, in Listowel, Co Kerry.
Jul 21, 2019
Abbey TheatreAosadánaCo. KerryEssayistGradam Medal
“I was writing about people I knew, people who lived about two miles from Listowel, and that I’d grown up with. They’re all gone now, but they made me their spokesperson and I felt a responsibility to tell their story, to preserve a wonderful tradition in written form.” –John B. Keane
John B. Keane was one of ten children and his father was a local schoolteacher, while his mother was an actress. He lived in England briefly in the 1950s but spent the rest of his life in Listowel where he presided over a pub. This was a vantage point from which he watched the changes in Irish rural life.
https://wordpress.com/read/blogs/58539435/posts/45995
A Contemporary Archaeology of Marian Shrines in Ireland
https://wordpress.com/read/feeds/69344952
A Poem from Noel Roche of Chicago and Listowel
In Loving Memory of my sister, “ Jack’
I wonder if you’re up there
Irish dancing on a cloud.
I know that when you sing
You’re surrounded by a crowd.
Mam and Dad and Dick and Jim,
And all who passed are there.
I wonder what God’s thinking
Every time he hears you swear.
I know in my heart
There is one thing you will do.
I know you’ll ask Elvis
To sing The Wonder of You.
I know there’s angels laughing,
They all think you’re great.
Heaven has not been the same
Since you walked through the gate.
You left behind a lot of stuff
Clothes, jewellery and rings.
Your daughter got the promise
That you’re the wind beneath her wings.
I know your friends are sad
I know they’re feeling blue.
But I also know they’re grateful
That they had a friend like you.
Your brothers and your sisters
Are going day by day
And trying to accept the fact
That you have gone away.
Your nephews and your nieces
Every single one,
Are struggling with the fact
That their favourite Aunty’s gone.
I’m here in Chicago
Many miles away.
I’ve got a hole in my heart
That will not go away.
I’m trying to get over this
And make a brand new start
I know that I am not alone
You are always in my heart.
SCHOOL Folklore; Local Poets
Collector Thomas Walsh- Informant Maurice Stack Age 39 buried in Murhur.
There are no stories told about how he got the gift of poetry. His father and Uncle were poets. One day a widow woman asked Rucard Drury and three other men to eat a meadow of hay. They had a piece of a boar for their dinner and he made a piece of poetry about it. "O God on high who rules the sky Look upon us forth and give us meat that we can eat and take away the boar."
He made a song about the Listowel Races, Foley's donkey, Knockanure church. In English he composed those songs. He had an Uncle Mike who also had the gift of poetry but was not as good as Rucard. He was a labourer and he spent most of his time in Knockanure. He was a great scholar and the people liked him very much. He was working with a woman and in the evening she got short of tea and sugar. When drinking his tea she asked him if there was sugar in his tea. He said no because if there was he could see it in the bottom.
For much more visit https://www.duchas.ie/en/src?q=songs&t=CbesTranscript&p=2&ct=CI
Do any of ye remember the Race Nite in Knockdown 21 years ago in 1998.
The Race Nite in Knockdown
The excitement it was mighty in Knockdown on Friday night
As everybody gathered for the races
The air was filled with tension as last minute plans were made
And everybody there put through their paces
Johnny Walsh came from Sliabh Luachra to be the brave M.C.
The racing tapes were ready for to roll
At half past nine the flag was raised, the first race had begun.
From then, till two, ‘twas busy on the tote.
Ten races with ten horses each, all with local owners
All vying with each other for to win
As neighbour cheered on neighbour and pretended to be cross
When their own nag slowed down around the bend.
The brave men on the tote had to keep their heads about them
As they gave out the tickets left and right
Tommy Grady calculated and then gave out the odds
Sure the money it kept flowing through the night.
But we had not seen the best of it till the auction race came up
And Johnny Walshe, he stood upon the table
To auction off ten horses before they ran their race
And be paid for before they left the stable.
It was then the tension mounted as the bids came flying in
It was dangerous to even blink an eye
There were horses sold for £60, some for 80, even more
As each one outbid another for to buy
At last the night was over and the noise and laughter ceased
And everyone agreed that it was fun
Killeaney Soccer club was beaming at the profit it had gained
And the dressing rooms are nearer to being done.
The club is grateful to the gamblers who gave their full support
And hope it brought some laughs to clear the frowns
They hope that everyone enjoyed it and send their thanks to all
For a most successful Race Nite in Knockdown.
Peg Prendeville – November 1998
From Peg Prendiville
On the birth of Ayda in Perth
Miles are NOT a barrier at times like this
For love can travel quickly as a thought
You’ve brought my grandchild to the world. Kiss
Her for me; may she never want for nought.
And though I know I cannot hold her tight
Think of me when you hold her to your breast
Your heartbeat will merge hers and mine tonight
We share the same blood. Let love do the rest.
Whisper our names into her ear and tell
Her of her family in Limerick West –
Her cousins, aunts and uncles wish her well
With all our loving thoughts she is being blessed.
We know you are so many miles away
But you are held close to our hearts today.
By Peg Prendeville
Fr. Pat Moore’s poem for his mother
This Much I Will Remember _______ for Peg
It was a bright August morning, sunlight filled the kitchen.
I sat next to you remembering my birth.
Your heartbeat the first sound I heard.
A home you made around us, people you are now welcoming,
Alive and some dead.
And as I look past your shoulder at the glass on the windowsill,
That captures the sunlight inside the garden you once tended,
Which also drinks in the light.
Everything I see converges into a random still light,
Fastened together by colour.
It is fixed behind the foreground of what’s happening around you
As you are now being looked after.
And I can feel it being painted within me,
And brushed on the wall of my skull.
Then all the moments of the past begin to line up behind that moment,
And all the moments to come assemble in front of it in a long long row.
It gives me reason to believe that this is a, moment I have rescued
from the millions that rush out of sight
into the darkness behind the eyes.
When I forget I will still carry in my skull
the small coin of this moment
Minted in the kingdom that we pace through everyday.
A Summer’s Morning
The curlew calls way up in the sky,
The cuckoo’s song comes back in reply,
The cattle are lowing on their way to the barn;
Sounds on a summer’s morning.
The perfume of hay just recently cut,
The scent of the flowers as they open up,
The sterile fresh air as it sweeps in the dawn;
Smells on a summer’s morning.
The rustle of leaves in the pure gentle breeze,
The chirping of birds making nests in the trees,
The turf machine promises “I’ll keep you warm;”
Sounds on a summer’s morning.
The cloudless blue sky with its streamers of white
Whispers to us of its traffic all night,
The gorse all ablaze, the spray of whitethorn;
Sights on a summer’s morning.
Flower gardens resplendent in colours so bright,
Grasses all glistening from the dew of the night,
Bathed in brightness, all lovely and warm;
The world on a summer’s morning.
Heart light and airy, the world’s at peace.
With each breath of air all my worries cease,
For love is around us, no need of warring
Thoughts on a summer’s morning.
By Peg Prendeville
The greatest benefit of having Asperger’s syndrome is my unconventional perspective on the world. I have very different insights into problems than my peers, which I enjoy sharing in my classes. On the Executive Teen Board of Project Here.Now., I’m one of the few people with a neurological disorder rather than an emotional one. This allows me to speak to a very different side of mental health and illness than other board members. What I love about being autistic is best explained by the famed theoretical physicist Erwin Schrödinger. To paraphrase him, to be autistic means “not so much to see what no one has yet seen; but to think what nobody has yet thought, about that which everybody sees.”
Special
I’m a special flower.
People always tell me that.
You’re special.”
“How…special.”
Special is a knife that cuts down to the marrow of my bones.
Special is not good.
Special is different.
Different is bad.
When I tell people I’m on the spectrum, I become a mind reader.
I read their thoughts like a horror novel.
They’re thinking the same things as everyone else:
I’m mingling with a monster.
I’m friends with a freak.
I know a special person.
You’re not like me.
You’re different.
You’re bad.
Their words are daggers to my heart
Bullets to my soul
Their thoughts hurt me.
I cry from their explosive landings in my mind and on my heart.
No one sees me for who I am.
They don’t see me for my accomplishments or my personality.
To them, I am my autism.
I’m autistic.
I get a different perspective on the world,
But I can’t share it.
That makes me feel isolated
Like I have no one to talk to.
I’m autistic.
That doesn’t make me less.
Less human
Less deserving of respect
Less intelligent
Less feeling
Less hurt by your words
I am autistic
But I am real
I’m not a character
I’m not a superhero
I’m just me,
A real, human autistic boy
I don’t need your pity
I don’t need your validation
I need what everyone needs
Food
Water
Shelter
Respect
Friends
Family
Love
Dignity
Humanity
I’m not normal.
That’s okay.
Max Greenspoon is a senior at Ardsley High School. He’s an active participant in the school’s drama program, performing in every show the Drama Club has presented since his freshman year. Outside of drama, Max participates in Academic Challenge, Math Team, Chamber Orchestra, and Jazz Ensemble. He also plays many instruments and practices legerdemain. He’s been honored to serve as the Vice President of both the Drama Club and Academic Challenge, as well as having his dramatic work presented by the Irondale Ensemble. He has been working with Here.Now. on the Executive Teen Leadership Board for the past year and a half.
https://www.myjewishlearning.com/here-now/specia
2019 Athea News
Launch of new CD “The Housekeepers”
featuring Ella Mae O’Dwyer (nee Quille) and Nora Hurley
On Saturday, May 11th, Doireann Glackin (fiddle player) and Sarah Flynn (concertina player) following extensive research and supported by the Arts Council of Ireland launched a new CD in St. Lawrence’s Church DIT, Dublin, called “The Housekeepers”. The collection of traditional tunes illuminates the legacy of 5 female “unsung heroes” of our tradition. It is of particular interest to us in Athea as two of the five women featured were born here. The first, Ella Mae O’Dwyer (nee Quille) was born in Gortnagross and was a sister of the late Denis Quille and Mary Agnes Barrett.Ella Mae lived most of her life in Ardgroom, Co. Cork and was a very well respected musician. Her concertina playing was recorded several times including with Tony McMahon for “Bring Down The Lamp”. She was a first cousin of Nora Hurley who is also featured on “The Housekeepers” and another one of our own! Nora was a self taught concertina player and had a life long love of traditional music. She began composing in her 90’s and two of her tunes, a jig and a reel so impressed Doireann and Sarah they have recorded them for posterity!
copies of the CD available during the Fleadh Cheoil in Athea on the June bank holiday weekend 2019
Dear God,
On this day I ask You to grant this request,
May I know who I am and what I am,
Every moment of every day.
May I be a catalyst for light and love,
And bring inspiration to those whose eyes I meet.
May I have the strength to stand tall in the face of conflict,
And the courage to speak my voice, even when I'm scared.
May I have the humility to follow my heart,
And the passion to live my soul's desires.
May I seek to know the highest truth
And dismiss the gravitational pull of my lower self.
May I embrace and love the totality of myself,
My darkness as well as my light.
May I be brave enough to hear my heart,
To let it soften so that I may gracefully
Choose faith over fear.
Today is my day to surrender anything that stands
Between the sacredness of my humanity and my divinity.
May I be drenched in my Holiness
And engulfed by Your love.
May all else melt away.
And so it is
The Valley of Knockanure
You may sing and speak about Easter week and the heroes of ninety eight.
Of Fenian men who roamed the glen in victory or defeat,
Of those who died on the scaffold high or outlawed on the moor,
But no word was said of our gallant dead in the Valley of Knockanure.
There was Padraic Dalton and Padraic Walsh they were known both far and wide,
In every house in every town they were always side by side,
A Republic bold they did uphold though outlawed on the moor,
And side by side they bravely died in the Valley of Knockanure.
In Gortaglanna’s lovely glen these gallant men took shade ,
While in young wheat both soft and sweet the summer breezes played,
It was not long ‘till Lyons came on saying time is not mine ‘nor yours,
But alas it was late and they met their fate in the valley of Knockanure.
It was from a neighbouring hillside we listened in calm dismay,
In every house, in every town a maiden knelt to pray,
They are closing in around them now with rifle shot so sure,
And Walsh is dead and Lyons is down in the valley of Knockanure.
They took them hence behind the fence wherein the furze did bloom,
Like brothers so they faced their foe to meet their vengeful doom,
When Dalton spoke his voice it broke with a passion proud and pure,
For our land we’ll die as we face the sky in the Valley of Knockanure.
And there they lay on the cold cold clay they were martyred for Ireland’s cause,
While the cowardly clan of the Black and Tan it showed them England’s laws,
No more they’ll feel the soft breeze steal o’er the uplands so secure,
For the wild geese fly where our hero’s lie in the valley of Knockanure.
I met with Dalton’s mother and she to me did say,
May God be with my darling son who died in the glen today,
If I could kiss his cold clay lips my aching heart ‘twould cure,
And I’d gladly lay him down to sleep in the Valley of Knockanure.
The golden sun it is sinking down behind the Feale and lea,
And a pale, pale moon is rising there far out beyond Tralee,
A twinkling star through clouds afar shone down o’er Cullen’s moor,
And the Banshee cried when Dalton died in the Valley of Knockanure.
Dalton Walsh and Lyons brave, although your hearts are clay,
Yet in your stead be true men yet who will take your place today,
While grass is found on Irelands ground your memory will endure,
So God guard and keep the place you sleep in the Valley of Knockanure.
https://www.bbc.co.uk/history/british/easterrising/songs/rs_song08.shtml
REMEMBERING
Just thinking back on yesteryear and how it used to be
When love was new to me and you, and life a mystery
How I’ve cherished all these special years, since we first said “I do”
Just like a dream, or it would seem, with someone as dear as you
I wander back to when first we met, we’d walk down by the strand
We’d kiss each other on the cheek and hold each other’s hand
How we strolled along the boardwalk and gazed out on the sea
Those endless days of happiness, the way ‘twas meant to be
Together all the things we’ve done, and all the things we’ve seen
The little gifts that we have shared and the places we have been
Those simple times like holding hands, when all the world seemed still
Or saying such things as “I love you” and I know I always will
And there were times when I felt down and life seemed all so grey
But you were there to show you cared, with a gentle word to say
And when things went wrong, as they sometimes do, and woe was all about
You’d smile and say
“Don’t worry now, this too we will work out”
All through these years of joy and tears, you’ve been a friend to me
A union blessed, at God’s behest, for all the world to see
And in years to come, on that special day, just like we’ve done before
We’ll hold each other in our arms and say it just once more
You bring me joy this very day as you have for all these years
We’ll kiss each other on the cheek while holding back the tears
Again we’ll stroll down by the strand, we’ll gaze out on the sea
And with love we’ll share some other care,
And another ANNIVERSARY.
Richard G. Moriarty
Richard now lives in San Diego, California but he hails from Lisselton.
Limerick Leader 1905-current, Saturday, November 02, 1968; Page: 3
ATHEA - THE CHAMPIONS
The cheers ring round the Gaelic Grounds, they echo far away,
The Limerick football championship has come to sweet Athea.
The dream at last it has come true,-no longer must we wait:
They've brought the Cup home to the West, these men of sixty-eight,
The first they beat was Patrickswell, next did Askeaton fall;
Then Oola's best they, failed the test with our boys to play the ball.
Next Came the Treaty Sarsfields in the final game to play;
Some wise men shook their heads and said "they'll surely, beat Athea."
The autumn sun was shining bright on that field near Limerick town,
When they came from Clash and Cratloe there, the village and Knockdown,
From Knocknagorna's hills as well from Keale, Coole West, Tooreen,
From Gortnagross and Knackanair and the vales of sweet Direen.
Then old men's thoughts they drifted back to the games they used to see,
And to men who fought in, harder fields to make our nation free-
Con Colbert, Gortaglanna, Paddy Dalton came to mind-
Many hearts with pride were beating for those days long left behind.
But every face is turned now to the scene of the present day.
The Treaty boys, they struggled hard, but were no match for Athea.
And when the final whistle went there was no doubt who was best.
The Cup has found a worthy home in its journey to the West.
Here's to the men of sixty-eight, with Con Mullane full-back;
Tom Keeffe In goal beside him "Morgan" Moran and Sean Mack,
Ken Dermody, Frank Collins and Mike Hayes made no mistake,
And when Gerry Carey gets, the ball the West is wide awake.
The Barrett brothers and Joe Keeffe were always to the fore,
And from a player like Timmie Woulfe no one could ask for more.
Murt Liston, the young captain, was indeed a shining light;
Kevin Dillon and Joe Brouder too. they played with all their might.
The other men who also served, the subs behind the scene
Tim Enright "Haulie" Moran and Pat Dalton from Direen,
Tim Keeffe and Danny Barry, Patie Moran, Jim Dillane.
Mick White and Jack O'Connor, too, strong men-of brain and brawn.
Your followers they are proud of you, gallant men of sixty-eight;
We will always look upon you as the greatest of the great
And in many a future battle we-well know you'll never fail
To bring the laurels often home to the town beside the Gale.
P J. BROSNAN . Knocknagorna, Athea.
Mangan MEMORIAL.
James Clarance Mangan's Memorial
Oliver sheppard, 1909
James Clarence Mangan (1803 - 1849) Poet
Some regard Mangan as the greatest poet of the nineteenth centaury.
Mangan is a thread in the rich tapestry that is Dublin's literary history. His intemperance estranged him from human society and rendered him all but unemployable. There are many descriptions of his personal appearance, recording lean figure, blue cloak, witch’s hat and umbrella that he carried regardless of the weather.
He died of cholera.
The inset figure represents Róisín Dubh (The Black Rose), the last known work of Willie Pearse who was executed following the 1916 rising along with his brother Padraig Pearse.
beachcomber australia 7d
Oh dear! This article thinks it was May 22nd, a Saturday.
Read All About It ! ... trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/170908241
Here is what Dr Sigerson said (while this photo was taken!) -
""In the name of the National Literary Society of Ireland, I now unveil and confide to the custody of the Commissioners and to the care of the public this memorial of Clarence Mangan. Against the dark background of his life he raised a fabric of fair poetry, which shines bright as 'apples of gold amid foliage of silver'— the admiration of other lands, the glory of his country. In gratitude for his genius, in memory of his patriotism, in evidence that our generation is not forgetful of benefactors, and in the hope of inspiration to future times, we erect this monument. Here, in the city of his birth, in the land of his love, we erect it, bearing its beautiful symbol of our Ideal Erinn, whose desire and whose honour abide in the noble affection of an undivided nation. Thus, finally, do we faithfully carry out the injunction of 'The Preacher* of old: 'And now let us give praise to men of renown, our fathers in their generations.' " (Applause).
Mangan MEMORIAL.
A RELATIVE’S RECOLLECTIONS OF THE POET.
Mr. Denis Plunkett, residing at Usher's Island, Dublin, as the nearest living relative of James Clarence Mangan, wrote correcting some statements with regard to the poet in a Dublin contemporary recently. Very few lovers of Mangan’s poetry were aware that he had relatives living in Dublin. Mr. Plunkett’ s mother was a first cousin of the poet. Mangan's mother was sister of a Co. Meath farmer named Smyth, who was Mr. Plunkett's maternal grandfather. Consequently the poet stood to Mr. Plunkett in the relationship of “first cousin once removed.” Mr. Plunkett was about sixteen, years of age at the poet's death, and consequently remembers Mangan well. At that time the Plunkett’s
resided in Copper Alley, and Mangan frequently visited the house. 'He had always a melancholy expression,' Mr. Plunkett told a press representative, 'and usually carried big bundles of paper;
under his coat. I remember him coming to our house one night, and almost with tears in his eyes, promising to reform and lead a new life, and then going out and shortly after becoming intoxicated. Just before his death he was lodging at a house in Bride-street. Father Meehan was curate of 'the- parish in which we lived, and I think that was –how we first came into touch with Mangan. My
father, mother, brother, and myself were at the funeral. Catherine Moore, one of his aunts, a married woman, is buried in the same grave- It was my father who buried him and put up the tombstone. Father Meehan requested my father to put no epitaph On the tombstone, saying that the name was 'enough for an ungrateful country.' Dr. Stokes came down to our house the day after
Mangan's death to get any papers he had left. The old woman Mangan lodged with in.
Bride-street told him that he burned all the papers he had. I remember as a small boy being at the wake of Mangan's mother, who died in- Peter-street. I think a 'good deal that
Mangan said about his sufferings was due to his morbid imagination; no doubt he was unhappy, but he made his misery for himself to a great extent.'
https://trove.nla.gov.au/newspaper/article/108176932
Valley of Knockanure, The” (2009) (34 mins) Drama.
David Coakley, Gerard Kearney, Jack Lowe, Ryan Sheppard, Liam Burke, Mary Allen, Noel Keefe.
Writer/Director: Gerard Barrett.
Low budget.
Shot on location in County Kerry.
The Valley of Knockanure
Based upon a true story from the Irish War of Independence involving the killing of three IRA volunteers by the Black and Tans in North Kerry.
Verdict: A poor debut from writer/director, Gerard Barrett, and only for the diehard fan of the “Troubles” genre.
Released on DVD but only appears to have been available in Co. Kerry.
https://irelandsmovies.wordpress.com/v/
Kieran Donaghy has retired from Kerry Football. September 2018
He hailed from the kingdom of Kerry,
A Rocky who played for the Stacks,.
He lined out up front for his county,
And tormented the very best backs.
They pulled, they dragged and they tripped him,
But the ball it was already there,
For the star had very good vision,
To get the ball to the man with red hair.
Manys the day he did save us,
And pulled the win out of the fire,
But time has come for the big man,
To hang up his boots and retire,.
He speaks of O'Connors and Fitzgeralds,
And all of the Donaghy clan,
Well proud they are of this young boy,
Who grew into one talented man.
On behalf of the fans of the Kingdom,
Who came out with the green and the gold,
So sorry to bid you farewell,
But for years your stories be told.
Good luck in the chapter that awaits you,
You owe nothing to the jersey you wore,
But we all wish once more we could see it,
That pass to young Clifford's score.
What do you think of that Joe Brolly?
By Peg Prendeville
Sounds of Summer
Rocking in my garden seat,
Creaking gently to and fro
Watching life continuing on,
Like a stream in constant flow.
Listening to the chirping birds
Busy at their daily tasks
The leaves are whispering in the breeze
A honey bee goes buzzing past.
A tractor drones in a neighbour’s field
Boasting of a busy day
Taking advantage of the sun
Cutting silage, turning hay.
A cow concerned for her calf
Calls him back with a gentle moo
The clothes are flapping on the line
Peaceful times like this are few.
Children play out on the lawn
Sending out their squeals of joy
Laughing, singing, cheering on
Their playmates in a rugby try.
I close my eyes to appreciate
The restful sounds that I can hear
It’s easy to believe in God
When His presence is so near!
June 2018; Happy 70th Wedding Anniversary
Tomás and Han Geoghegan met over seventy years ago
Han and Tomás
Like the Samaritan woman at the well
She was aware of the piercing eyes
Quickly she turned around to see him
It was Tomás her neighbour, what surprise!
Smiling shyly and with quickening breath
“Did you forget your bucket?” she enquired.
“My thirst is not for water” he replied
As he gazed with fondness into her eyes.
“May I walk home with you and share the load?”
And so the courting ritual began
Getting to know each other day by day.
Tomás Geoghegan and the lovely Han.
The seed of love was planted by the well,
Seventy years growth since the wedding bell.
By Peg Prendeville
CARNEGIE LIBRARY by Cyril Kelly
This was the man who led us, both literally and metaphorically, from the classroom every day. This was The Master, our Pied Piper, who was forever bugling a beguiling tune, a tune sparkling with grace notes of the imagination. He’d have us on the white steed behind Niamh, her golden fleece romping in our faces. Transformed by his telling we had mutated into forty spellbound Oisíns. Knockanore was disappearing in our wake. The briny tang of the ocean was in our nostrils, bidding us to keep a westward course, forbidding us to glance back at our broken hearted father, Fionn. We were heading for the land of eternal youth, Tír na nÓg.
On the very next antidotal day, we’d be traipsing after him, into the graveyard beside the school. The narrow paths, with no beginning and no end criss-crossed the place like some zoomorphic motif. We were on a mission to see who would be the first to spot a headstone which was decorated with a Celtic design. The diligent boys leading the line were in danger of overtaking the laggards at the tail who were hissing that, in the dark recesses of the slightly open tomb, they had seen, staring back at them, a yella skull.
But, on very special days, we crossed the road to the Carnegie Library. Master McMahon told us that it was the most magical building in the whole town. Even the whole world, if it came to that. He told us that we were so lucky because Andrew Carnegie, the richest man on earth, had bought all of these books for us. We were amazed because none of us knew Andrew and we felt sure that he didn’t know any of us. As a matter of fact, not one of us knew anyone who bought books, either for us or for anyone else. Master McMahon said that the Librarian, Maisie Gleeson, was minding the books for Carnegie and, especially for the boys in 3rd class.
On our first day in the library, we all had to line up on tippy-toes at Maisie’s desk to scratch our names with nervous N-nibs on green cards. Maisie eyed us all over her spectacles, welcoming each one of us ominously by name, telling us that she knew our mothers and woe-be-tide anyone who didn’t behave themselves, particularly any boy who did not take good care of Andrew’s books.
If you have a book, boys, Master McMahon’s voice was echoing around us. If you have a book, boys, you have an exciting friend.
Drumming his fingers along a shelf, humming to himself, he flicked one of the books from its place, tumbling it into his arms. Turning towards us, he held it like a trophy in the air.
The Clue of The Twisted Candle. Nancy Drew, boys. She’s a beauty. Blonde, like Niamh Cinn Óir. Solves exciting mysteries for her father.
The Master took his time to scan our expectant faces.
Here, Mickey, proffering the book to Mikey Looby whose father was a detective. Why don’t you sit down there at that table. Read the first few chapters. See what Nancy Drew is up to this time.
Turning to the shelves again, The Master threw back over his shoulder; Sure if I know anything, Mikey, you’ll probably solve the mystery before she does. Mikey, clasping the book in his arms, stumbled to the nearest chair, thirty nine pairs of envious eyes fastened to him. Sure it’s in the blood, Mikey boy. It’s in the blood.
Selecting another book, The Master faced us once more. This time he called on Dan Driscoll.
I saw you driving your father’s pony and cart to the fair last week. Three of the loveliest pink plump bonavs you had. And what a fine looking pony Dan Driscoll has, boys.
Well, here in my hand I’m holding Riders of the Purple Sage by Zane Grey. This man is a fantastic story teller. He’ll take you to the frontier lands of America. I promise that you’ll see and smell the rolling plains of Wyoming more clearly than if you were in the Plaza cinema down the street. You’ll ride with cowboys, you’ll hear the neighing not of ponies but of palominos. You’ll meet deadly gunmen, boys, noble Red Indians. And on the headstones in Boothill, boys, you won’t find any Celtic designs. And there, in the vastness of the library, The Master’s youthful tenor voice startled the silence; Take me back to the Black Hills/ The Black Hills of Dakota/ To the beautiful Indian country that I love. By the time he was finished he was besieged by a posse of outstretched hands and beseeching cries of Sir Sir Sir. Every one of us was demented to get our paws on that book, any book.
William Upton 1845
ArdaghLimerick
Edit
William Upton, carpenter, Fenian, novelist, poet and rural labourers' leader was born on 27 August 1845 in the village of Ardagh, Co. Limerick, one of eight children born to Frank Upton (1799-1881) and Catherine Nolan (1800?-1854). Frank, a carpenter, and his Catherine had married locally in 1829.
The Upton’s were artisans and Roman Catholic but their forebears, just a few generations back, had been Protestant landholders. It is unclear precisely why or how William Upton's line became tradesmen but it is probable that the marriage of his Protestant grandfather, Edward (born 1742), to a Catholic named Mary Dunworthy (or Dunworth) led to a familial exclusion.
William became a carpenter and cabinetmaker, and in common with many young nationalist artisans he joined the Irish Republican Brotherhood during the mid-1860's. On March 5th 1867,as part of the ill-fated rising, he joined Limerick Fenians in an attack on Ardagh police barracks. Police reports identified him as one of the leaders and as having organised efforts to burn out the barracks when the frontal assault failed.
Following the failure of the rising, Upton went on the run, travelling to Roscommon and using the pseudonym William Cleary - he later incorporated 'Cleary' into his name, becoming William C. Upton from the 1870's. He was arrested as a suspect under his false name and spent a month in jail but was released without his true identity being discovered (2).
A reward was offered for his arrest and a description published in Hue and Cry on 4 June 1867: Upton - 23 years old, 5 ft 10 inches, stout make, fair complexion, round face, blue eyes, regular nose, fair hair, small fair whiskers, wore a dark tweed coat, cord trousers, light tweed vest, very good looking, walks very erect, is a carpenter by trade. Upton escaped to the US where he remained for more than two years, returning to Ardagh in late September 1869.
Local police immediately requested permission to arrest him but, although they were instructed to 'keep a close watch on his movements’, he was never charged with involvement in the 1867 rising, apparently because the informer who was to give evidence had already left the country (3).
On 1 November 1874 he married Mary Barrett (1854-1913) of Knockfinisk, Athea, and built a house in Ardagh village where he established himself as a small-scale building contractor. Upton remained active in local Fenianism throughout the 1870's and joined the Land League on its emergence. He was particularly concerned with the plight of the rural labourers and from at least 1880, spoke out on their behalf.
In October 1880 he was the central figure behind the formation of the Ardagh Labour League, which demanded a cottage, and acre, and fixity of tenure for rural labourers. The Ardagh League was one of the many formed throughout Munster during the 'land war', and Upton was a close friend of P.F. Johnson, the Kanturk-based rural labourers' advocate, and Daniel Histon, a tenant-farmer from Shanagolden and leading figure in the rural labour movement. Upton was one of the key activists behind the founding of the Munster Labour League in May 1881, and the following month he was part of a labourers' delegation to London to lobby the Chief Secretary for Ireland.
In September he attended the Land League national convention in Dublin, representing rural workers, although he was later critical of the Land League's neglect of the labourers. Upton's greatest and most innovative contribution to the agitation came with the publication of Uncle Pat's Cabin or Life among the Labourers of Ireland (Gill and Son, Dublin 1882), probably the first Irish social-realist novel written by a worker, The book depicts the life and conditions of a labourer called Pat McMahon.
A review in the Nation described it as a work of 'angry discontent': We cannot for a moment doubt that he gives voice to the feelings and ideas of at least the labourers of his own district, and we must perforce conclude that the most bitter discontent, not only with the conditions of their lives, but with the mass of farmers around them, fiercely seethes amongst them.
Their language is nearly always the language of complaint or denunciation, or of resolve to tolerate no longer the hardships and humiliation that beset them (4). It was not particularly well-written (Upton later admitted to writing it in six weeks) and was penned primarily as a piece of social agitation. in general, it was well received and in 1887 Gill and Son published another book by Upton, Cuchulain: the Story of his Combats at the Ford: A Dramatic Poem. Upton had written poetry and songs during the 1870's and continued to do so throughout his life.
In the late 1880's the Upton family emigrated to the US and settled in New York, where William lived until his death on 8 January 1925. He and Mary had ten children, Francis,Hannah, Edward, James, Kathleen, Minnie, Lillian, William, John and Robert and there are now many descendants in America. In 1914 he published a revised version of Uncle Pat's Cabin in New York, adding a preface that claimed implausibly that the novel had impelled the enactment of the 1883 Labourers' Act. Nonetheless, and despite its literary weaknesses, Upton's forgotten novel remains an important early example of working-class literature in the cause of social reform. Fintan Lane.
Notes: (2) Maighread McGrath, "His book helped free the Irish slaves", Irish Independent, 3 May 1965; Desmond Shanid, "William Upton: the forgotten literary Fenian of Ardagh", Limerick Leader, 3 November 1956. (3) National Archives, Fenian files, police report from Rathkeale, Co. Limerick, 3 October 1869, 4696R.
(4) Nation, 7 October 1882.
Courtesy of Johnny Upton - John Upton
Shared on XO Chronicles:
In Memory of my mother
Patrick Kavanagh
I do not think of you lying in the wet clay
Of a Monaghan graveyard; I see
You walking down a lane among the poplars
On the way to the station, or happily
Going to second mass on a summer Sunday
You meet me and you say,
“Don’t forget to see about the cattle.”;
Among your earthiest words the angels stray.
And I think of you walking along a headland
Of green oats in June,
So full of repose, so rich with life-
And I see us meeting at the end of a town
On a fair day by accident, after
The bargains are all made and we walk
Together through the shops and stalls and markets
Free in the oriental streets of thought.
O, you are not lying in the wet clay
For it is harvest evening now and we
Are piling up the ricks against the moonlight
And you smile up at us – eternally.
Home Reading Room History & Heritage Pages in History An Mangaire Sugach: The Limerick Leader 1944-50 Heritage of the Irish Language in Limerick Wait till Cork meet ye - 3rd July 1948
Wait till Cork meet ye - 3rd July 1948
ODDS AND ENDS
"Wait Till Cork Meet Ye": Text Version
3rd July 1948
(By "AN MANGAIRE SUGACH")
Hilaire Belloc once said that the proper way to write a book was to begin at the end. (See link for story)
In his notes "Tir is Tenaga," on June 19th, my friend, "An Cabac Rua," had something very interesting to tell. It was the story of his recent meeting in Knockaderry with a fine old Irishman, who might be described as a native Irish speaker from Limerick. An t-Uasal Mac Uaid spoke the Irish he had learned from his father in Ath an t-Sleibhe in West Limerick. When the first branch of the Gaelic League was formed in my native district, in 1907, it included among its first members a native Irish-speaker from this very district of Ath an t-Sleibhe or Athea. All this leads up to something I've long been pondering on: When did Irish die as a spoken language in County Limerick, and where in the county was it longest spoken?
A NEW COMPETITION
My next competition will deal with this aspect of the story of the language in Limerick. These few remarks are by way of a preliminary announcement. Full particulars will be published later. In the meantime, you could get busy noting anything of interest: accounts of the last people who spoke Irish in your district, and how long ago that was; accounts of people who sang songs in Irish, or of churches where Irish sermons were preached. You might hear of houses where old books in Irish were kept, or of people who could read them – I don't mean books published since the founding of the Gaelic League. Collect the Irish words in every day use about you – amadan, oinsach, ciotog, buala-baisin, gabhairin rua, buachallan buidhe, etc. I have collected more than 300 words and phrases in my own locality. You'll know the kind of material that will be suitable. This should prove an interesting competition, and valuable prizes will go to the winners.
Wait till Cork meet ye - 3rd July 1948
Enlarge image
SONG OF THE WEEK
The song of the week comes from the prize-winning collection of Miss Brigid Corr, Foynes. It was also received from a kind reader in Ballygiltinan to whom I owe a letter – as I do to about a dozen more. Mea culpa! Mea culpa! It is a very interesting piece, and up to now was unknown to me. It is called:
THE RAPAREE
My name is Mac Sheehy, from Feale's swelling flood,
A rapareerover by mountain and wood;
I have two trusty comrades to serve me at need,
This sword by my side, and my gallant grey steed.
Now where did I get them – my gallant grey steed,
And my sword, keen and trusty, to serve me at need?
This sword was my father's – in battle he died,
And I reared my bold Isgur by Feale's verdant side.
I've said it, and say it, and care not who hear,
Myself and grey Isgur have never known fear;
There's a dint in my helmet, a hole thro' his ear-
'Twas the same bullet made them at Limerick last year.
And the soldier who fired it was still ramming down,
When this long sword came right with a slash on his crown;
Dar Dhia! He will never fire musket again,
For his skull lies in two at the side of the glen.
When they caught us one day at the Castle of Brugh,
Our black-hearted foemen, a merciless crew,
Like a bolt from the thunder-cloud Isgur went through,
And my sword – ah, it gave them what long they may rue.
Together we sleep under rough crag or tree,
My soul! There were never such comrades as we,
I, Brian the Rover, and my two fiends at need –
This sword by my side, and my gallant grey steed.
Can any reader tell me who was this Brian Mac Sheehy, the raparee, or what is the story of the deeds recounted in the song?
Another Tan War Song - 14th Jan 1950
Another "Tan" War Song: Text Version
(By AN MANGAIRE SUGAC
Songs
From Listowel Connection March 2017
On World Book Day, March 2 2017 I was in The Seanchaí for a lovely shared reading over a cuppa.
I could hardly believe my ears when I heard Donal O'Connor of Tarbert stand up and recite Tom Mulvihill's poem from memory.
I enquired of Donal afterwards what he knew of Tom Mulvihill and he told me that he knew him long ago in Ballylongford. He was the son of the parish clerk.
His more famous brother, Roger, wrote Ballyheigue Bay and went on to run The White Sands hotel.
After Tom's death his family gathered his writings into a little book. Donal has a copy "somewhere". He'll share it when he finds it.
Local Poetry sample.
Orphans of Aleppo
I had a dream last night
of children – little fugitives,
refugees from Syria –
abandoned and bombed out,
crawling in a quest
for families they lost
like newly weaned lambs;
survivors of lethal waves
in overcrowded dinghies;
after the human chaos
then the frozen fear,
following urban air raids,
of those left alive
in honeycombs of horror;
and now they seek a lap
on which to lay their heads,
the orphans of Aleppo.
Matt Mooney – Orphans of Aleppo
Oct 27, 2016
Matt Mooney. Born in Kilchreest, Loughrea, Co. Galway in 1943, he has lived in Listowel since 1966. His first book of poetry ‘Droving’ was published in 2003 and this was followed in 2010 by Falling Apples’. His third collection ‘Earth to Earth’ was published by Galway Academic Press in 2015. His poems have appeared in ‘Feasta’, ‘West 47’ , ‘First Cut’ ,The Applicant’, The Kerryman, The Connaught Tribune, Peann agus Pár and The Galway Review.
Sameness
Couples on a mid-week break
in a hotel down Wexford way
descending from their rooms,
their children running free,
assembling for afternoon tea
with the same anticipation
as the seagulls I remember
hovering over the full tide,
and a shoal of mackerel
near the surface of the sea
off the promenade in Galway
and later landing on the rocks
showing off their seagullness,
searching us with steady eyes
in their brilliant whiteness
capped with backs of grey,
tails tipped with black,
orange beaks and orange webs;
we resemble them in ways
in the simplicity of our needs
and we gladly meet and mingle
to celebrate in our sameness –
the sealing of a common bond.
Second Thoughts
I cry with joy this Easter Day for Ireland:
the tricolour is raised, a dream come true
at our centenary celebrations at the GPO,
there before its renowned portal columns.
I cry as well for war zones far from here
but not that far away that we do not care
enough to wish them their week of glory
when the sacrifices will lead to liberation.
‘Weep not for me’, Jesus said on Calvary,
on the first Easter to the weeping women,
‘ weep for yourselves and your children’;
did he think of Brussels and the bombing
and of the blowing up of football players
near Baghdad, a city recovering from war
or the Easter Sunday massacre in Lahore?
Could He see Syrian refugees in a huddle
in flooded field camps steeped in misery,
Europe deliberating on their destinations?
‘You may boast and speak of Easter Week’
and our independence won a century ago
but now we have to watch these terrorists
with Kalashnikovs or wearing bombbelts
marauding mercilessly, delivering death,
like thieves out of the night or hell itself;
distraught men and women bowed down,
weeping for their children and themselves.
Oct 10 2016 posted
Barbara Derbyshire is an author of short fiction and poetry. Originally from London and now an Irish citizen, her home is in Kerry where, with more time to think, observe and remember, she has rediscovered her love of writing. Her first published book is Tapestry of Love, Life and Spirit, and, together with other writers from North Kerry and West Limerick, she has contributed to the anthology, Striking A Chord.
AN EASIER PAST
Let us not go backwards
Like the women of Afghanistan
Who lost the freedom
Their grandmothers enjoyed.
Their men are enemies
Captors
Abusers
Disfigurers.
The women in Afghanistan
Oppressed
Told how to dress
While the opponent is armed
With rusty knives
To cut away their beauty, their pleasure;
With shadowed veils
To cover the faces of those wondrous women;
With testosterone
The ultimate WMD.
Unnoticed, this crafty enemy
Crept upon them like a slow death
Only now, we look back and we see
That not long ago, in Afghanistan, women were free.
BUD
Darkness surrounds her, yet
When she is calm she is content to rest.
She lies hidden, hooded, enfolded in beauty.
The softness which protects her
Keeps her safe and sleepy
Until she is ready to blossom
She needs love; that is all.
Love and whispered words
To gently encourage her from her hiding place
To awaken that sensation
Which makes her
The best she can be.
When the bud is ready to show herself
In all her beauty
Hearts race, then stop for a second
The world disappears
And she is in full and fragrant flower.
THE A24 AT WHITSUN
Cars so close, like lovers, steaming,
Every one heading towards the sea
Drumming fingers, overheating,
Tempers flying, a radio crying.
Another screaming “Hold Me”.
PJ Proby making us laugh. “He split his pants”
Although we had no evidence,
Just horror stories from the elders.
We were shrieking with laughter and excitement
At the thought of his bum
On show to the world.
While the grown-ups wished we had never left home.
This Whitsun morn on the A24
We could have been speaking in tongues.
No-one would have known.
https://wordpress.com/read/feeds/5429234
This was sent in to me by one of my readers.
Today we mourn the passing of a beloved old friend, Common Sense, who has been with us for many years. No one knows for sure how old he was, since his birth records were long ago lost in bureaucratic red tape. He will be remembered as having cultivated such valuable lessons as:
– Knowing when to come in out of the rain;
– Why the early bird gets the worm;
– Life isn’t always fair;
– And maybe it was my fault.
Common Sense lived by simple, sound financial policies (don’t spend more than you can earn) and reliable strategies (adults, not children, are in charge).
His health began to deteriorate rapidly when well-intentioned but overbearing regulations were set in place. Reports of a 6-year-old boy charged with sexual harassment for kissing a classmate; teens suspended from school for using mouthwash after lunch; and a teacher fired for reprimanding an unruly student, only worsened his condition.
Common Sense lost ground when parents attacked teachers for doing the job that they themselves had failed to do in disciplining their unruly children.
It declined even further when schools were required to get parental consent to administer sun lotion or an aspirin to a student; but could not inform parents when a student became pregnant and wanted to have an abortion.
Common Sense lost the will to live as the churches became businesses; and criminals received better treatment than their victims.
Common Sense took a beating when you couldn’t defend yourself from a burglar in your own home and the burglar could sue you for assault.
Common Sense finally gave up the will to live, after a woman failed to realize that a steaming cup of coffee was hot. She spilled a little in her lap, and was promptly awarded a huge settlement.
Common Sense was preceded in death,
-by his parents, Truth and Trust,
-by his wife, Discretion,
-by his daughter, Responsibility,
-and by his son, Reason.
He is survived by his 5 stepbrothers;
– I Know My Rights
– I Want It Now
– Someone Else Is To Blame
– I’m A Victim
– Pay me for Doing Nothing
Not many attended his funeral because so few realized he was gone.
If you still remember him, pass this on. If not, join the majority and do nothing.
Amen!
Thomas H. Brymer II
POETRY
Listowel Castle by Dan Keane
Grey edifice, piercing the dark
With your bare bony limbs
And shielding from searing sun
The grassy mounds.
What other use art thou?
Silent, grey, dim
Amid such sweet surrounds;
Or art thou not aware of living so long
And yet I hear thy walls
Throw back the song
Of river sweet
And every other voice
In which your playful echoes
Just rejoice.
What hands raised
Your grey skeleton so tall
Hast thou known the tramp of men
And buglers’ call?
They tell me chieftains dwelt
And great men here kept guard.
That thou hast known the strum of harp
And song of bard.
I called upon your storied walls
To pour their knowledge out
And all your echoes answered back
Was, “Out”.
And out I went and out again
And do not know
The mystery of your grey wall
And so,
I brood, a child again
And in my heart
The love and mystery remain.
THE GIDYA TREE.
(Acacia Homoeophylla.)
Where roll the great plains to the west,
Near a homestead pleasant to see,
With far-stretching limbs and spreading crest,
Grows a grand old acacia tree.
Nor winter winds, nor sun's fierce heat
Can change its staunch solidity,
For many a century's storms have beat
On this great, grey, gidya tree.
At early morn, their joyous lay,
The butcher-birds sing in melody,
And merrily pass the hours away,
All under the gidya tree.
The grey doves in its shade rejoice.
From eyes of kites they're free,
And call their loves in plaintive voice,
From under the gidya tree.
In scarlet bloom, the mistletoe swings,
From its branches droopingly;
And all around its odour flings,
Right under the gidya tree.
The milk-plant twines its length along,
As if 'twould hidden be;
Creeping its way 'mong the leaves so strong,
Of this ancient gidya tree.
The panting cattle gladly come.
And sheltered fain would be,
From burning heat of noonday sun,
Camped under the gidya tree.
Like the shade from a great rock cast
O'er the land so soothing lay;
All Nature seeks some rest at last,
Far under the gidya tree.
When life is o'er and troubles past,
How sweet that rest will be,
For weary ones who come at last,
Safe under the gidya tree.
"Nunc dimittis," my work is done,
And soon from care set free;
That peace I wish will soon be won,
Deep under the gidya tree.
From Mickey MacConnell
Boys of the Byline Brigade
It’s four in the morning, the paper’s in bed
The Newsroom’s as quiet as the tomb.
When the old man gets up from his seat by the door
Another day’s nightwork has been done.
Like a greying old shadow he peels on his coat
And he knocks off the lights on his floor
And he melts with the shadows into the grey dawn
Just before the presses start to roar.
Chorus
And the glass in his hand feeds the pain in his eyes
Alone, insecure and afraid
A victim of booze, overwork and old age
And the boys of the byline brigade.
That morning the byline brigade will arrive
Those bright keen young men -about -town.
And they’ll shout into three different phones at one time
And get the whole damn thing written down.
When the country edition’s being flogged on the street
And the City’s being checked on the stone,
That old man who once interviewed princes and kings
is quietly drinking alone.
And he stands at the bar and remembers the time
When he was as good as the best.
In those days when his shorthand was clear-cut and plain
and he’d work twenty hours without rest.
In the days when his copy ran just as it stood
lead stories and bylines galore.
The first with the angles, the first to the phone
the first with his foot in the door.
If he'd only licked more arses and got drunk with the boss
God knows where he might have been today.
Not manning the doomwatch at the dead of the night
and curing the shakes half the day.
He had died on the day that his shorthand broke down
From too long pushing pen, soul and mind.
And they’ll bury his body along with his pride
In six lonely lines on page nine.
From a Mennonite song book called “Sing the Journey.”
This is the Welcome Table of our Redeemer,
and you are invited
Make no excuses, saying you cannot attend;
simply come, for around this table you will find your family.
Come not because you have to,
but because you need to.
Come not to prove you are saved,
but to seek the courage to follow wherever Christ leads.
Come not to speak but to listen,
not to hear what’s expected, but to be open to the ways the Spirit moves among you.
So be joyful, not somber, for this is the feast of the reign of God,
where the broken are molded into a Beloved Community,
and where the celebration over evil’s defeat has already begun.
WOMEN
http://ellipticalmovements.wordpress.com/2013/05/05/mary-devenport-oneill-forgotten-irish-woman-poet/
Mary Morton was born in Limerick but spent her adult life in Belfast where she worked as a teacher and with Belfast PEN. She published widely in magazines and produced three collections, Dawn and Afterglow (1939); Masque in Maytime (1948); Sung to the Spinning Wheel (1952). Spindle and Shuttle shared the Northern Ireland poetry award for the Festival of Britain in 1951 and was published by HM Stationery Office in that year. The full text of the poem is available in A.A. Kelly’s Pillars of the House: An Anthology of Irish Women’s Poetry.
from Spindle and Shuttle
Last night I darned a damask tablecloth.
Back and forth
Warp and woof:
The cloth was old; a hundred years and more
Had come and gone since, master of his loom,
Some skilful weaver set the hare and hounds
Careering through the woodland of its edge
In incandescent pattern, white on white.
It was my mother’s cloth, her mother’s too
(Some things wear better than their owners do)
And linen lasts; a stuff for shirts and shrouds
Since Egypt’s kings first built their gorgeous tombs
And wrapped their dead in linen, it may be
They held it symbol of a latent hope
Of immortality.
Mary Devenport O’Neill: Irish Woman Poet
Mary Devenport O’Neill is one of a number of forgotten Irish women poets from the early part of the 20th century. She worked with W.B. Yeats on A Vision and her Thursday salon was frequented by many of the key Irish literary and artistic figures of the era. This short poem is from her one book, the 1929 Prometheus and Other Poems. Her work is all out of print and does not appear in many of the numerous anthologies of Irish verse.
THE BELL
It seems to me
I live perpetually
On the cloudy edge of the sound of a bell
For ever listening.
I cannot tell
If it is memory
Of something that rang beautifully
Or if a bell will ring.
July 7 1934 Kerryman
Camogie At Listowel. LISTOWEL V. BLENNERVILLE.
GLORIOUS _ViCTORY FOR LISTOWEL.
There's joy to-night in every heart from Tarbert to Kllflynn,
From Ballyduff to sweet Duagh, from Newtownsandes to Glin,
While bonfires bright blazed through the night by Shannon, Brick and Gale,
To welcome home those champions fine with victory in their trail.
As the golden sun was sinking fast behind the western hill,
The very air reeked with delight, although 'twas calm and still.
The streets with sheer excitement blazed, all woe was turned to weal,
As the clash of seasoned ash was heard roll down the River Feale.
When Blennervllle marched to the line it was a pretty sight,
To see the far-famed pink and green. mixed through the black and white.
With swords across we won the toss and hurling towards the town,
The magpies on Liz Kiely's goal at once came swooping down.
Liz kept her fort to clear the rush to touch she drove the ball,
Where dark-haired Jenny Mulvihill applauded was by all.
But in a wink the green and pink was at the other end,
Where Maggie Foley showed the boys how well she can defend.
But Blennerville came down again more eager than before,
Till Kathleen Wilmott pulled them up and robbed them of a score,
Each time they pressed, she stood the test, in fierce but fair attack.
With lightning-like velocity, she met and drove them back.
And out before this stonewall back her gallant sister stood,
A hurler grand, with brilliant hands, to pass her nothing could.
No stag unloosed, nor hound unleashed, than Baby Joe more fleet,
'Twas her defence that spanned the bridge 'twixt victory and defeat.
At midfield where the battle raged we starred in the pink and green.
With the veteran Julia Mary Stack, the "Kingdom's" hurling queen
Through forests of ash she'd dive and dash, when danger threatened there,
Her line intact she held, in fact, none with her could compare.
The champions broke the line again, they swept along the right,
And from this Ballaclava charge, sure things were looking bright.
They spoiled their chance by fouling here. Bride Foley took the free,
But Kathleen Stack pulled down the ball and filled our hearts with glee.
The pink and green were aggressive seen, and fighting for a score.
Nan Tyndall's posts were threatened now more serious than before,
For Josie Kiely, dashing in was not on pleasure bent,
She fired a shot, a goal she got, then up the green flag went.
The pace was fast, the hurling fine, the strokes were quick and clean,
The Kerins pair along the left were to advantage seen.
For more than once they stopped the rush, backed by the Foleys two,
May Moynihan and Maggie Moore, Peg Connell helped them too.
With change of sides, the champions now were hurling down the hill.
And victory seemed within their grasp. showing extra speed and skill.
Joan Brosnan out-manoeuvred them in some mysterious way.
And beat Liz Kiely for a goal—she gave a fine display.
But nettled by this fluttering flag, the lovely pink and green
Took all before them in a charge and quickly changed the scene.
For through a bunch of shivering ash, brave Maureen Moran tore,
And pulled Nan Tyndall's barrier down, she well deserved the score.
The sands of time were running out, the light was on the wane,
The magpies forced a fifty free, but failed to score again.
Fitzgerald May and Wilmotts two, across the goal were drawn,
And Blennerville's best was beaten by the champions' brain and brawn.
The Wilmotts two, I've still in view, with Julia Mary Stack,
With dash and vim they're out to win, from nothing they'd pull back.
This gallant three, you'll all agree, have never let us down,
They're a credit to the dress they wear and to their native town.
Babe Holly over on the right was doing a lion's share.
Likewise the dark-haired Peg O'Shea, the darling from Kenmare,
Nan Connor, thirsty for a score, a trier to the last,
This trio of sharpshooters their best form more surpassed.
The magpies made a last great dash, they came along the right,
Till May Fitzgerald called a halt, which closed the friendly fight.
The Sullivans true, both tried and true, and grand old Duffy Pat,
When extra steam was turned on, they gave us tit for tat,
But, listen! there's the whistle, now the gruelling hour is o'er.
See a smile on faces here that never smiled before.
Old people bent, with sticks crawled in, to see their idols play.
With fair excitement now going out they threw their sticks away.
Give us your, hands, you gallant band, we'll shake them every one.
from goal to goal, from left to right, all through the field you shone
We'll follow you from field to field, we'll sing; your praise aloud.
Dishonour never soiled your dress of you we're justly proud.