KNOCKANURE
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Poem
“Begin again.
Little moments.
Tending to the flowers.
Cutting the fruit.
Opening the curtains so that the entire sky can greet you.
It’s never easy but, no matter.
Steam from the tea so quiet.
An open book, and door, and arms.
You have time.
Time to create a life that you can stand up straight in. Even though life may beat you down. Hard. Even though things, situations, and people you love may be taken away from you so that your arms can memorize the grace of letting them go. Even then, especially then, begin again.
Remind yourself that nothing really dies, rather, it transforms. Everything and everyone you have ever loved lives in the mysterious memory of your cells. Turning. Healing. Renewing itself. Until one day, a photograph of something or someone very dear, long gone, visits your mind and you bow your head with appreciation.
Meanwhile, take your pain to the sea and your trouble to the mountain.
Leave it there and walk home clean.
When failure knocks and rattles and quakes, let it.
Watch it make a fresh canvas of you.
Failure, that great teacher, is kinder if you thank her as you are getting up off the floor. She knows something that you don’t know: that she is usually the last face you will see before breaking through. Such a little light in the crack of the door.
But today, if you are wading through the waters of loss or confusion: begin again.
Open the avocado.
Draw the bath.
Call your best friend.
Gather the books.
Play your favorite album.
Write.
Create art.
Open your arms. Move your legs. Lovely, little blessings. Whispering to life that you won’t give up. Not ever.”
-Jeannette Encinias
-Art: Bettina Baldassari
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The Way I See It
By Domhnall de Barra
The number of deaths from traffic accidents on our roads is frightening, to say the least. There was a programme on TV last week that discussed the issue in depth and many reasons were put forward including speeding, drink and drug driving, using mobile phones etc. Many commentators put the blame on lack of policing but that is unfair because many of these accidents happen on country byroads in the small hours of the morning and it is totally unrealistic to expect the Gardaí to be everywhere at all times. There is a clamour for more road blocks and speed cameras and I suppose the more visibility the police have the more likely we are to obey the laws. The problem I have with speed vans is that they seem to park in areas where they can make easy money, like just inside the speed limits entering a town or in dual carriageways where a limit of 60 exists but is totally unrealistic. I have never heard of accidents in most of the places in which thy operate so, if they are to be used as a deterrent, they need to be where accidents are most likely to happen. Speeding is definitely one of the biggest problems. Young male drivers, in particular, see no danger when behind the wheel and are likely to be showing off to their friends on bad roads late at night. I believe that driving a car is such an important life skill that it should be taught in secondary school. Everyone should be instructed in the proper way to handle a vehicle that can become a lethal weapon in the wrong hands. I don’t think drunk driving is as big a problem as it used to be because it is now socially frowned upon and most people will not take the chance. There is however the problem of drugs. It is no great secret that Cannabis, Cocaine and other substances have taken over from alcohol as the preferred way of “getting high” by most of the younger generation. Up to lately these were not being detected at road blocks but they are now and hundreds were found to be over the limit at the last bank holiday weekend. There are also prescription drugs that can impair a persons ability to drive so we’ll have to be very careful before we sit behind the wheel. Phones are a real danger. In this day and age people are glued to their screens all day long and have the phone beside them when driving. It is ok to get calls using the bluetooth device but messages are another problem. Taking your eyes of the road for just a split second can cause a vehicle to veer into the path of an oncoming truck or car or to go off the road on the near side. All modern cars have screens on the dashboard that give information to the driver continuously. The problem is the driver has to take eyes off the road to read what is on the screen and that is dangerous. Some modern cars are fitted with technology that will not allow them to stray across the white lane lines but there are no lane lines on a country road which is where most of the accidents happen. Many of these roads were built before the motor car to accommodated horse drawn vehicles and are too narrow for two vehicles, not to mention the acute bends. I had an experience myself, a couple of years ago, of driving in narrow country road above Carrigkerry. I was coming up to a bend when a van came around that bend at speed. The driver braked but the van fish-tailed and I had to swerve left to avoid hitting it. Unfortunately for me I went off the road into a ditch that had a concrete pipe. It drove the front wheel back under the body making a complete write off of my jeep. Meanwhile, the van driver continued on his merry way without stopping to see if I was alright. Nobody was killed so I wrote it off to experience but it just shows how dangerous it is to drive on country roads. The powers that be give us statistics that show fatal accidents are increasing year on year. We don’t want to see that but it is a bit unfair because we are not comparing like with like. When I was growing up there were only a few cars in the parish, now there are three or four outside every house so we have far more vehicles on the roads than we ever had. The population is also increasing so, in the absence of a good public transport network, there will be more cars on the roads and consequently more accidents. I still think speeding is the main culprit. Why are cars capable of doing over 250 Kls an hour when the highest speed allowed in the country is 120 on motorways?. Why do we not have fixed cameras all over the place that will record those who transgress and, in these days of modern technology, why do we not have a device fitted to our cars that will show where and when we have exceeded the speed limits? When I was in England one of the jobs I had was driving heavy goods vehicles and I remember the introduction of the tachograph which recorded our speed at all times. We didn’t like it at first but I am sure it prevented many accidents. This was a long time before modern technology so I am sure it would be quite easy to have an upgrade on the tachograph that would detect all our speeding transgressions. Speed check points are good but they are only efficient for a short time as motorists will warn each other and everyone will slow down. If we knew that our driving was being recorded maybe we would be more likely to obey the rules of the road. One death on the roads is too many so it is up to us all to do our bit and think about the possible consequences of our actions.
https://www.athea.ie/category/news/
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Poetry 2024
20 years ago since the smoking ban came in. ‘Twas the best thing ever. I composed the following poem back then for a bit of fun.
The Pub with no Smoke
Non-smoker: Sure tis delightful to see as I look round the bar
Such clear and crisp features, no smoke here at all
And at last I can breathe no more coughing for me
No more streaming red eyes – oh tis grand to be here.
Smoker: What are you smiling at I’d like to know?
To have my one fag, out the door I must go
No matter tis raining or hailing or snow
There’s no thought for me if I die with the cold.
Non-smoker: Ah tis long enough now that you’ve had your own way
I’m coming here years and I hadn’t no say
With you puffing beside me and my head in a fog
Going home smelling like a mangy old dog!
Smoker: Oh you think you are great with the law on your side
Lording it over me cos you think you are right
But tis more cruel to be putting me out in the cold
Saying its bad for your health to be smoking indoors.
Non-smoker: Well you have the choice – Stay in and don’t smoke
Or go out for your fag – no this is no joke.
I’ll not stop you having all the smoke that you need
But I don’t want to join you. I don’t like that old weed.
Smoker: Ah go way outa my sight. You’re a pain in the neck
What more do you want you old miserable “get”
You now have a bar with “NO smoking allowed”
But can you see that it’s empty. Where is the crowd?
Non-smoker: They’re all at home waiting for the bar to be clean
I’ll guarantee that next week they’ll be flocking in here
When they know that the air will be clear for the night
Then you will see that Micheal Martin was right!
Smoker: Ah there’s nothing so lonesome as a night in Knockdown
Sitting up at the bar with your face in a frown
Oh there’s nothing so lonesome, morbid or drear
Not being able to smoke while I drink up my beer.
by Peg Prendeville
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==================================
The following poem was written by James Dineen, son of
Charles Dineen and Johannah McCarthy and published in
the Stevens Point Journal, a daily newspaper in Stevens
Point, Wisconsin, in March 1909. Donald Dineen,
grandson to James,
kindly submitted this poem.
See Dineen Moloney
SAINT PATRICK'S.
In days of yore on Erin's Shore,
The sprig of green they oft had seen,
A Christian stood alone,
He gently plucked from Erin's sod,
A stranger in a pagan land,
To make the people understand
No friend to call his own.
The mystery of the living God.
Twas Patrick, fair, who landed there,
In Tara's hall he met with all
A youthful saint from Rome,
The Druids with ancient pride,
To plant the cross on hill and plain,
Who listened to the words he
Spoke and in each pagan home.
Of Christ, the crucified.
In fancy now we see him bow,
O, Erin fair, for ages there,
And kneel in silent prayer,
The victory Patrick won,
Yet none but God and Patrick knew
Was handed down on battlefield,
The homage offered there.
from Celtic sire to son.
From shore to shore he traveled o'er,
Though forced to roam, exiles from home,
That famed isle of green,
Though crushed by tyrant's hand,
No hand was raised to mar the saint,
They spread the faith St. Patrick gave,
No bloodstain there was seen.
To many a distant land.
Jas. P. Dineen. Custer, Wis., March 14, 1909
Don Dineen
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he following poem was written by James Dineen, son of
Charles Dineen and Johannah McCarthy and published in
the Stevens Point Journal, a daily newspaper in Stevens
Point, Wisconsin, in March 1909. Donald Dineen,
grandson to James, kindly submitted this poem.
SAINT PATRICK'S.
In days of yore on Erin's Shore,
The sprig of green they oft had seen,
A Christian stood alone,
He gently plucked from Erin's sod,
A stranger in a pagan land,
To make the people understand
No friend to call his own.
The mystery of the living God.
Twas Patrick, fair, who landed there,
In Tara's hall he met with all
A youthful saint from Rome,
The Druids with ancient pride,
To plant the cross on hill and plain,
Who listened to the words he
Spoke and in each pagan home.
Of Christ, the crucified.
In fancy now we see him bow,
O, Erin fair, for ages there,
And kneel in silent prayer,
The victory Patrick won,
Yet none but God and Patrick knew
Was handed down on battlefield,
The homage offered there.
from Celtic sire to son.
From shore to shore he traveled o'er,
Though forced to roam, exiles from home,
That famed isle of green,
Though crushed by tyrant's hand,
No hand was raised to mar the saint,
They spread the faith St. Patrick gave,
No bloodstain there was seen.
To many a distant land.
Jas. P. Dineen. Custer, Wis., March 14, 1909
Don Dineen
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Poetry
My Own Newcastlewest
By Garry McMahon
Of Listowel
To a town in County Limerick where the river Arra flows,
My heart takes flight, each day and night, at work or in repose,
Cross sundering seas, fond memories of the place that I love best,
To roam again each hill and glen, round my own Newcastlewest.
From Barnagh Gap, spread like a map, I see Limerick, cork and Clare,
The Ashford Hills and Phelan’s Mills, the verdant Golden Vale,
I hear the sound of the beagle hound, put fox and hare to test,
And in reverie I can clearly see my own Newcastle West.
And often in the evening when the summer sun went down,
With rod and reel I fished the Deel, a mile outside the town,
Through salty tears and lonely years, my heart ached in my breast,
As I laid my head on a foreign bed, far from Newcastle West.
Once more the clash of hurley ash re-echoes in my ears,
As I recall my comrades all, when I now roll back the years,
On the playing field we ne’er would yield and we always gave of our best,
To bring honour bright to the black and white of our own Newcastle West.
Through Nash’s Land to the old Demesne, where my love she gave sigh,
In the grove of oak her voice it broke, as we kissed our last goodbye,
A stor mo chroi no more I’ll see, you’re going just like the rest,
And you never will return again to your own Newcastle West.
So I’ll say slan to fair Knockane, Gortboy likewise I’ll greet,
To Boherbee and sweet South Quay, Churchtown and Maiden Street,
But God is good and I’ am sure he would grant an exile’s last request,
And let me die ‘neath a limerick sky in my own Newcastle West.
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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.
===========================
by Gabriel Fitzmaurice
Willie Dore was simple,
He smelled. The village fool,
He lived alone among the rats
In a shack below the school.
Two rats’ eyes in his leather face
Stabbed out beneath the layer
Of dirt that blackened him like soot.
He wasn’t born quare,
But some disease the doctor
Couldn’t cure (or name)
Trapped him in his childhood
Hobbling his brain.
Willie Dore was a happy man
Though peevish as a huff –
He fed, he drank, he slept, he rose,
He dreamed – that was enough …
Each sausage scrounged from a travelling van
Was a vital victory;
Each penny coaxed from a passing priest
Was a cunning comedy.
Willie never knew his age –
No matter how you’d pry,
“The one age to Mary Mack”
Was all he could reply.
He lived as he imagined,
Saw manna in the street,
Eighty years of scavenging,
Admitting no defeat.
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K.V. Turley Features
February 5, 2024
LONDON — “The Catholic faith is absolutely steeped in poetry. It runs through Scripture, liturgy and prayer. We might even say that it is God’s chosen way of speaking with us.” The woman speaking is poet and writer Sally Read.
She was visiting London from her Italian home to promote her latest book: 100 Great Catholic Poems, recently published by Word on Fire. I arranged to meet her the day after she gave a talk on the book, organized by The Guild of Our Lady of Ransom, in the crypt of St. Patrick’s Church in the heart of London’s Soho district. Soho is an area known for poetry and artistic pursuits, if less so for the proclamation of the Gospel.
“Catholics often don’t realize that they have a fantastic poetic tradition outside of Scripture, a tradition that is truly great,” Read says. “For 2,000 years, Catholic poets have been describing their relationships with God and the world and God in the world — yielding some of the finest poetry ever written — like Dante’s Divine Comedy and the sonnets of Gerard Manley Hopkins.”
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Prayer Poetry
https://osfphila.org/spiritualityprayer/poetry-for-prayer-volume-i/
===============
Reflect
What the New Year brings to you will depend a great deal on what you bring to the
New Year. The attitude you bring, the determination you have, the goals you set, all
will result in the type of year that you will have. So let your attitude be positive, your determination be strong and your will be done.
I PROMISE MYSELF -
To make all my friends feel that there is something worthwhile in them.
To think well of myself and to proclaim this fact to the world.
To wear a cheerful expression at all times and give a smile to every living creature I meet.
To think only of the best, to work only for the best and to expect only the best.
To be too large for worry, too noble for anger, too strong for fear and too happy to permit the
presence of trouble.
Stop acting as if life is a rehearsal. Live this day as if it were your best.
The past is over and gone. The future is not guaranteed.
LAST WORD: If you are still looking for the one person who can change your life…. Take a look in the mirror
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A Kerry Christmas Childhood
Garry MacMahon
Now I cannot help remembering the happy days gone by,
As Christmastime approaches and the festive season’s nigh.
I wallow in nostalgia when I think of long ago,
And the tide that waits for no man as the years they ebb and flow.
We townies scoured the countryside for holly berries red,
And stripped from tombs green ivy in the graveyard of the dead,
To decorate each picture frame a hanging on the wall,
And fill the house with greenery and brighten winter’s pall,
Putting up the decorations was for us a pleasant chore,
And the crib down from the attic took centre stage once more.
From the box atop the dresser the figures were retrieved,
To be placed upon a bed of straw that blessed Christmas Eve,
For the candles, red crepe paper, round the jamjars filled with sand,
To be placed in every window and provide a light so grand,
To guide the Holy Family who had no room at the inn,
And provide for them a beacon of the fáilte mór within.
The candles were ignited upon the stroke of seven,
The youngest got the privilege to light our way to Heaven,
And the rosary was said as we all got on our knees,
Remembering those who’d gone before and the foreign missionaries.
Ah, we’d all be scrubbed like new pins in the bath before the fire
And, dressed in our pajamas of tall tales we’d never tire,
Of Cuchlainn, Ferdia, The Fianna, Red Branch Knights,
Banshees and Jack o Lanterns, Sam Magee and Northern Lights
And we’d sing the songs of Ireland, of Knockanure and Black and Tans,
And the boys of Barr na Sráide who hunted for the wran.
Mama and Dad they warned us as they gave each good night kiss,
If we didn’t go to sleep at once then Santa we would miss,
And the magic Christmas morning so beloved of girls and boys,
When we woke to find our dreams fulfilled and all our asked for toys,
But Mam was up before us the turkey to prepare,
To peel the spuds and boil the ham to provide the festive fare.
She’d accept with pride the compliments from my father and the rest.
“Of all the birds I’ve cooked,” she’s say, “ I think that this year’s was the best.”
The trifle and plum pudding, oh, the memories never fade
And then we’d wash the whole lot down with Nash’s lemonade.
St. Stephen’s Day brought wrenboys with their loud knock on the door,
To bodhrán beat abd music sweet they danced around the floor’
We, terror stricken children, fled in fear before the batch,
And we screamed at our pursuers as they rattled at the latch.
Like a bicycle whose brakes have failed goes headlong down the hill
Too fast the years have disappeared. Come back they never will.
Our clan is scattered round the world. From home we had to part.
Still we treasure precious memories forever in our heart.
So God be with our parents dear. We remember them with pride,
And the golden days of childhood and the happy Christmastide.
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Poetry
FATHER.
A careful man I want to be –
a little fellow follows me.
I do not dare to go astray,
for fear he’ll go the self-same way.
I cannot once escape his eyes.
Whatever he sees me do he tries.
Like me he says he’s going to be –
that little chap who follows me…
He knows that I am big and fine –
And believes in every word of mine.
The base in me he must not see –
that little chap who follows me…
But after all it’s easier,
that brighter road to climb,
With little hands behind me –
to push me all the time.
And I reckon I’m a better man
than what I used to be…
Because I have this lad at home
who thinks the world of me.
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Patrick Kavanagh Irish Poet
On Raglan Road on an Autumn Day,
I saw her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare
That I may one day rue.
I saw the danger, yet I walked
Along the enchanted way
And I said let grief be a falling leaf
At the dawning of the day.
On Grafton Street in November,
We tripped lightly along the ledge
Of a deep ravine where can be seen
The worth of passions pledged.
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts
And I not making hay,
Well I loved too much; by such by such
Is happiness thrown away.
I gave her the gifts of the mind.
I gave her the secret sign
That's known to the artists who have
known true Gods of sound and stone.
With word and tint I did not stint.
For I gave her poems to say
With her own name there and her dark hair
like clouds over fields of May.
On a quiet street where old ghosts meet,
I see her walking now
away from me, so hurriedly.
My reason must allow,
that i had loved not as I should
a creature made of clay.
When the angel woos the clay, he'll lose
His wings at the dawn of the day.
Patrick Kavanagh Irish Poet who died 56 years ago today. Dec 2023.
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On 14th May 1970, Mickey Doherty died, great fiddle player, storyteller, tinsmith, much loved figure in his native Donegal. 50 years ago today, as far as we know this is the only video footage of Mickey Doherty.
https://www.facebook.com/mainevalleypost
Fiddle Players; https://www.facebook.com/cairdeas.bhfidileiri
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Poetry by Peg Prendeville
Summer Memories
Oh the memories come flooding back and my eyes fill up with tears
At the thoughts of those summer holidays with my cousins through the years.
Tea in bed on Sunday morning – Auntie Mary was so kind,
How I loved my days in Templeathea, they’re forever in my mind.
To replenish the spring water to the well we used to go,
With a bucket on each handlebar so we travelled nice and slow.
We picked blackberries by the gallon as we walked along the way,
Sure we made our own small fortune when we sold them in Athea.
Once a week we took a walk to the Graveyard and Holy Well
To say a prayer for all the souls whom we knew would never tell
Of all the laughs we used to have between the headstones playing hide,
Sure we often broke the silence there, bringing smiles to those who died.
Drawing home the wynds of hay brought the greatest of delight,
That we could scarcely sleep with excitement on that night,
At the thought of all the fun we had with that lovely horse and float
Our legs dangling at the back, as we sang our glad hearts out.
And in the very hot days to the river we would race,
Having begged poor Auntie Mary ‘til she gave in just for peace.
Our clothes off in a jiffy we took no notice of the cold,
As we paddled, splashed and kicked around. ‘Twas worth more than any gold.
In the evenings after milking to the ‘Bridge’ we went along
With a pint of milk for Breege and Jose, God rest them now – they’re gone.
And if there was a sudden downpour, then Uncle Peter hurried down
To make a dam outside their door for fear that they would drown.
In the evenings we gathered round the fire and looked forward to a stroll
From any of the neighbours who might have stories to be told.
They thrashed out the price of turf and hay and gave out about the weather.
We young children listened, eagerly, not caring which nor whether.
When too soon the night was over and it was time for bed,
After a slice of bread and tea the Rosary was said.
We all knelt down to say our prayers and thank God that life was good,
We looked forward to the day ahead and more fun to be had.
But now alas we have grown up and those times are in the past.
We’ve left behind those carefree days, we knew they couldn’t last.
I know that times are better now than when we lived hand to mouth,
But, I feel sorry for my children, as I think that they missed out.
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David Looby 18 Aug 2023
New Ross Standard
A commemorative celebration marking a visit of the great poet Thomas Moore in 1835 will take place at Bannow House, on Saturday, August 26.
A celebration, in words and music, on the 188th anniversary of the triumphal visit of Moore, the ‘Bard of Erin’, to Bannow House, will be based around his own amusing diary of his stay with performances of a dozen of his world renowned ‘Irish Melodies’.
The event will take place in the open air and the stage will be the grand front portico overlooking the Saltee Islands.
In August 1835, Moore, then 56, made a visit to Wexford from his home in England to visit the birthplace of his mother, Anastasia Codd, in Wexford town. He also stayed a few days with a fellow student from Trinity College, Thomas Boyse, a large landowner who was building a new house in Bannow at the time of his visit.
Moore was by then widely celebrated. His 124 ‘Irish Melodies’ were published between 1808 and 1834 and were based on Irish airs, mostly from the harping tradition of the preceding century. These airs Moore lightly adapted, and used as settings for his own lyrics, in English. He referred to them himself as ballads and many had become enormously popular and sung throughout the drawing rooms of Ireland and England at the time of his visit to Bannow.
Moore was met by a huge crowd on the road between Wellingtonbridge and Bannow and transferred to a leaf bedecked cart drawn by two rows of young men, followed by nine young women representing the Greek muses. The celebrations lasted for five days and nights.
The commemorative celebration will take place this August 26 at Bannow House, which was under construction by its owner Thomas Boyse at the time of Moore’s visit.
"The current owners of the house have kindly offered the grand portico of the house overlooking the Saltee Islands, as a stage for the event,” said Ben Barnes.
Moore kept a journal for most of his life and the concert is driven chiefly by extracts from this, read by Nick Dunning in the part of Moore. The journal covering his stay in Bannow is often very amusing (Moore had an eye for a pretty face) and in the course of the narrative, certain melodies of Moore’s are evoked which will be sung variously by soprano Aimee Banks, and baritone David Kennedy. They will be accompanied by Rebecca Warren on piano and her husband James on violin.
Much of Moore’s own life and experiences are reflected in his melodies; his marriage to his beloved Bessy (‘Believe me if all those Endearing Young Charms’) and the premature death of all his five children (‘Tis the last rose of Summer’) and his politics, including his friendship with Robert Emmet (‘Oh Breathe not his Name/She is far from the land’) and his rocky relationship with Daniel O’Connell (‘Oh where is the Slave so Lowly’).
Other favourites, (‘Oft in the Stilly night, The Harp that once through Tara’s Halls’) will feature.
The performance will be directed by Heather Hadrill.
This is a project of the Bannow Historical Society and has been devised and arranged by one of their number, with Ian Magahy, who has a keen interest in the history of the area – who has written a published study on the lost town of Bannow.
Tickets are available through the Wexford Arts Centre, https://www.wexfordartscentre.ie/events/. Parking will be available on site and ticket holders can arrive at 3:00 p.m. with the event starting at 4 p.m.
https://www.wexfordartscentre.ie/events/
THOMAS O'DONNELL O'CALLAGHAN was born in 1847, in the town of Kil-
mallock, county Limerick, Ireland, and came to this country in 1866. When
but in his teens he was identified with the Fenian movement in Ireland
and was the Kilmallock correspondent, under the nom de plume "Libertas."
of the Fenian organ, the Dublin Irish People, which was suppressed by
the government. He also wrote some patriotic poetry for the Dublin Irish-
man of those days. Since coming to the United States, Mr. O'Callaghan has
written extensively for the various New York Irish American weeklies and for
the New York dailies, more especially the Daily News, to which he has contri-
buted many of his most characteristic verses. Mr. O'Callaghan is descended
on the mother's side from the celebrated Shawn O'Dhear an Glanna (anglice,
John O'Dwyer of the Glen) known as the Poet Huntsman, who flourished in
Munster in the seventeenth century. His father, Innocent O'Callaghan, was
a celebrated scholar and mathematician of Munster, whose name was familiar
in his day throughout Ireland, and who died in 1868. He is a cousin of the
Irish poet, Doctor Robert Dwyer Joyce.
Karen Pleass’s ‘The Hares at Night’ shows a mother and baby looking at the moon in the darkness of night and carries message that, “Asking for help is a sign of strength” and that “Even in the darkness a light can shine”. She is a Listowel-based textile artist.
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Women made new
https://teresatomeo.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/06/CC-Crystalina-06-28-23.mp3
https://learningseries.ewtn.com/course/womenmadenew
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Poetry
Ireland and Peg's Cottage
ndstoSrpoet7 g2d292190ft2Yemui95t04g6a 4A1g: 69a43Mg0f4s1rye ·
This is the true story of poor Peggy McCarthy, as told by her brother Sean. They were two of a family of ten children born in the little village of Finuge near Listowel, County Kerry. It was a time when the Catholic Church wielded the greatest power in Ireland and its clergy ruled every aspect of daily life. Sean would go on to become one of Ireland's best-known songwriters and pen some of our favourite ballads including 'Step It Out Mary' and 'Shanagolden', but the following song will always be closest to his heart. Here he explains in his own words....
'She was born on the edge of Sandes Bog, in the same house where I first saw the light of day. She was gentle and kind with eyes that would charm a lark off a high tree. At an early age she fell in love, and she loved well but not wisely. She bore her lover a baby but, by the time her son was born, her lover lay asleep in a foreign field, a victim of the war that was supposed to end all wars. It was a time when fatherless children were not treated kindly in this land. Peggy died of shame. The priest in Listowel, may God forgive him, refused to let her body lie in the church overnight but the people of Listowel rallied round and soon put that to rights. They broke the locks off the gates and brought Peggy in and, the next day, they jammed the streets for her funeral. What the priest did was like a sour ball of hate in my heart in the years that followed. I could not forget or forgive. Then one summer`s eve I talked to my old school master in Listowel. He gave me some good advice. I went back to Dublin and wrote 'In Shame, Love, In Shame'.....
They whisper their stories and glance with the eye.
They look over my shoulder when I pass them by.
My father and mother, they treat me the same.
Hear the nightingale crying in shame, love, in shame.
Oh cling to me tight love, take hold of my hand.
The road it is long love, and harsh is the land.
Tis the cross we must carry for having no name.
Hear the nightingale crying in shame, love, in shame.
I had wings on my feet and of love I had dreamed.
The moon and the stars, how friendly they seemed.
The touch of his hand in the soft summer rain.
Hear the nightingale crying in shame, love, in shame.
Oh! Once in the starlight, when he held me close,
Down by the green meadow, where grew the wild rose.
The wind sang of love, oh, how soft it`s refrain!
But the nightingale cries now in shame, love, in shame.
Now hush little darling, we soon will be there.
A blanket of love will surround you with care.
No vile tongues will whisper. You'll never feel pain.
Hear the nightingale crying in shame, love, in shame.
The meek will inherit, I've heard this decree.
And suffer small children to come unto me.
The sins of the father on your head will be lain.
Hear the nightingale crying in shame, love, in shame.
How mute are the birds now, my bonny young boy.
How deep is the river, how silent your cry.
The waters baptise you. We'll both bear a name.
Hear the nightingale sing there`s no shame, there`s no shame.
'Her child did not suffer for want of love, and Peggy will always be loved while there is one of her kin alive. Writing the song took some of the hate away and each day that hate grows less. The story had to be told. Hate should not be allowed to fester. Kerry people take care of their own. They rose like avenging angels to right a wrong and Peggy sleeps peacefully in her lonely place.'
~ Sean McCarthy (1923–1990)
R.I.P. Sean and Peggy McCarthy.
==============================
Mo Ghille Mear (My Gallant Hero) - Choral Scholars of University College Dublin
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From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Tadhg Gaelach Ó Súilleabháin (c. 1715 – 1795), known in English as Timothy O'Sullivan, was a composer of mostly Christian poetry in the Irish language whose Pious Miscellany was reprinted over 40 times in the early 19th century.[1][2]
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tadhg_Gaelach_%C3%93_S%C3%BAilleabh%C3%A1in
https://www.dib.ie/biography/o-suilleabhain-tadhg-gaelach-a6444
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Poetry; “What gentle echoes,/ half-heard sounds/ there are around here.” These lines begin Robert Creeley’s poem “Massachusetts,” which you can read in full below, alongside thirteen other poems from Reveal Digital’s Little Magazines collection. Available on JSTOR, the Little Magazines collection features more than 2,000 issues from more than 150 magazines and includes work by poets from the Beat Generation, the Black Arts Movement, Black Mountain, the Deep Image movement, the New York School,
https://daily.jstor.org/14-poems-from-little-magazines/?utm_term=14%20Poems%20from%20Little%20Magazines&utm_campaign=jstordaily_04202023&utm_content=email&utm_source=Act-On+Software&utm_medium=email
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The Best of Christmas Poetry: A Festive Garland of Verse
What follows is a gift of Christmas verse to lighten the heart and enlighten the mind.
Carlton Alfred Smith (1853-1946), “Christmas Eve”
Carlton Alfred Smith (1853-1946), “Christmas Eve” (photo: Public Domain)
Joseph Pearce Blogs
December 23, 2022
If I were to package together all my favorite Christmas poems, wrapping them up for my friends and placing them under the tree, which would I choose? Having asked myself this question, I set about answering it. What follows is, therefore, my imaginary Christmas gift for my friends; a gift of Christmas verse to lighten the heart and enlighten the mind.
I would begin, appropriately enough, with a little poetic license, allowing myself the liberty to include a couple of winter poems that are not strictly on a Christmas theme, much as we allow ourselves to listen to Jingle Bells and Winter Wonderland during the festive season, neither of which mentions Christmas specifically but both of which are full of the Christmas spirit. I would, therefore, indulge myself with the inclusion of Swinburne’s marvelous “Winter in Northumberland” and Francis Thompson’s “To a Snowflake,” the latter of which begins with a series of questions, addressed to the snowflake, asking who could have created something so beautiful, and ends with the snowflake itself responding that God had shaped it “from curled silver vapour … with his hammer of wind and his grave of frost.”
Moving into the fullness of the season, I would have to include some of the anonymous verse, written in the Middle Ages, praising the Virgin for her role in the Nativity, such as “The Rose that Bore Jesu” and “Of a Rose, a Lovely Rose.” I would also squeeze in the hymn to the Virgin from Dante’s Paradiso, translated by Longfellow as “Thou, Virgin Mother, Daughter of Thy Son.” I would then include some slightly later anonymous verse, probably dating from the late 15th century, such as the “Carol” which sings of a maiden who is “matchless” to whom her Son descends as dewfall, and which ends with the matchless concluding stanza:
Mother and maiden
Was never none but she;
Well may such a lady,
God’s mother be.
Another late 15th-century verse which would find itself packaged for Christmas would be the wonderful “Cradle Song,” a hymn or lullaby to the Christ Child which asks “young Jesus sweet” to prepare his cradle in the poet’s soul: “And I shall rock thee in my heart / And never more from thee depart.” From the same period, I would also find room for William Dunbar’s “On the Nativity of Chris.t”
Moving forward a full century, I would add two poems by the English Jesuit and Martyr, St. Robert Southwell. First, and predictably, would be the well-known and much anthologized “Burning Babe,” to which I would add the lesser-known “A Child My Choice,” which begins thus:
Let folly praise that fancy loves, I praise and love that Child
Whose heart no thought, whose tongue no word, whose hand no deed defiled.
And ends with a prayer to the Christ Child:
Almighty babe, whose tender arms can force all foes to fly,
Correct my faults, protect my life, direct me when I die.
Moving forward still further, this time to the 19th century, I would include Coleridge’s translation from the Latin of “The Virgin’s Cradle-Hymn,” which he’d discovered in a village in Germany, as well as “A Christmas Carol” by Christina Rossetti, better-known as “In the bleak mid-winter.” I would complete my choice of what might be called “Christmas Day” poetry by moving to the late 20th century and the understated tension of R.S. Thomas’ “Hill Christmas” in which weather-beaten Welsh shepherds hear love cry “in their heart’s manger.”
Having arrived at the night divine of our dear Savior’s birth, we are most certainly not finished with our celebration of Christmas. On the contrary, we will now follow “The Journey of the Magi” with T. S. Eliot, pausing on the way to listen to Francis Thompson’s “New Year’s Chimes” (“Tintinnabulous, tuned to ring / A multitudinous-single thing”), until we arrive with Belloc on “Twelfth Night,” a haunting poem, full of a Yeatsian yearning betwixt faith and faerie, which evokes the mystical sense of the exile of life:
The frozen way those people trod
It led toward the Mother of God;
Perhaps if I had travelled with them
I might have come to Bethlehem.
Nor does our journey end with the arrival of the Magi. After basking with them in the epiphanous glow emanating from the Babe in the manger, we continue right through the fullness of the traditional Christmas season until the Presentation of Our Lord, or Candlemas, on Feb. 2. And before we get there, we will pause with Tennyson on St. Agnes’ Eve (Jan. 20), as he lifts his heart to God amidst the snow glistening on the roof of a convent:
Deep on the convent-roof the snows
Are sparkling to the moon:
My breath to heaven like vapour goes:
May my soul follow soon!
The shadows of the convent-towers
Slant down the snowy sward,
Still creeping with the creeping hours
That lead me to the Lord:
Make Thou my spirit pure and clear
As are the frosty skies,
Or this first snowdrop of the year
That in my bosom lies.
And so at last we come to the end of the Christmas Season with the celebration of the Lord’s Presentation. The final gift to be added to my festive garland of verse, which will be packaged with love and placed under the tree, is “Candlemas” by Maurice Baring. It is an absolute favorite of mine, even amidst such an array of favorites, to which I am going to show due deference by allowing it to bring down the curtain on these festive musings:
The town is half awake; the nave, the choir,
Are dark, and all is dim, within, without;
But every chapel fringed with the devout,
Is bright with February flowers of fire.
At Mass, a thousand years ago in Rome,
Thus Priest, thus Server at the altar bowed;
Thus knelt, thus blessed itself the kneeling crowd,
At Dawn, within the secret catacomb.
Thus shall they meet for Mass, until the day
The glory of the world shall pass away.
And beauty far away from human reach,
And power, and wealth beyond all mortal price,
And glory that outsoars all thought, all speech,
Speak in the whispered words of sacrifice.
Joseph Pearce
https://www.ncregister.com/blog/christmas-poetry-a-festive-garland-of-verse?utm_campaign=NCR&utm_medium=email&_hsmi=239346214&_hsenc=p2ANqtz-91bg_pRQnN-yrCT4QdExB3GL-vh8In2Bj-RL49M95dfA3BY-VbmBsvDO-wWODdlNaMtmw0paBIb8JUE62OTWNKNejLXQ&utm_content=239346214&utm_source=hs_email
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New Digs for the Rhodeo Poets
Sep 19, 2022
flash fictionPoetryJay PrimianoRhodeo PoetsGeneral's Crossing Brewery?
We are writing in bold to attract your attention, as a change in venue is afoot.
Jamestown’s Rhodeo Poetry group is moving to “The General’s Crossing Brewery” starting this Thursday, SEPTEMBER 22, and continuing on the fourth Thursday of every month until the planets align for good (that won’t happen, will it?).
According to the group’s founder, Jay Primiano, “the owners of TGCB have graciously agreed to permit us to return indefinitely and open things up to the public.”
Primiano recalls that the last Rhodeo gathering at the Brewery “was on a date in March, 2020 just prior to the Covid lockdown.”
Since then the group has “worked hard (ed.: via Zoom until late May of this year), to create new poetry, remain a force in the arts in this region and develop wonderful lasting relationships despite the hardships of isolation.”
This writer joins Primiano in making an appeal to anyone who wants to read their work or just hang out in Jamestown for an evening.
Says Jay, “We know that you have been scribbling notes on scraps of paper, recording messages on your phones, typing madly at an unsuspecting and battered keyboard these last summer months. All the people you graciously provided summer refuge to during the hottest period in recent memory, have gone home.”
It’s nearly soup season, and time to come together again.
Along with poet and musician Shannon Kennelly, yours truly will host the event. Hope to see you there.
Location: 34 Narragansett Avenue, Jamestown, RI
Time: 6:00-8:00 PM.
http://wcresser.com/2022/09/19/new-digs-for-the-rhodeo-poets/
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Poetry
SONGS OF THE CRONE
Oct 5, 2022
BY MARY KENNELLY
Dance
There, as the waves lick my feet
In the swallowing sand,
on a breeze that kisses and whips,
The voices of those ancient others come.
‘You are woman,
Always beautiful
And unsure
And dangerous
And magnificent.
Come take your place with us
And dance
Around the fire
under a full moon’.
Prayer
Crones, can you teach me to be a tree,
to stand, even if beaten by weather
into holding strange shapes,
to accept the seasons of life
and be satisfied with their passing,
to sink my roots and take what I need,
to survive every sorrow that comes my way,
to be silent and observe without remark
or a needing to take charge,
to be at peace with myself
and the grass and the air
and the small singing birds?
Longings
For the maid: love
consuming love,
and to fly and find my place
Under some better sun.
Then for mother: with you,
To build and to feather a nest
where our young ones would thrive
And a hope that all my mistake
Would at least be my own.
Even now they are there,
Sharper for their silence
And the running grains of sand;
For rest,
For adventure,
A perfect cup of tea,
A few more days to shine,
a garden,
To meet kindness,
To accept,
To endure,
To matter,
wings,
Safe harbour,
Wild abandon.
Strength
Multi-faceted and habitually misunderstood
my magic lies hidden beneath my shawl
where I love and hurt and dream of other lives,
which I pine and yearn for and seek to take and taste.
My strength is not the bright burn of the younger maid,
nor the all-consuming, selfless giving of the mother.
My strength comes from the price that I have paid
and the fact that I did not submit
and I did not surrender.
Embrace
When I am wise and still enough
to stand silent with the silent earth,
Sometimes the wind brings with it
fractured secret stories from long-forgotten crones
telling of their strength in suffering and in still going on.
I catch their perfume in the sweet decay
of rotting leaves drenched in the effacing rain,
Their lives washed or being washed away.
Ever and again, I hear their sister song
echoing my suffering, but still they hum
That I too have wisdom and that I am strong
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mary Kennelly has worked with Writers’ Week, Listowel and the Brendan Kennelly Summer Festival. She participated in the ‘Mindfield: Spoken Word’ section at Electric Picnic.She has written for publications including The Kerryman, The Sunday Independent and The Sunday Tribune. She has read for live audiences, radio, television and podcasts.
Her previous books include; ‘Sunny Spells, Scattered Showers’, Carroll R. & Kennelly M. Glenwood Press, 2004, ‘From the Stones’, Fitzmaurice B. & Kennelly M. Evensong Publications, 2010, ‘Catching Bats Takes Patience’, Kennelly M. Liberties Press, 2015, ‘Splinters’, Fitzmaurice B. & Kennelly M. Evensong Publications, 2017, ‘Into the Grey’, Kennelly M. Evensong Publications, 2022.
Her website is https://marykennelly.com
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…and the winner i………s Martina Dalton.
Here is her poem. (By the way, it was the one I voted for.)
POEM: WEDDING DRESS
Scalloped leaves entrap a sprig of white
Forget-me-not.
Silk-wound stems repeat themselves
like vows, around a missing throat.
Hexagons of net, like they’ve been honed
by microscopic bees.
A circle smudged in pink,
where confetti must have caught.
Trapped forever in the past.
Where the bodice meets the skirt,
a row of tiny beads join hands.
Lace stretched to bursting round a heart.
A row of sixteen satin covered discs,
miss their counterparts, wait eagerly
to slip each lined up loop.
Pronovias of Barcelona, stitched in gold.
Double edged the snow white hem,
stained now, where it hit the floor.
The buttons at the cuff
never needing to be opened,
so small my hands had been.
A satin band now torn,
where I wound it tightly round my wrist
for our first dance.
Held up to the light, the net in pleats
forms ghostly ribs, delicate
against the plain white cotton of my bed.
Like it’s being lifted from a photograph
I hold it by its shoulders.
Fold it from the outside in.
White pencilled squiggles gather messy
on the floor. Each wrinkle of the train,
like tip of tide on sand.
Perfume, catches in my throat.
The overwhelming scent,
of Celebration, Love in white,
Faded rose.
Published – Irish Independent/New Irish Writing – 30th July 2022
===========================
An Horatian Ode upon Cromwell’s Return from Ireland
The forward youth that would appear
Must now forsake his Muses dear,
Nor in the shadows sing
His numbers languishing.
’Tis time to leave the books in dust,
And oil th’ unused armour’s rust,
Removing from the wall
The corslet of the hall.
So restless Cromwell could not cease
In the inglorious arts of peace,
But thorough advent’rous war
Urged his active star.
And like the three-fork’d lightning, first
Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,
Did through his own side
His fiery way divide.
For ’tis all one to courage high,
The emulous or enemy;
And with such to enclose
Is more than to oppose.
Then burning through the air he went,
And palaces and temples rent;
And Cæsar’s head at last
Did through his laurels blast.
’Tis madness to resist or blame
The force of angry Heaven’s flame;
And, if we would speak true,
Much to the man is due,
Who from his private gardens where
He liv’d reserved and austere,
As if his highest plot
To plant the bergamot,
Could by industrious valour climb
To ruin the great work of time,
And cast the kingdom old
Into another mould.
Though justice against fate complain,
And plead the ancient rights in vain;
But those do hold or break
As men are strong or weak.
Nature that hateth emptiness
Allows of penetration less,
And therefore must make room
Where greater spirits come.
What field of all the civil wars
Where his were not the deepest scars?
And Hampton shows what part
He had of wiser art,
Where, twining subtle fears with hope,
He wove a net of such a scope
That Charles himself might chase
To Carisbrooke’s narrow case,
That thence the royal actor borne
The tragic scaffold might adorn,
While round the armed bands
Did clap their bloody hands.
He nothing common did or mean
Upon that memorable scene,
But with his keener eye
The axe’s edge did try;
Nor call’d the gods with vulgar spite
To vindicate his helpless right,
But bowed his comely head
Down as upon a bed.
This was that memorable hour
Which first assur’d the forced pow’r.
So when they did design
The Capitol’s first line,
A bleeding head, where they begun,
Did fright the architects to run;
And yet in that the state
Foresaw its happy fate.
And now the Irish are asham’d
To see themselves in one year tam’d;
So much one man can do
That does both act and know.
They can affirm his praises best,
And have, though overcome, confest
How good he is, how just,
And fit for highest trust;
Nor yet grown stiffer with command,
But still in the republic’s hand;
How fit he is to sway
That can so well obey.
He to the Commons’ feet presents
A kingdom for his first year’s rents;
And, what he may, forbears
His fame, to make it theirs,
And has his sword and spoils ungirt,
To lay them at the public’s skirt.
So when the falcon high
Falls heavy from the sky,
She, having kill’d, no more does search
But on the next green bough to perch,
Where, when he first does lure,
The falc’ner has her sure.
What may not then our isle presume
While victory his crest does plume!
What may not others fear
If thus he crown each year!
A Cæsar he ere long to Gaul,
To Italy an Hannibal,
And to all states not free,
Shall climacteric be.
The Pict no shelter now shall find
Within his parti-colour’d mind;
But from this valour sad
Shrink underneath the plaid,
Happy if in the tufted brake
The English hunter him mistake,
Nor lay his hounds in near
The Caledonian deer.
But thou, the war’s and fortune’s son,
March indefatigably on;
And for the last effect
Still keep thy sword erect;
Besides the force it has to fright
The spirits of the shady night,
The same arts that did gain
A pow’r, must it maintain.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44683/an-horatian-ode-upon-cromwells-return-from-ireland
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By Peg Prendeville
Noah is such a handsome boy
And knacky with a ball
He’s aiming to be famous
As he grows big and tall
Clodagh loves to talk all day
And visit Nan next door
She loves football and swimming
And jumping round the floor.
Lily is a singer
And gets on well at school
She wants to be the best always
So, never break the rules.
Ayda is such a lively lass
And never has a care
She could climb the highest ladder
Or take on the biggest dare.
Lucy is such a pleasant child
And loves to sing and talk
She’s a champion in her wheelchair
And does not need to walk.
Saibh just loves her ponies
And ensures that they are fed
She cleans their stables everyday
And has more beside her bed.
Ríain’s the biggest rogue of all
And loves his Granda Jim
He’d love to be outdoors all day
Working and helping him.
Áine is growing nice and tall
To animals she’s so kind
She loves to play with dogs all day
It seems to calm her mind.
Cleo has a roguish eye
And loves to model clothes
She’s such a lovely singer too
And will partake in shows.
Ógie is the farmer
Happy with his trucks
Working hard outside each day
With his Da he loves to muck.
Harry’s like a hurricane
He never stops to rest
His handsome looks are all he needs
To prove he is the best.
Robyn is a diva
And can charm all the while
She’s Mommy’s little girl
And has such a pretty smile.
Little Ellen is so cute
The image of her Mom
She checks that Granda is ok
Then goes to find some fun.
All these grandchildren are a joy
And Jim and I are blessed
To have them all so near to us
Now we wait to see who’s next!
https://www.athea.ie/category/knockdown-news/
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Old Times
Gerald Griffin
Old times! old times! the gay old times!
When I was young and free,
And heard the merry Easter chimes
Under the sally tree,
My Sunday palm beside me placed,
My cross upon my hand;
A heart a t rest within my breast,
And sunshine on the land!
Old times! old times!
It is not that my fortunes flee,
Nor that my cheek is pale;
I mourn whene'er I think of thee,
My darling native vale!
A wiser head I have, I know,
Than when I loitered there;
But in my wisdom there is woe,
And in my knowledge, care.
Old times! old times!
I've lived to know my share of joy,
To feel my share of pain,
To l e a n that friendship's self can cloy,
To love, and love in vain;
To feel a pang and wear a smile,
To tire of other climes,
To like my own unhappy isle,
And sing the gay old times!
Old times! old times!
And sure the land is nothing changed,
The birds are singing still;
The flowers a r e springing where we ranged,
There's sunshine on the hill;
The sally waving o'er my head
Still sweetly shades my frame,
But ah, those happy days a r e fled,
And I a m not the same!
Old times! old times!
Oh, come again, ye merry times!
Sweet, sunny, fresh, and calm;
And let me hear those Easter chimes,
And wear my Sunday palm.
If I could cry away mine eyes,
My tears would flow in vain;
If I could waste my heart in sighs,
They'll never come again!
Old times! old times!
GERALD GRIFFIN
https://localstudies.limerick.ie/Library/LocalStudies/BooksJournals/TheOldLimerickJournal/
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Mother
Edna St. Vincent Millay’s Beautiful Letter of Affection and Appreciation to Her Mother
“Almost all people love their mothers, but I have never met anybody in my life, I think, who loved his mother as much as I love you.”
By Maria Popova
Edna St. Vincent Millay (February 22, 1892–October 19, 1950) is one of the most extraordinary creative icons of the twentieth century — beloved poet, eloquent lover of music, delinquent schoolgirl, writer of passionate love letters and playfully lewd self-portraits, literary gateway drug for children, the recipient of the 1923 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, only the third woman to win the award. But one of Millay’s most exceptional qualities is the rare relationship she shared with her mother, Cora B. Millay, whom Edna loved profoundly enough to make any daughter jealous of this deep bond and whom she frequently addressed with terms borrowed from the vocabulary of romance — “dear,” “dearest,” “sweetheart,” and even “my Best Beloved” — to imbue this great platonic union with the intensity, if not the nature, of romantic passion.
In a letter from June 15, 1921, found in the altogether wonderful The Letters of Edna St. Vincent Millay (public library), 29-year-old Edna — who customarily signed her letters to her loved ones as “Vincent,” an oft-discussed preference in the context of her open bisexuality — writes to her mother and two sisters from Paris:
I am always button-holing somebody and saying, “Someday you must meet my mother.” … I do love you very much, my mother.
It is nearly six months since I saw you. A long time. Mother, do you know, almost all people love their mothers, but I have never met anybody in my life, I think, who loved his mother as much as I love you. I don’t believe there ever was anybody who did, quite so much, and quite in so many wonderful ways. I was telling somebody yesterday that the reason I am a poet is entirely because you wanted me to be and intended I should be, even from the very first. You brought me up in the tradition of poetry, and everything I did you encouraged. I can not remember once in my life when you were not interested in what I was working on, or even suggested that I should put it aside for something else. Some parents of children that are “different” have so much to reproach themselves with. But not you, Great Spirit.
I hope you will write me as soon as you get this. If you only knew what it means to me to get letters from any of you three over there. Because no matter how interesting it all is, and how beautiful, and how happy I am, an dhow much work I get done, I am nevertheless away from home — home being somewhere near where you are, mother dear.
If I didn’t keep calling you mother, anybody reading this would think I was writing to my sweetheart. And he would be quite right.
The following month, on July 23, Edna sends another loving letter to Cora:
Dearest Mother, —
You do write the sweetest and most wonderful letters! They are so lovely that very often I read parts of them aloud to people, just as literature. It was delicious what you told me about the turtle, — you are so gentle and kind to everything, dear — and all the things you write about birds and animals I love. Thanks for the little flower. I never saw one like it, either.
And, sweetheart, how would you like, in place of the birthday present I did not send you from the 10th of June, sometime in the late fall or winter, depending on how much money I can make between now and then, to come over here, and play around with your eldest daughter a while in Europe? We could go to Italy and Switzerland and to England and Scotland, and, if there are not too many riots and street fights there at the time, — mavourneen, we would go to Ireland! … and then, my Best Beloved, you and I will just have ourselves a little honey-moon.
With all the love of my heart,
Vincent
Millay adds a charmingly self-aware postscript:
P.S. — Do you suppose, when you & I are dead, dear, they will publish the Love Letters of Edna St. Vincent Millay & her Mother?
As an aside, as fantastic as The Letters of Edna St. Vincent Millay may be in its entirety, it is hard to decide what’s more tragic — that this magnificent volume is long out of print, or that it bears one of the most hideous covers ever designed, belying the spirit of such a beautiful woman and beautiful poet to a degree bordering on travesty. Please oh please, dear overlords of publishing, won’t you consider reprinting this gem and having someone like Chip Kidd, Jessica Hische, or Coralie Bickford-Smith design a fittingly glorious cover?
https://www.themarginalian.org/2013/08/02/edna-st-vincent-millay-love-letter-mother/
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The Irish post image evokes feelings of nostalgia for an Ireland long gone.
Sometimes when one emigrates and sees Ireland in the rearview mirror it doesn’t look all that bad. Then the emigrant comes home and is reminded of how bad it was.
Stephen Twohig wrote this poem on a return visit to the farmyard home of his ancestors.
Farmyards. (1997)
Black plastic covering
fermenting fodder
The pot pourries of Eire
mixed with fuchsia
farm fumes and woodbine.
Discarded tyres
lying worn
catching rings
of time rusted water.
These the scattered
daily cycles
Holding down
the year to come.
Haggard
On the back of a ditch
a rusting wheel,
black jalopy of a bike
with a little dynamo
that once flickered a faint light
on some dark passages.
Broken glass
blue delph from a table
things thrown out long ago.
Eyeless car
dismantled mower
left one time not knowing
it would be your last.
Each haggard a wealth of history
thrown out as leaves from
the back door.
Look behind your own and leaf
through the pages
piece together the future
of what was left behind.
Listowel Connection July 2022
-----------------------------------------
Notes for a Poem
The following is a blog post from a photographer poet called Nigel Borrington from 2014
One day last summer while I was walking along the beach at Ballybunion, County Kerry, I was trying to think of words that gave a sense of this place , so I jotted down the following word list for a poem, but I feel it’s a poem as it is.
Ballybunion beach
cool air, sound of sea birds, fresh breeze,
people walking, dogs running, cold swimmers, children shouting,
Waves rolling, people eating, chatting, talking, cliffs casting shadows,
Old castle walls dominating, caves temping you to explore,
Posters offering family photographs, lunch time meals and places to shop,
Restful moments , capturing views,
Old people pottering, memories of traditions past,
Time dragging to a stop, mind slowing,
Families gathering, men managing, car doors shutting, keys locking, after parking,
deep breaths taken, locations chosen, bags unpacked,
People now sitting, grannies talking, best instructions, suggestions given,
Steps taken, shoes in hand,
Temperature falling, evening calling, holiday homes inviting,
Beach clearing, winds rising, cold setting in,
Sea birds return, dogs last walk of the day
Night fisher man setting lines, day over
Peace and nature returning, tide rising,
On Ballybunion beach.
Poetry
========================
============================
Poetry
Close to home, though. My great great grandfather wrote a poem that begins with this stanza:
Pale moon, which from the Eastern sky
Shines serenely bright o’er Shannon’s wave
Hast thou not shone on Lisloghten’s tower
Where sleep my grandsire’s kindred brave?
From Russ in USA
-----------------------------------
POETRY
Irish People 4 Feb 1989.
https://indianamemory.contentdm.oclc.org/digital/collection/IP/id/23584/rec/8
MARY OF THE NATION ELLEN MARY PATRICK DOWLING, the first and most celebrated of the poets who modelled the style of their poetry on that of Thomas Davis and contributed to the Nation under the pseudonym, Mary, was born in Cork in March 1828. In the spring of 1845, at the age of seventeen, she began reading the Nation, the newspaper of the Young Irelanders, and immediately came under the spell of the new ideals which the paper was preaching. It was in the pages of the Nation that she first read the poetry of Davis, which had a profound effect on her. She found his writings so simple, natural and patriotic that she resolved to submit one of her poems to the paper. Her first poem Forget our Wrongs? was received by Charles Gavan Duffy, editor of the Nation, who later recalled the impression it made on him. "Her first contribution came in a scrawl such as boys write in their teens, and girls only penned to be seen by their writing master — crooked, blurred and totally without punctuation. I would probably have looked no further, if experience had not taught me to distrust appearances in such cases. When it was deciphered, I found a natural and touching little poem enclosed in a note so spontaneous and unstudied that to read it was like listening to the carol of a lark." FIRST OF MANY This poem, the first of many, was published in the Nation, on May 10th 1845. A long correspondence followed between herself and Duffy who encouraged her to continue to write and sent her Davis' Essays and The Ballad Poetry of Ireland. She continued to write for the Nation until 1848, contributing over forty poems and songs during these years. Initially she signed her poems with the initials EMPD, but believing that these letters "looked very official as a signature," she adopted the pseudonym, Mary which became Mary of the Nation. Mary had thrown herself into the Young Ireland movement, with its patriotic ideals, and when the leaders were arrested and transported following the collapse of the 1848 Rising, she assisted many of the men on the run. During 1848 she also contributed poerty to John Mitchel's paper, the United Irishman. Later that year she joined a religious order, the Redemption congregation, and became Sister Mary Alphonsus. Her health deteriorat ed during the following decade and in 1880, after the death of her mother, she was appointed to succeed her as matron of the Cork Fever Hospital. She continued, however, to write poetry and contributed regularly to the Fenian paper, the Irish People, during the early 1860s. Aged 41, Mary of the Nation, died on January 27th 1969, 120 years ago this week.
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Rhyming History: The War of Independence & the ballads of atrocity in The Valley of Knockanure
122 views 16 May 2021 “If a man were permitted to make all the ballads, he need not care who should make the laws of a nation”: Andrew Fletcher of Saltoun (1653-1716), Scottish patriot.
In this lecture poet and author Gabriel Fitzmaurice will draw together the threads of traditional lore and balladry with the steel-wire of factual evidence to explain the origins of the ballad ‘The Valley of Knockanure’ by the internationally acclaimed writer, Bryan MacMahon, who had been commissioned to do so in 1946 by Pádraig Ó Ceallacháin, a noteworthy activist in the cause for Irish Independence.
This is the fifth in a series of lectures organised by Kerry Writers' Museum as part of it's North Kerry War of Independence Centenary Commemoration Programme. The lecture is supported by the Department of Tourism, Culture, Art, Gaeltacht, Sport and Media under the Decade of Centenaries Programme.
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Poetry
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Bernard Healy 1y
National Library of Ireland on The Commons
Swordscookie
Would you believe that I think I've found the lyrics to the ballad - or something very close to them on the website of Clare County Library? They were recorded from a folk-singer called Jamesie McCarthy in 1976, the year before he died.
www.clarelibrary.ie/eolas/coclare/songs/cmc/st_brigids_we...
There is naught in my travels that scenery so sweet,
As the hills in her bosom where the bright waters meet,
And the clear running brogue through the graveyard can tell,
Of the grand waters falling near St Brigid’s Well.
When you visit this well if are inclined,
You can see a grand monument of Cornelius O’Brien.
He was a High Sheriff, and an MP,
And he fought to gain Erin her bright liberty.
The hills they’re most beautiful sincerely you’ll see.
Ennistymon, Lahinch and Miltown Malbay.
And the clear Cliffs of Moher, the travelers can tell,
Of the grand sulphur spa, and St Brigid’s Well.
On St Brigid’s Eve just as the night fell,
My mother and I went to St Brigid’s Well.
Many candles did burn, bright lights did shine,
O’er the grave of the dead and the vault of O’Brien.
The graveyard is most beautiful as you walk along,
You can see a grand walk with a door quite strong.
And right through the door a coffin does shine
Where there lies the remains of Cornelius O’Brien.
Lisdoonvarna’s grand scenery is most beautiful to see,
And the hill’s lovely rivers flowing onto the sea.
And the tourists of Ireland, many can tell,
Of the grand sulphur spa and St Brigid’s Well.
In sweet County Clare there is scenery most grand,
Should you travel Kilrush and Kilkee’s lovely strand.
For yet in my travels there is none can compel,
With the beautifully scenery round St Brigid’s Well.
-------------------------------------------------------
Listowel where everyone is a poet.
For a bus to Duagh
A plane to New York
A slow boat to China
Or a train to Cork
Consult Michael Kennelly
I presume the Fountain Café was Roly Chute’s with “the finest chips to pass your lips”.
-------------------------------------------------
A day in the bog
Today I took my grandson to the bog;
the same bog in which my ancestors spent
their lives scraping a living; backs broken
from bending over stooks of heavy turf.
I showed this toddler how to build a “foot”
He watched and then he placed two upon two
“Is it like this?” he asked with eager eyes
And I could almost hear my father say
“Good man you are; you can’t bate the breedin”.
I stood to arch my back against the strain
And smiled as another generation
Left his mark on the soft brown mountain soil.
For in my heart I knew to him ‘twas fun
And for him the drudgery would be gone.
By Peg Prendeville
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Primary School teachers
Would you like to invite a writer or storyteller to your school before the summer break?
If so, financial support is still available through Poetry Ireland's Writers in Schools Scheme, so get your application in soon
More details (https://kerrycoco.us10.list-manage.com/track/click?u=b3755ab5575cb711eac9566f8&id=84b33377c3&e=57e387efec
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CUTTING THE TURF.
A poem by Martin O’Hara
Ah god be with the
Good auld days.
And the times, of long ago.
For to get the peat,
for our household heat,
To the bog, we had to go.
No modern ways, back
In those days.
All in life, you would require.
Was a fine turf spade,
That the blacksmith made.
To secure, yourself a fire.
With Patrick’s day,
out of the way.
It was time, to make a start.
With the bike and dog,
Off to the bog.
And some, by ass and cart.
From countrywide, to
The mountainside.
The journeys, would begin.
To replace once more, the
Old turf store.
For the wintertime again.
Now the cutting of a
Bank of turf,
This job was done, with pride.
The cleaning first, was
Taken off,
And placed down at the side.
The peat exposed for
Cutting now,
Was cut out, with the spade.
And the sods of turf
Upon the bank,
In rows, were neatly laid.
With the turf now dry,
As time went by.
The footing, would begin.
From countrywide, to
The mountainside.
The people came again.
With pains, and aches,
And many breaks.
We stood them, row by row.
And to season then, they
Would begin.
Where the mountain breezes
Blow.
In harvest time, with
Weather fine,
Once more, we would return.
The turf by now, in perfect shape.
Was good enough to burn.
With the ass and cart, we
Made a start.
To take them to the road.
And a stack did rise,
Before our eyes.
Growing bigger, with each load.
Now to take them home,
For wintertime.
To the bog, we came
Once more.
With a fine big stack, built
Out the back.
We renewed, our winter store.
That was our way, and
Still today.
This tradition, carries on,
but In time they say.
It will pass away, and
Forever will be gone.
No bog, no more, for
The winter store.
Only memories, that
Live on.
Of our working ways, back
In the days.
That are now, long past and gone.
Martin O’Hara 3 /3/2020. ©
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POETRY and art classes for children aged five to twelve years will be held in the Thatched House at the cross Finuge, during the month of April to mark Poetry Day Ireland which takes place on April 28th, contact 086 8883217.
POETRY: Two recent collections of poems published by Matt Mooney, 'Steering by the Stars' (Revival Press) and 'Éalú' (Coiscéim) were launched by Gabriel Fitzmaurice in St. John's Listowel on Saturday April 2nd 2022. 50% of book sales on the day go to Ukraine.
https://www.mattmooneypoetry.com/news
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New York NY Irish American Advocate 1911 - 0817.pdf
9 Dec 1911
NEWTOWNSANDES SOCIAL CLUB
Ball Saturday, Dec. 1—To Be Held at Gannon's Hall, Sixty-fifth Street and Third Avenue.
While strolling round old Gotham town
On the sixteenth night, you know,
Don't forget there is one famed spot
Where frolic reigns galore.
With the charming boys from Newtown Side,
Where flows the Anamoy,
"And sweet Gale bridge, Kilmorna fair,
Will grace the ball that night.
Ah, me, Gurtdromosilihy, with blue-eyed maidens rare,
And old Glin road of long ago,
Will send its colleens there,
And Listowel maids will greet you there,
With brothers one and all,
To lend one other charm
To that great Newtownsandes ball.
And captivating Rosaleen,
Who hails from loved Duagh,
Is wondering why those Kerry boys
So soon got up a ball.
We all might guess the reason,
For leap year it is nigh,
And Rosaleen, just coaxed to life.
Some Kerry boys who died.
Well, the boys from Ballylongford
and from that to Tarbert Town,
All around to Glenalappa,
And Dereen of such renown,
in true Kerry style will greet you.
Cupid is the guest for all,
And one night of mirth and gladness
At the Newtown Social ball.
MARGARET ROCHE.
https://fultonhistory.com/Fulton.html
==================================
Bardic Festival 2022
The Ballydonoghue Bardic Festival seeks to honour the memory of Pádraig Liath Ó Conchubhair, who was born in Lisselton in 1745 and died around 1820. He was a Hedge Schoolmaster, Poet and renowned Academic who established The Lisselton Bardic Court, known as ‘Cúirt na Súagh’, The Court of the Wise.
A Brief History of the Ballydonoghue Bard
There are lots of famous people from Lisselton, writers, footballers, ambassadors, soldiers, teachers, priests, nuns and many others. In this last group are the poets. It’s not often we hear about the poets from this area but they’re here now, and at one time Lisselton was famed for the standard of its poetry and of the schools of poetry around here. At that time there was great respect for poets and poetry, for alongside of poetry, they were well versed in literature, science and Latin.
Pádraig Liath Ó Conchubhair was born in 1745 and died around 1820. He was married to Eibhlín Ní hArtnain. Pádraig was highly intelligent and well-read, an outstandingly skilled teacher and leader of a group of master teachers of similar skills and disposition. He was also a native Irish speaker.
Pádraig instituted an annual Court for poets in Lisselton. Famous people from far and near attended these assemblies, people like Micheál Óg Ó Longáin. The Court was known as ‘Cúirt na Súagh’, The Court of the Wise. In 1803, the title Príomh-Ghiúistís, Cumann na mBard, (Chief Magistrate, Bardic Association) was bestowed on Pádraig Liath Ó Conchubhair of Cúirt na Súagh in Lisselton. A great honour indeed!
When you think about people like this man and the history Lisselton has in poetry, isn’t it a pity we don’t have a statue in his memory and as an influence on young people today. I use the term ‘influence’ because specialists in this field assure us that Pádraig and the schools he founded had a huge influence on the famous writers that have come out of North Kerry over the years. As I’ve said, Pádraig was a man of learning who used his native language in his poetry and in educating the people.
What then brought that era to an end in Lisselton, you ask? The introduction of The National School System in 1833 is probably one answer. The Great Famine of 1845 to 1849 contributed also.
But courage springs eternal in Kerry and in the years that followed, poets began to write again, in no small way due to the seed that was planted by Pádraig two hundred years ago, the same seed that still flourishes in Lisselton today.
https://ballydbardfest.com/
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Reflection
The most important thing about each of us
is the capacity for goodness.
We can be a source of light.
We have hands that can care,
eyes that can see,
ears that can hear,
tongues that can speak,
feet that can walk
and above all hearts that can love.
Unfortunately, through laziness, selfishness
and cowardice, our light can be dimmed,
so that we become shadows of the people we could be.
Lord, help us to believe in our own goodness
and let the light of that goodness shine.
On seeing this light others find their way
and you will be glorified.
---------------------------------------------------
CNA Staff
By CNA Staff
Ravenna, Italy, Nov 11, 2021 / 04:20 am
The poet Dante famously traveled through Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise in his masterpiece the “Divine Comedy.” Now, Catholics have a chance to follow in his footsteps — his earthly ones, that is.
Dante’s Walk is a 235-mile route that takes pilgrims from the Byzantine splendor of the city of Ravenna, northern Italy, to the Renaissance magnificence of Florence — and back again.
The pilgrim path’s 20 stages are set out in detail in a new Italian guidebook, written by Marcello Bezzi, Silvia Rossetti, and Massimiliano Venturelli, coinciding with the 700th anniversary of Dante’s death.
“Ravenna and Florence are, in fact, the two symbolic cities of Dante, of his youth, his formation, his political life, and his death,” Venturelli told ACI Stampa, CNA’s Italian-language news partner.
=================================
Subject: Is ‘God Save The Queen’ based on an 18th century Irish air? Concubhar O Liathain --- The Irish Independent, 4 November 2021.
Is ‘God Save The Queen’ actually based on an 18th century Irish air?
Recent RTÉ ‘Nationwide’ documentary on Seán ó Riada has rekindled interest in ‘Mise Éire’ composer - son.
THE intriguing question whether Britain’s national anthem, God Save The Queen, is actually based on an Irish tune from the 17th century was among the many fascinating insights offered at a symposium organised as part of the annual Oireachtas na Gaeilge festival, part of which was held in the Músraí Gaeltacht at the weekend.
This was a theory held by the composer of ‘Mise Éire’ Seán Ó Riada, his son Peadar told the Oireachtas na Gaeilge symposium in the Mills Inn Museum as part of a series of events aimed at honouring the composer on the fiftieth anniversary of his death in 1971.
Speaking at the event, Peadar recalled a time when his father was trying to establish himself as a European composer by living in Paris where he eked out a living as a jazz pianist.
“I remember my mother telling me that he had composed a number of sonatines for Radio Paris but that this station appeared to vanish and all trace was lost of the compositions.
“I always maintained that this station did exist and that sonatines were out there.
“Fifteen years ago my cousin Luke Verling went to Paris and searched for the station and found that such a station as Rea was actually there, that it had been taken over by another company and he searched and searched and he found the tapes.”
Peadar told the audience that he believes he has a good memory and offered the experience with the sonatines as a ‘kind of proof’.
He spoke of the time nine years later when the family were living in Cúil Aodha and the Second Vatican Council had taken place.
“Seán had a number of friends in Maynooth University, the Professor of History, Fr. Tomás Ó Fiaich (later Cardinal Ó Fiaich) and the Professor of Irish, Fr. Pádraig Ó Fiannachta, who were classmates of the local curate in Baile Mhúirne, Fr. Donncha Ó Conchúir.
“They would send him, Fr. Ó Conchúir, translations of the Mass to Irish on long yellow pages and the priest and Seán would spend hours poring over these translations as Seán was an ardent classical scholar and loved ancient Greek and Latin.”
He said that it was important to realise that the ancient Greek texts provided a far more accurate version of the Gospels and other spiritual texts and, for that reason, the Irish version of the Mass was probably the more accurate.
He also recalled the first time the Ó Riada Mass was heard in public, it was in Maynooth University in 1967.
“There was a young lad with the choir, Diarmuid Ó Buachalla, and he was actually asleep on top of the organ in the church.
“I remember the church being full to the brim with student priests.
“When the Mass was over, the students threw their leaflets in the air and it was a wonderful experience altogether.”
He also recalls Tomás Ó Fiaich dancing out of the sacristy afterwards with a bottle of whiskey to celebrate the momentous event of a Mass in Irish being celebrated in Maynooth.
Whereas a dominant narrative of the later documentaries about Seán Ó Riada and the time he spent in Cúil Aodha was a narrative that the composer had a ‘creative block’ and was depressed and drinking, the picture presented by Peadar at the symposium was of a driven man who was busier than ever.
During the ten years or so of Ceoltóíirí Chualann 1959 to 1970, he had made around 700 different arragnements of Irish tunes and songs, for instance, as well as at least two Mases and many other works.
He said that Seán believed that all Irish traditional airs flowed from twelve different tunes with few exceptions.
“Ever air we have in the country is related to one of those.
“One of the exceptions he said, while speaking on his Radio Éireann programme Our Musical Heritate was ‘Cath Chéim an Fhia,” said Peadar.
“Take for example, the English national anthem, it’s part of an old Irish tune from 300 years ago.”
According to Peadar, the Dublin based elite didn’t take this into account when assessing Seán and their view of the composer was hat he had abandoned Dublin and classical music rather than he had devoted himself to work more in tune with what the people wanted to hear.
A documentary, the Blue Note by Seán Ó Mórdha was the first documentary after his death and set the tone which most of the others followed.
“Remarkably no body from the family was interviewed for that documentary,” Peadar told The Corkman.
“There’s been a huge upsurge in interest in Seán since the RTÉ Nationwide documentary - it has really rekindled interest in his work.”
Seán Ó Sé, who was the singer with Ceoltóirí Chualann, spoke about his first encounter with Seán Ó Riada and how he had auditioned to be part of Ceoltóirí Chualann at the composer’s then home in Galloping Green in Dublin.
“I remember afterwards going to a studio on Stephen’s Green to make a recording of An Poc Ar Buile and a few other songs.
“There was a piano there and, to make it sound more like a traditional instrument, we put thumbtacks into the hammers.”
Also speaking at the event was Dr. John O’Keeffe, the Sacred Music Director of Maynooth and director of the choir which sang at the Phoenix Park Mass for Pope Francis in 2018, and he described the work of Seán Ó Riada as an immense contribution as he recounted how a parish in south Kerry had expressed their gratitude to a departing parish priest who had not alone spearheaded the building of a new church but had also taught them how to sing the ‘Ár nAthair/Our Father’ as composed by Seán Ó Riada.
“They described it as a new way to pray,” he said.
“It was an immense feat of composition, possibly more significant than the work he did with Ceoltóirí Chualainn because he drew fresh water from the well of tradition.
“The Masses composed by Seán Ó Riada are a touch stone for other composers who are following down that path.”
Dr. O’Keeffe paid tribute to Peadar’s own contribution in terms of compositions to ecclesiastical music.
“Peadar has spent half a century ploughing that furrow and his work deserves another day to discuss its wealth and to assess its implications.
“It’s a continuation and development which is organic of the liturgy according to Irish tradition which he has provided,” he said, pointing for instance to the Mass for St John of the Cross Peadar composed.
The full recording of the symposium is available on the Oireachtas na Gaeilge Facebook page.along with recordings of the Ó Riada Mass celebrated in the church in Cúil Aodha on Sunday and a concert in the same venue featuring several winners of Corn Uí Riada which took place on Saturday night.
=========================================================
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Remembering Michael Hartnett (1941 – 1999) on the 80th Anniversary of his Birth
Poet Michael Hartnett would have been 80 years old on September 18th this year.
He was born in Croom, Co. Limerick in 1941. In fact, he was a young 58 when he died in 1999.
By Peter Browne
Many people who knew him and admired his work felt the loss deeply and his creativity lives on richly after him.
An old cassette tape which I came across by chance in a cardboard box at home during lockdown brought back particular memories of just one brief period in which I could say I knew him.
This tape contained about 40 minutes of disjointed, poor-quality bits and pieces recordings from a 1985 musical and literary trip to Scotland which we both were on, and it brought back strong and fond thoughts of him even for such a short acquaintance when we were fellow performers touring the Highlands and Western Isles.
The occasion was the annual Turas na bhFilí which was a week-long tour of nightly performances in Gaelic-speaking Scotland organised by Comhdháil Náisiúnta na Gaeilge. It was a two-way annual process and each year there were return visits to Ireland by a similar group of Scottish writers and artists.
This particular year the Irish travelling group comprised two poets, Áine Ní Ghlinn and Michael Hartnett, a fine singer Cliona Ní Fhlannagáín and myself as uilleann piper.
Also travelling as leader, organiser and fear a’tí was Colonel Eoghan Ó Néill, a distinguished Army officer who was by this time Director of An Chomhdháil.
There was a minibus driver whose name is long gone from me and we were a happy group on the road for that week. Sadly, as well as Michael Hartnett, Colonel Ó Néill and Cliona have also left us.
For the fairly obvious reason – if there weren’t separate B & B bedrooms on offer – Michael and myself were usually put sharing a room together and we had good conversations – usually on everyday life or the incidental happenings of the tour.
I do recall that he was enthusiastic about folklore and traditions in his own area of West Limerick like dancing and the wrenboys and he also mentioned his respect for Seán Ó Riada.
A printed programme had been prepared in advance of the tour and distributed to the audience at each night’s performance. It contained explanations, translations etc… meaning that the material, including the poetry, would be the same each night.
I used to look forward at each performance to hearing the same poems, the same songs – they grew on me.
Cliona sang Úna Bhán, Dónal Óg, Bean Pháidín. Áine had a beautiful poem about a young boy who was lost to cystic fibrosis and of Michael’s poems, I remember two – one for his daughter “Dán do Lara” with the line “…even the bees in the field think you are a flower” and another especially sad, moving one in which he addressed his father, trying to persuade him not to die but to remain on this earth.
I can clearly remember the soft richness of his words and speaking vioce. I used to play ‘Amhrán na Leabhar’ on the pipes nightly out of deference to the literary nature of the occasion.
Michael’s skills and agility in his use of words meant that his humour and wit were a bright feature during the trip – prompted by random events along the way.
When we flew out from Dublin, we had an excellent welcoming night in Glasgow and the following morning went to the airport to fly to Stornaway. And there, as we waited for the flight, Michael bought a bottle of Scotch whisky with the bracing brand name of ‘Sheep Dip.’
This unusual drink became something of a recurring conversational theme for the remainder of the tour. He seemed to use the same mug all week for drinking it. I partook a couple of times as well and it tasted ok – I notice that it’s still for sale on the market.
Later that same first day of the tour when we were travelling in the minibus on the dual island of Lewis and Harris, there was some incident with the minibus and a loose goat which I just can’t recall, and then we were brought to an interpretive centre and souvenir shop with a large selection of teddy bears on sale – they occupied all the shelves of one entire wall.
At that evening’s performance Michael began by telling the audience: ”…I’ve had a very trying day, first of all I started off by discovering a drink called Sheep Dip, then I met a goat on a bus and then I narrowly escaped being introduced to 25,000 teddy bears all wearing Harris tweed!”
In another town called Roybridge we were led by a kilted piper into the room and up to the top table in a ceremonial procession.
Michael had already said to Áine Ní Ghlinn that his own father had once described the sound of the pipes as like being in a submarine with a flock of sheep, so…this wasn’t a good portent.
As we sat down, the piper stepped onto the small stage, which was a concave, parabolic inset into one of the walls of the room.
The sound of the píob mhór was therefore propelled with some force outwards towards us. I watched Michael and I could clearly see his discomfort. He took a beermat, wrote on it and passed it around. Each person smiled as they read it and when it came to me, I saw that he had written: “I’m glad my new false teeth are made of plastic, not china.”
But there was seriousness in all this as well; there could be lengthy silences in the minibus as we travelled along narrow roads, and later that evening in Roybridge as he was reading the poem about his father, there was guffawing from a group of people on barstools at the counter who clearly weren’t there to hear the performance.
The local MC on the night asked them to stop talking or move to another establishment in the town where there would be, as he put it, “…a welcome for all sorts of inane conversation”. They were momentarily silenced but when Michael started again, so did the noise. He simply closed his book, said “is cuma liom…” and left the stage.
His poem about his father was special – for the subject matter, the beauty of the language and the sound of his reading voice. There was a sensitivity, decency and dignity about him and, I think also, a vulnerability.
Although I only ever met him again on one other occasion by chance, it may be the case that a lasting impression and respect for someone can be created over a short time such as this as well as by a lengthy acquaintance.
“…and please, my father, wait a while, there is no singing after death, there is no human sighing – just worlds falling into suns. The universe will be a bride, a necklace of stars on her gown – dancing at every crossroads, tin-whistles spitting music. Father, take your time, hang on. But he didn’t.”
Peter Browne is a piper and a former RTÉ presenter and producer.
https://eigsemichaelhartnett.ie/
===============================
================================
Poetry
A Poem by John McGrath
from his anthology, Blue Sky Day
A Time For Dancing
Our lives proceed in rhythms of their own,
Sometimes in waves that dash from stone to stone,
Sometimes a soothing, softly murmuring flow,
A ride to cherish, be it quick or slow.
A river by a highway, river-paced,
Not rushing by as if by demons chased,
With time for wine and dancing in the night
Or fiddle fit to put the moon to flight –
But lest you perish in the deafening din,
Life trades her fiddle for a violin,
Soft lights, sweet music and a moon that lingers,
Eyes that are smiling just for you, and fingers
To soothe your soul just like the murmuring stream.
A time for dancing and a time to dream.
=====================
THE PUNTER: Tom Scanlon, better known as the Punter, also known as Tommy Bernard by his neighbours passed away on Wednesday, August 11 2021 after a short illness. Tom was born to Jack Scanlon and Han Walshe in 1943 in Leitrim Middle. He was an only child and lived in Leitrim Middle until about ten years ago when he moved to Woodgrove. He was a character in the true sense of the word, and indeed there are not many such people left any more. He loved all sports, player one choice and he loved going to Galway every year and the Curragh and of course the loced a bit of football when he was young and had friends all over the world. Racing was his numbal meetings in Listowel. He was well acquainted with trainers such as Tommy Stack, Jessica Harrington and many others. Tom wrote a bit of poetry and attended Writer’s Week in Listowel. This is one of his poems about the area where he lived called
“MEMORIES”
As my mind rolls back o’er memories track
To the days when we were young
Not a care had we, only wild and free
And many a song was sung.
We’d fish along the riverbank
As the sun was blazing down
And gather round the old big stone
That stood there large and brown.
We’d rest a while and spend an hour
Beneath the Russian’s bridge.
The McGraths, the Moriartys, the Walshes from the hill
Would come down there in the warm air
To laugh and sport their fill.
To Molly Donovan’s we would retire
To pass away the night
With the old gramophone and a game of cards
And many a dacent fight
They are scattered now throughout the land
And some are in their graves
Others are gone far and wide
Across the Atlantic waves.
But where e’re they are gone
Or what e’re they’ve done
They will always remember back
To their boyhood days
And their happy ways
Around the Mail Road Cross.
=============================================================
I’m going out in the sun today
I ‘m going out in the sun today
And I don’t care if the cobwebs
Are doing a two hand reel on the fittings
Or if the wash up reaches so high
It make a hole in the ceiling
See if I care
There’s much to enjoy and lots to share
For I’m going out in the sun today.
I don’t want to meet glum faces
Or bad forecast expressions
Or weather-vaned people
Who always know what’s given down
Especially if it’s rain
Let me have folk around me
who just glow and show
That they live and laugh and love
For I’m going out in the sun today
I don’t care if my nose peels seven layers
Or my eyebrows fade into oblivion
to hell with the pollen counter
And his boring job
I’ll take my chances and so what
If I sneeze, I sneeze
Let me enjoy the warmth, the good feel
And let go my worries on the breeze
For I’m going out in the sun today. By Anne Nash
Summertime
High hills bring hopeful thoughts
And happy hearts make helpful deeds
Now is the time to gather flowers
Where friendship plants the seeds.
The time for looking up old friends
And going on the spree
For a trip along the river
Or an outing to the sea.
================================================
=================================
Poetry
The Blessed Well in Kilshenane
From Closing the Circle, an anthology of the poems of John McGrath
Hare
I met a hare along the road today,
Tall as a greyhound.
He hopped towards me,
hesitated,
hopped again,
stopped to listen
to my freewheel click,
then turned and loped away.
I gazed in grateful awe
as with each simple spring
the distance grew between us,
marvelled how his quiet grace
belied his hidden power.
Then with one bound
he cleared a ditch
and disappeared from view
leaving me to wonder.
-------------------------------------
The Green Field by The Quarry
The big ship sailed out for Australia
‘Twas a cold winter’s day long ago
On board was a young Irish Colleen,
The grief on her features did show;
A priest offered deep consolation,
He spoke of the bright days ahead,
She woke from her sad meditation
And those are the words that she said.
I love the green field by the quarry,
The field where the red clovers grow,
The waterfall sounding above it
And the heather clad mountain below;
That lovely green field by the quarry
Every step of my childhood has known,
The clear crystal spring in the corner
And the little thatched dwelling-my home.
The big ship has sailed o’er the waters,
She is now on Australia’s broad plains,
She thinks of the brave Irish patriots
Who labored as convicts as chains;
She sees the green field by the quarry
In her vision old Ireland appears
And she prays for our gallant forefathers
Who held it through torture and tears.
The years they roll onward forever,
She’s a wife and a mother-what more?
She sings to the child on her bosom
The songs of old Ireland’s green shore.
Her brother has left the old homestead
Setting fears and affections afloat,
She pleads in the letter she’s writing
And those are the words that she wrote:
Don’t sell the green field by the quarry,
It’s the scene of each childhood delight,
‘Twas the vision that haunted my dreaming
On my tear moistened pillow at night.
Don’t sell the green field by the quarry,
No matter where ever I roam
While you own that green field by the quarry
I’ll feel that my heart has a home.
The home of her heart is still calling,
Again she re-visits the scene;
The laughter of children is lovely
And the field by the quarry is green.
Don’t sell the green field by the quarry,
No matter where ever I roam,
While you own that green field by the quarry
I’ll feel that my heart has a home.
This song was composed by Dan Keane, Moyvane, Co Kerry in May 1993 and is based on a true event. The Irish Colleen was his sister Theresa who emigrated to Australia in December 1936 and didn’t return to Ireland again until 1978. The priest referred to was Fr Coughlan who was an uncle of Bryan MacMahon. That green field still belongs to the Keane family who are known as the ‘Keanes of the Quarry.’ It is sung to the melody of Eileen McMahon.
--------------------------
-----------------------------
John Keats: Poetry, Life & Landscapes
By Suzie Grogan
Explore 19th-century poet John Keats’s life and world in a compelling trip through the places and landscapes that inspired his enduring work — from the London hospital where he studied to become a doctor to Winchester, where he composed one of his most famous odes.
Biographies and Memoirs
£1.99 £6.49
==================================
Miles To Go before I Sleep: Letters on Hope, Death and Learning to Live Hardcover – 18 Mar. 2021
by Claire Gilbert (Author)
'Claire's honest, raw, authentic diaries will be a source of comfort to many'- Miranda Hart
At the age of 54 Claire Gilbert was diagnosed with myeloma, an incurable cancer of the blood. The prognoses ranged from surviving only a few months to living for several decades, with no guarantee of which outcome was to be hers. It was a shocking diagnosis into uncertainty, or rather, into only one certainty: death. But Claire discovered that facing her own mortality was liberating. Available on Kindle.
She discovered this through writing letters. Claire asked her siblings and a small group of friends if they would let her write to them with total honesty about what she was going through, as she was going through it. These letters turned out to be a great solace, and gradually her group of 'dear readers' has grown; what she had to say wasn't just of value to herself, but to others, too.
The letters chart Claire's journey through diagnosis, chemotherapy and a brutal round of stem cell treatment, and end with the rest of the UK joining her in her immuno-compromised isolation in March 2020, when the coronavirus pandemic hit. Unflinchingly honest and wide-ranging, Claire writes about the restorative role of nature, politics, poetry, humour - and a restless exploration of the spiritual dimension of death and dying.
This is an honest, luminous account of what Claire has gone through and what keeps her going, a deeply spiritual meditation on life and suffering, and an exploration of how faith is no simple solace but provides a whole new plane of meaning during these liminal moments.
'Claire Gilbert's account of the progress of her fatal illness, from diagnosis through various traumatic treatments, is in turn candid, painful, funny, tender, fierce and philosophical. But most of all it is a marvellously enjoyable read depicting the human spirit at its finest: defiant, exuberant, joyous. An example to us all that we can triumph over the cruellest adversity'- Salley Vickers
======================================
Letters of love, loss and longing
In our latest exhibition, love letters offer glimpses into private worlds – from a queen’s treasonous love letter, to the generous wish of a naval hero and the forlorn poetry of a prime minister. Expect secret stories of heartbreak, passion and disappointment as you explore 500 years of letters in this intimate exhibition.
=============================
Poetry
JOURNEY TO CROKER:
John Kiely is the manager
And some man is he
Without him Croke Park
We would not see
Many's the Quaid had
Number 1 on his back
With Nicky in goals
He launches the attack
Finn, Casey and English
Are young and they're bold
In the Full back line
They do untold
Richie the Rockie
Is powerful and strong
Throw him into full back
And he'll do no wrong
Declan Hannon is our
Tall centre back
He comes from Adare
He's the leader of the pack
So when distance is called for
Diarmuid Byrnes is your man
He'll throw them over the bar
Simply because he can
We've Tom and Dan
Brothers in arms
A great asset to the team
From the mighty Ahane
There's Cian and Darragh
In the centre of the park
Their work rate is immense
And their scoring is on the mark
With Will and Dempsey
To come into the mix
That gives Kiely a headache
With the team that he picks
With Hegarty and Hayes
In the half forward line
They'll score when you need them
And their tackling is sublime
There's Gillane in the corner
A threat with ball in hand
He'll take the frees
And drive them into the Davin stand
Seamus Flanagan of Feohanagh
A club near my own
On the edge of the square
He's like a King on his Throne
Mulcahy from Killmallock
A man with some Gears
When he gets on the ball
The whole county cheers
For the Limerick Senior Hurlers
A journey it has been
Many achievements have been earned
By our Heroes in green!
By Naomi Ryan. Tournafulla Gaa
==============================================
John B Keane died on May 30, 2002
Written by Peg Prendeville
A Tribute to John B.
Walking along Bray Esplanade
Even the waves seem to whisper
The sad news that John B. has died.
But in their quiet sadness
They continue their even pace
Gently sloshing over the pebbles
Re-assuring me that “It’s OK,
Yes, that witty genius
Is gone from your sight
But his words will continue
To lap against the shores.
For the tide can never go out
On such wisdom and wit.
And on the stormy days
We will shout the words
He was not afraid to shout
As we blast the rocks
With our frothy anger.
The waters of his native river Feale
will carry his words
to the oceans of the world
and his hearty laugh
will always be heard
as long as the tides ebb and flow.
================================
===============================
Day is hurtling toward us like a heart-shaped meteor. Yet you’re stuck in the same rut as far as what to get that special someone. Flowers. Candy. A John Legend CD. You’d love to pen a poem for your beloved — a document of true, heartfelt personal expression — but a full heart and a blank page is just too daunting for a beginning bard like you.
Well, we’re here to help! Here’s the truth: employing a set of guidelines or restrictions can actually help spur creativity by jump-starting the process and giving your ideas something to push against. The framework below will help you organize your own experiences and sentiments into a genuine, one-of -a-kind love poem. But first, let’s take a quick look at some big-picture “best practices” for poetry:
Avoid cliches such as “you’re my moon and stars” and “love conquers all.” Poems are meant to express your feelings in your words. They’re all about interesting surprises and new connections. Cliches are pre-existing, unsurprising word packages. They’re boring. So rely on your own, personal specifics to anchor the poem.
Use concrete images. Concrete images are details perceived with the senses. They’re the things of the physical world: a scratchy old sofa, a waft of fresh basil, the huff of a grizzly bear. They convey experience and help a reader “enter” the poem. Abstractions like “love,” “pain,” or “truth” are too big and vague to write about directly. Instead, show your personal take on these big concepts through your singular choice of concrete details.
Don’t be afraid to be playful! You know what’s consistently listed as one of the top traits people look for in a romantic partner? Sense of humor! Poems don’t have to be moody dirges, especially where love is concerned. Feel free to get cheeky, flirty, or fun if your poem permits.
Alright, ready to get romantic? Read over the framework that follows. But don’t feel the need to start writing right away. You may need to step away and ponder.
Short and sweet! There’s an example below if you’d like to see one way this could turn out. Of course, feel free to tweak the recipe as your heart demands. Once you’ve got a first draft, put it aside and return to it a few more times. Fresh eyes will allow for new insights and word choices that will really make your poem sparkle like Cupid’s onesie. Happy Valentine’s Day!*Metaphor: A comparison between two unlike things without using “like” or “as.” (Example: “You were the first crocus bursting through an endless winter.”)**Alliteration: Repetition of initial consonant sounds. (Example: “My mirthful matador.”)***Simile: Like metaphor, another form of figurative language that makes a comparison. A simile, though, compares using the words “like” or “as.
”EXAMPLE POEM: Jess My perfect mess
Beside a bubbling creek that crept to the sea
You sparked a cookfire from moss and flint
And the tinder inside me was lit
We are at the edge of a wondrous wood
Let us smash the compass
A clumsy adventure awaits
Line 1: Name — Write the name of your beloved. Hopefully this one is easy.
Line 2: A Beloved Subtitle — Describe the person in three words. It might be a list of adjectives, a short phrase, or even a metaphor*. Bonus points if you use alliteration** or rhyme the last word of this line with the name from line one.
Line 3: First sight part 1 — Describe the setting where you first met the person (10 words or less)Line 4: First sight part 2 — Describe what the person was doing (10 words or less)Line 5: First sight part 3 — Describe what you felt using interesting and concrete images (10 words or less)Line 6: State of the union — Describe the current state of your relationship with a metaphor or simile***. Start this line with “We are...”
Short and sweet! There’s an example below if you’d like to see one way this could turn out. Of course, feel free to tweak the recipe as your heart demands. Once you’ve got a first draft, put it aside and return to it a few more times. Fresh eyes will allow for new insights and word choices that will really make your poem sparkle like Cupid’s onesie. Happy Valentine’s Day!*Metaphor: A comparison between two unlike things without using “like” or “as.” (Example: “You were the first crocus bursting through an endless winter.”)**Alliteration: Repetition of initial consonant sounds. (Example: “My mirthful matador.”)***Simile: Like metaphor, another form of figurative language that makes a comparison. A simile, though, compares using the words “like” or “as.
”EXAMPLE POEM:
Jess My perfect mess
Beside a bubbling creek that crept to the sea
You sparked a cookfire from moss and flint
And the tinder inside me was lit
We are at the edge of a wondrous wood
Let us smash the compass
A clumsy adventure awaits
Line 1: Name — Write the name of your beloved. Hopefully this one is easy.
Line 2: A Beloved Subtitle — Describe the person in three words. It might be a list of adjectives, a short phrase, or even a metaphor*. Bonus points if you use alliteration** or rhyme the last word of this line with the name from line one.
Line 3: First sight part 1 — Describe the setting where you first met the person (10 words or less)
Line 4: First sight part 2 — Describe what the person was doing (10 words or less)
Line 5: First sight part 3 — Describe what you felt using interesting and concrete images (10 words or less)
Line 6: State of the union — Describe the current state of your relationship with a metaphor or simile***. Start this line with “We are..
.”Line 7: Dreaming ahead — Describe your wish/hope/vision for your future together — again, lean on concrete images and figurative language. Start this line with “Let us...
”Line 8: XO — End with “Happy Valentine’s Day” or something else that wraps things up in a flirty, cheeky, touching, etc., fashion.
==========================================
REMINISCING
Tonight I ‘m reminiscing
I have turned back the years
Removed the locks from both the doors
And forgot about my fears.
Removed the TV from the shelf
And put it out of sight
Replaced it with a radio
Commentating on a fight.
Put the mobile phone on silent
Took the handset off the wall
Tonight-The only interruption
Neighbours foot steps in the hall.
Reached up to the fuse board
Reversed the on off handle
Got an empty bottle from the press
And placed in it a candle.
Replaced the coal and briquettes
With a seasoned wooden log
And a couple of sods of well dried turf
Harvested from the local bog.
The lid from off the oven
I will heat until just right
Wrap in a woollen sweater
Place in the bed tonight.
Stare out through the window
Watch the snowflakes as they fall
Pretend its Christmas Eve again
And Santa’s sure to call.
Will I read a passage from the book
Or pray the rosary instead?
Then go outside – melt a little snow
Before I go to bed.
Seamus Hora
=========================================
Back Home
by Anon
If I had the power to turn back the clock,
Go back to that house at 4th end of the block-
The house that was HOME when I was a kid,
I know I would love it more now than I did.
If I could be back there at my mother’s knee,
And hear once again all the things she told me,
I’d listen as I never listened before
For she knew so well just what life had in store.
And all the advice my dad used to give
His voice I’ll remember as long as I live;
It didn’t seem really important then.
What I’d give just to live it all over again.
Oh, what I’d give for the chance I once had,
To do so much more for my mum and my dad,
To give them more joy and a little less pain,
A Little more sunshine, a little less rain.
But the years roll on and we cannot go back,
Whether we were born in a mansion our shack
But we can start right no in the hour that is here
To do something more for the ones we hold dear.
Since e Time in its flight is travelling fast,
Lets no spend it regretting that which is past.
Lats make tomorrow a happier day
By doing our “good to others’ TODAY
===============================
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
=====================================
MY CHRISTMAS WISH
Oh Lord, when we give this Christmas time,
Do teach us how to share
The gifts that you have given us
With those who need our care,
For the gift of Time is sacred~
The greatest gift of all,
And to share our time with others
Is the answer to your call,
For the Sick, the Old and Lonely
Need a word, a kindly cheer
For every precious minute
Of each day throughout the Year,
So, in this Special Season
Do share Your Time and Love
And you’re Happy, Holy Christmas
Will be Blessed by Him above
Junior Griffin
=============================
Peg Prendeville Dec 2020
Hence the following poem:
My New Book
I could not wait to finish
I turned each page with delight
Wondering how this book would end
As I read chapters every night.
And when it ended I was sad
I had grown to love it all
But now I’ll have to let it go
And let the memories fall.
And another book I start right now
And soon I know I’ll love
It just as much in a different way
Like a hand fits in new gloves.
This seems to be my life just now
Since life struck a nasty blow
But I’ll adapt and face the challenge
And I’ll succeed, I know.
===========================
2020;
AFTERNOON OF CHRISTMAS CAROLS: Mary Culloty O’ Sullivan (Soprano) presents “Merry Christmas “an afternoon of Christmas Carols. Poetry read by Dolores Carroll. Thursday December 10th 4pm on Youtube and Facebook Page of St Johns Theatre and Arts Centre, Listowel.
========================
This week marks both my mother’s birth-day and death-day. The following poem is in her honour.
By Peg Prendeville
The dark days of November
are a fitting reminder of your anniversary.
Your grave holds no comfort for me
as your spirit
could not be contained
by any clay.
I hear your laugh
and see your merry eyes dancing
as you dragged hoarse music
from an old accordion.
On hearing Dad’s footsteps at the door,
you handed it to Jack, our neighbour,
and sat back to see Dad’s reaction
to the lively hornpipe
that now filled the room.
Your laugh and humour
has never died.
It continues to ring in my ears
inviting me to dance in your memory.
===============================
New York NY Irish American Advocate 1968 c - 0366.pdf
4 May 1968
INSIDE THE GATE OF IRELAND
Anywhere inside the gate of Ireland
Would be a borne for me
Anywhere on a hillside in a valley,
E'en down by the sea
There inside the gate of Ireland,
Give me a lifetime lease
On a little green isle corner to live
and nestle in peace.
I would build a cozy cottage and
match it with fine straw
And anywhere in that cozy cottage
you'll not find fault or flaw.
I will plant green Irish Ivy that will
cling to every wall
With red and white rose trees and
woodbine to cover all
With roses drooping over each door
and each window frame
And Hawthorns and Pansies stretching
to greet the sunlit flame
With Linnets and Sparrows, nesting
on the Ivy In the eaves. .
My cottage will look like a bird's
nest midst roses and leaves.
The joy of seeing the morning sur
Peeping o'er the hills at dawn
With the Sephyr gentle breeze blowing
leaves across the lawn.
All those I will enjoy there on the
green sod of my sireland
At peace with the world, peace
inside the gate of Ireland.
Inside the gate of Ireland, safe at
last, safe and at home
This migrating bird will clip his
wings so he will not roam
With a cow or two and green grass
up close to my kitchen door.
Now when I think of the home-made
butter, I hunger to the core.
Where on earth can you find such
modesty, faith and love
There they sparkle glorious, like
the silver wings of a dove,
Where on earth can you find anything
as fine or grand
As what can be found inside the
round gate of Ireland,
The rich fertile soil In Ireland
will produce my food
And it will be a delight to till an
acre or a rood
I'll have goat's milk for my coffee
also for my tea
Inside the Gate of Ireland, that's
the place for me.
Every morn I'll find blue duck
In the well spring stream ,
And with two cows at my service,
I'll have plenty cream
Many fine things can be found on the
green sod of my sireland
The key to good living can be found
inside the Gate of Ireland.
By: Patrick McAuliffe.
(Note: For those who may not know
it, ducks prefer to lay their eggs in
a stream If a stream is anywhere
near the house. Usually the day
previous, they get sand in that same
stream to make the shell of the egg.)
=======================
https://fultonhistory.com/Fulton.html
New York NY Irish American Advocate 1968 c - 0732.pdf
31 Aug 1968
TO A MOSQUITO
You, the low-down crook from the swamps,
I hope you croak with a fit of cramps,
Or may you starve in a craggy mire
Or be burned to death in a mountain fire.
You crooked, bow-legged wastrel from the gutter,
You have put my Irish temper in a flutter,
For disturbing my rest on this red hot night,
I hope your sting goes blunt, before morn light,
Criminal, blood-hound, sword-like blistering sting,
I hope you melt on the air while on the wing,
Mean blood-sucking vagabond from the sewer,
I hope you get a disease you can never cure.
Wrethed, wanton, hooligan, always on the prowl,
Hope I get a swipe at you with my guest towel.
And when you lay dead on Flushing cobble stones,
I hope the black spider will eat you body and bones.
You are lucky to get out thru the wire-net hole,
With my blood dripping from your sting and jowl,
Now if you escape those deaths mentioned by the muse,
I hope you burn and die in the next atom-bomb ruse.
Patrick McAuliffe.
================================
Patrick McAuliffe, A half Withered Tree Leaf poem in The Advocate, NY June 11 1949, p4
----------------------------------------------
New York NY Irish American Advocate 1932-1934 – 0256.pdf
Rockaway Beach Irish Night, entertainers included; Patrick McAuliffe, the Kerry tenor, sang two numbers. Eddie Dunne, with his Four Leaf Clover Band, accompanying Joe Daly in vocal choruses.
=================================
Patrick McAuliffe
Born 23 Apr 1896 in Newtownsands, Kerry, Ireland - Son of John McAuliffe and Mary (Enright) McAuliffe- Brother of William McAuliffe - [spouse(s) unknown] [children unknown]
Died 16 Aug 1980 in Queens, New York -Ireland Native- Patrick McAuliffe was born in Ireland.
Patrick McAuliffe migrated from Ireland to USA. Train Conductor • Vaudeville Performer • The Kerry Tenor
Marriage- Patrick married Julia Mary McMahon in 1922 in Ireland. Julia was a nurse in Dublin at the
Patrick and Julia had four children:
Mary Molly- Annie Laurie- John Jack- Fr Terrence
Patrick McAuliffe in 1941. -Occupation
Patrick was a singer and known around the New York City area as "The Kerry Tenor." He was a vaudeville performer as well. He had several records that were copyrighted in Europe. His "day job" was a Train Conductor.
Immigration- Patrick emigrated to the United States in April 1929 without his wife and children. He became a Naturalized US Citizen in 1935. [1] He never went back to Ireland to live but visited his family occasionally.
Death- Patrick died in 1980 and was buried by his brother, John, in Queens, New York. [2]
https://www.wikitree.com/wiki/McAuliffe-410
Patrick McAuliffe-Death 16 Aug 1980
Burial Saint John Cemetery- Middle Village, Queens County, New York, USA
Plot Section: 34 Row: L Grave: 15- Memorial ID 167119452 ·
https://www.findagrave.com/memorial/167119452
William McAuliffe 1895 to 1933.
Born 1895 in County Kerry, Son of John McAuliffe and Mary (Enright) McAuliffe
Brother of Patrick McAuliffe- Died 17 Oct 1933 in Manhattan, New York.
Siblings; Mary- Pat, Con- Bridget, Nora, Hannah, Julia, Elizabeth, Tim, Hannah, Joseph John.
=====================
More McAuliffe poems on
POET: Moyvane Poet Patrick McAuliffe
https://northkerry.wordpress.com/
The Stylus, Volume 57, Number 1, 1 December 1944
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Eliot’s thesis that modern society is degenerate and can be regenerated only by a spiritual rebirth is continued in his poetic pageant "The Rock,” which, though characterized by some as mere Anglican propaganda, contains certain elementary truths needing emphasis. Here, in eloquent poetry, Eliot dissects modern society and proposes the solution. In our time, he proclaims: All our knowledge brings us nearer to our ignorance, All our ignorance brings us nearer to death, But nearness to death no nearer to GOD. Where is the Life we have lost in living ? Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge ? Where is the knowledge we have lost in information? The cycles of Heaven in twenty centuries Bring us farther from GOD and nearer to the Dust. That is a concise and correct summary of modern "civilization.” Men have turned from God and are: Engaged in devising the perfect refrigerator, Engaged in working out a rational morality, Engaged in printing as many books as possible, Plotting of happiness and flinging empty bottles . . . But, he warns: Life you may evade, but Death you shall not. You shall not deny the Stranger. This is powerful poetry. It crystallizes the main streams of modern society, and its truth should be evident to the perceptive reader. Nothing is more obvious about the age we live in, but it has to be stated again and again, not only because it is true, but because the implications are shatteringly large.
Eliot, then, is very relevant in our contemporary crisis. He went through the experience of living and maturing in a society that had little or no meaning. After tasting what it had to offer he rejected it. His probing mind was unsatisfied until it came to something basic and fundamental and stable. A believer in tradition, he sought a traditional church. Mr. McGreevy, however, speaks disparagingly of Eliot’s Anglo-Catholicism. He describes it as, "the bastard, schismatic and provincial if genteel kind of Catholicism that, for the time being, at any rate, he has, somewhat New Englishly, stopped at,” adding that, "to be an Anglo-Catholic ... is almost to try to reconcile Mammon and God.” Notwithstanding such derogatory opinion, Eliot’s thinking in social matters is sound and genuinely Catholic. He is a person of awareness. His view of modern society coincides generally with that of recognized thinkers such as Sorokin, Maritain and Dawson. And I do not think Eliot is much annoyed when people say with Edmund Wilson: He [Eliot] looks for light to the theologians who offer salvation, not through economic readjustment, political reform, education or biological and physchological study, but solely through grace.” Or with Oscar Cargill: The contention of The Rock that the economic difficulties of the World are caused by a lack of spirituality is, in this case, the conclusion of a sectarian propagandist.