My Jimdo Geocities Lifeboat
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https://www.athea.ie/category/news/
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Poetry
I wrote the following recently on learning that Maria Vaughan/Reidy has moved her hair salon to her home place adjacent to Vaughan Furniture in Moyvane. I wish her luck in her brand new modern premises. by Peg Prendeville. April 2024.
Best wishes to Urban Angels
My heart did break this morning
When passing up through glin
To see that URBAN ANGELS
Was bleak and bare within,
It used to be my comfort spot
Where I threw away all cares
And enjoyed my cup of coffee
While Maria did my hair.
But now I’m in a tangle
And may have to cross the border
To Moyvane in Co. Kerry
To put my hair in order.
Best wishes to you and staff Maria
As you start with a clean slate
You will go from strength to strength
Outside your parents gate.
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Belville Long Ago by Michael Dwane follows:
I grew up near Belville creamery on the banks of the River Deel
'Twas a Co-op in the parish of Kilmeedy
It was managed by John Sheehan a man as hard as steel
Though gentle with the poor and with the needy.
I went there at the age of twelve, just after confirmation
The war was on. thank God we were not in it
I drove a wicked donkey who oft caused consternation
And Lloyd's milk came from Heathfield with a jennet.
The wet turf had Dan Harrold at his wits end to raise steam
Long queues from Barry's Height to Harrold's Cross
Was it Feohanagh or Kilmeedy had the better hurling team
Paddy Mac and Seanie Enright argued the toss.
Men I have fond memories of Terry Liston and Paddy Gill
Befriended me when I was dressed in duds
Tim Keane, Tom Aherne, and Moss, I miss him still
And Dan Duggan that fine man who sprayed the spuds.
Sediment, Antibiotics, not to mention Methylene Blue
Were strange words that left us all in shock
For to fill our tanks in days of yore, all we had to do
Was wash a strainer , a bucket and a block.
Most of those men and women too have crossed the great divide
May the good Lord grant them eternal Rest
And if our passing Belville, remember them with pride
And pray they all have passed the final test.
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Poetry
Christmas at The Claus House
Home Alone
A Christmas poem from Mary McElligott
‘What will I do Mrs Claus?”
Santa rubbed his head.
He really was exhausted.
His legs felt like lead.
His head was pounding, throbbing.
He was frozen to the bone.
Mrs Claus was too busy cleaning,
To listen to him moan.
He was like this every year,
I suppose you’d say, stressed.
She’d listen, support and encourage,
Take out his long sleeved vest.
Christmas Eve was looming,
Three more sleeps to go.
Was it his age? She wondered,
Gosh, t’was hard to know.
Mrs Claus was high dusting,
Changing sheets and beds.
Five hundred elves was no joke,
The last time she counted heads.
One hundred stayed all year
But in October that count went up,
Hard work for Mrs. Claus,
To get it all set up.
She cooked and cleaned their dorms.
She worked out their Rota,
24/7 their job,
Hard, juggling that quota.
She loved it though, being busy,
Loved caring for the elves,
They were like their children,
When they didn’t have any themselves.
Some poor elves were homesick,
In the North Pole for a whole twelve weeks.
She often saw tears flowing,
Down their little cheeks.
She had one big job to sort.
She did it through the year.
It was she who got the elves their gifts,
Brought them their Christmas cheer.
She made several trips down south.
There was a great service from The Pole
But her favorite place to go,
Was a place called Listowel.
It was so tidy and clean,
So pretty, down by the park
And even more beautiful at night,
With with all those blue lights in the dark.
She’d buy all their gifts,
Hats, scarves and gloves for the elves.
She’d pack them in huge cases,
Leaving a bit of space for a few bits for themselves.
She loved Christmas Eve,
Santa gone, the elves in bed.
She’d open up her cases,
Deliver gifts as she’d quietly tread,
Up and down, between the beds,
One hundred in each dorm,
Over and back until the cases were empty,
Finishing up near dawn.
They all get a Christmas bonus,
50 Euros and of course, some sweets,
After all it was Christmas
And you’d have to give them treats.
She’d only just be gone tombed,
When Santa would land in, FROZEN..
She’d leave out coke and cake,
Waiting for him, dozing.
‘How was it Santa?’ she’d ask,
‘Everything go all right with the reindeer?’
“Absolutely perfect Mrs Claus,
Thanks to you. Merry Christmas, my dear.”
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My Dear Old Kerry Home
From The Butte Independent 1927 a poem by D. M. Brosnan, Castleisland
“Tis Christmas Eve in Kerry, and the Pooka is at rest
Contented in his stable eating hay;
The crystal snow is gleaming on the mountains of the West,
And a lonesome sea is sobbing far away;
But I know a star is watching o’er the bogland and the stream,
And ‘tis coming, coming, coming o’er the foam;
And ’tis twinkling o’er the prairie with a message and a dream
Of Christmas in my dear old Kerry home.
‘Tis Christmas Eve in Kerry, and the happy mermaids croon
The songs, of youth and hope that never die;
Oh never more on that dear shore for you and me, aroon.
The rapture of that olden lullaby:
But the candle lights are gleaming on a hillside far away.
And peace is in the blue December gloam;
And o’er the sea of memory I hear the pipers play
At Christmas in my dear old Kerry home.
‘Tis Christmas Eve in Kerry, oh I hear the fairies’ lyre
Anear the gates of slumber calling sweet.
Calling softly, calling ever to the land of young desire,
To the pattering of childhood’s happy feet;
But a sleepless sea is throbbing, and the stars are watching’ true
As they journey to the wanderers who roam —
Oh the sea, the stars shall bring me tender memories of you.
D. M. BROSNAN, Close, Castleisland, Co. Kerry.
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Poetry
Feeding the birds
While eating breakfast each morning
It is my great delight
To watch the birds doing the same
As they pick with all their might.
Their table is outside my window
On which I place some nuts
Immediately they flutter in
And start to fill their guts.
They can be quite competitive
And push each other aside
Like squabbling children, they want to be
The first to grab a bite.
It is like a busy airport
With planes lining up to land
These little birds come swooping in
Their breakfast to demand.
They get their bite and then fly off
To a nearby tree
But as soon as the nut is swallowed
They are back again, I see.
They are a lively family
And bring colour to my day.
As they dine with me each morning
From their little window tray.
November 2023 By Peg Prendeville
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Two more poems from Michael Patrick Moore reminding us of friendship and loss and love during this month of remembering
Fire Side Conversations
(For Joe)
Shades of colour
Rainbow like still
Occupy our minds,
Tumbling into one another
Shades of many kinds.
Music we can almost taste
And dripping off the tongue,
Old as parchment paper
And yet altogether young.
Peace descends upon us
Like a blanket
Warm and soft,
Conversations Fireside
Are what we’re dreaming of.
The universe will keep for us
This promise,
I am sure;
Waves though restless
In their making
Always find the shore
BROKEN GLASS
(Vale Jo-Anne)
Shell shocked; all we who were there to mourn your death that dark day in April.
Said our goodbyes and then quietly, tearfully and almost gratefully
Withdrew from that place and embraced once again our lives and the living where you could not follow.
So we left you instead in that tear-stained earth.
Or did we?
Was it I alone who heard it;
A sound like breaking glass.
Your spirit dispersing as we dispersed a shard for each of our hearts.
That private tempest you weathered alone, is spent now at least I guess and serenity sought but dearly bought
Eternally yours; my friend.
https://tintean.org.au/2023/11/10/poems-of-rembrance-by-michael-patrick-moore/
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Poetry by Peg Prendeville
Around the fire
Around the fire we sat each night
Chairs pulled together nice and tight
Dad made sure the turf was in
Mom sat knitting with a happy grin.
From a ball of wool in a wellington
A sock grew longer as the night went on.
The sound of the latch and in comes Mick
Tapping the flags with his blackthorn stick.
We make some room for another chair
Widening the circle gathered there.
Soon the stories would be told
Each one more daring, dark and bold.
Just when we thought we could take no more
Someone would stamp on the stone flagged floor.
The “Panny” mugs with the milky tea
Calmed the nerves and helped us see
That twas all in fun, no need to fear
We were all family gathered here.
Soon cousin JohnJoe would lilt a reel
And we young children danced toe to heel
And Mick tapped the flags with his blackthorn stick
And Mom would raise the oil-lamp wick.
Thus we passed the winter nights
In semi darkness, no strong lights
And all too soon it was time for bed
But not until the prayers were said.
Mom tucked us up in our feather beds
With images of fairies in our heads.
We knew we were safe from hurt or harm
Cuddled up tight, all snug and warm.
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Poetry
https://wordpress.com/tag/national-poetry-day October 2023
Today is National Poetry Day and to celebrate, I am sharing the work of Galway based poet Sarah Clancy, whose work really impressed me when she read at Seamus Heaney HomePlace this year as part of the commemoration readings for the tenth anniversary of the poet’s death.
A page and performance poet, she has three collections to her name, Stacey and the Mechanical Bull (Lapwing Press, Belfast, 2011), Thanks for Nothing, Hippies (Salmon Poetry, 2012), and The Truth and Other Stories (Salmon Poetry, 2014). Along with fellow Galway poet and recent Booker Prize shortlistee, Elaine Feeney, she released a poetry CD called Cinderella Backwards in 2013.
She has been placed or shortlisted in several of Ireland’s most prestigious written poetry competitions, including the Ballymaloe International Poetry Prize, the Patrick Kavanagh Award, and the Listowel Collection of Poetry Competition. In performance poetry Sarah has won the Cúirt International Festival of Literature Grand Slam Championships, and has twice been runner up in the North Beach Nights Grand Slam. In 2013 on her second go at representing Connaught in the All- Ireland Grand Slam Championships she was runner up.
While her collections are inspiring to read, Clancy’s work benefits from hearing her read it aloud, as her wit and deadpan humour leavens the difficult issues that she covers in her work. She is a campaigner as well as a poet, interested in climate change, immigration, the treatment of women in Ireland and questions of gender identity and social inequality.
I chose this poem – ‘Solutions for Homelessness’ – because it fits perfectly with this year’s theme for National Poetry Day, which is ‘Refuge’ and it displays Sarah’s playful use of humour to highlight serious social issues:
Solutions to Homelessness
Sure can’t you live in the drainpipes?
Or on one of those windowsills with the thin metal spikes on them
if the pigeons can manage it, I don’t see your problem
are you a bird or a man? Can’t you fold yourself
into the ashtray of an old Nissan Micra,
these days no one is smoking
so I’d say they’re all vacant, can’t you sleep in a chip punnet
or better a snack box with a lid?
Sleep in Eyre Square sure where Pàdraic Ó Conaire used to be,
or if you stood in Browne’s doorway that might keep
the rain off you, think outside of the box for once can’t you?
You could sleep in a lobster pot or on the back
of a swan down in Claddagh,
you could line up a few ducks and lie down on them
maybe you could sleep on the mudguard
of one of those crooked-wheel bicycles the two Belgians left
to be vandalised, or you could tell the Guards at Mill Street
that you’re there to report a white collar criminal
it would be decades before someone could see you
and at least you’d have a roof over your head while you waited
Maybe you could study something in the Open University
while you’re there in the waiting room, and better yourself
you could build yourself into one of Macnas’s puppets
you’d surely get at least the summer out of it,
and if you’re not fond of the arts can’t you sleep in the fountain
you’d be showered and all then, you could furl yourself
in the sail of a yacht down at the docks
or if you get a small trolley with wheels and you lay on it,
you could sleep in one of the segments
of the revolving doors in the Meyrick Hotel without blocking anyone
will you go away and don’t bother me
there is no housing crisis in Galway for anyone
with even a shred of imagination, will you show some initiative
even snails can find homes for themselves.
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Momentary Insights
Poetry- Patrick O’Brien of Newcastlewest and Australia
Pages: 152
An eclectic mix of emotion, with themes of love, loss, despair, fear, anxiety and hope, where the catharsis of writing whilst in the therapeutic senses of nature brings the momentary insights of truth.
Truth…
“Though seemingly momentary, the ideal is of abiding eternal,
‘Tis the essence of our being, in every light and all nocturnal.
Freely exposed cognitions, bared naked in thought,
Given freely at no cost… priceless.
Now… Feel clothed in the warmth,
Of what in all of us is sought.”
https://www.austinmacauley.com/book/momentary-insights
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What is the ideal man?
This is a question that philosophers have pondered over and riffed on for millennia.
Many philosophers have sketched out a vision of an ideal man who, unsurprisingly, encompasses the values that represent the pinnacle of their philosophical beliefs. These conceptions of ideal men are similar in that they all require reaching beyond human defaults to develop greater excellence, but each differs as to which virtues should be more or less emphasized to achieve that excellence. While none of the ideals can ever be perfectly embodied, they serve as aspirational models, guiding individuals to strive for personal growth and virtuous flourishing.
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beachcomber australia
2mo
National Library of Ireland on The Commons I told ChatGPT you were speechless, and asked it to give you some words. Here is what came back in a few seconds ...
To the National Library of Ireland,
Though you may find yourselves momentarily speechless,
I have a topic that's sure to bring you some cheerfulness.
Let's talk about limericks, those whimsical rhymes,
With their clever wordplay and rhythmic chimes.
In a small Irish town, they first came to be,
Lively verses with a touch of glee.
Five lines they consist, in a pattern well-known,
With a rhythm and structure that's uniquely their own.
There once was a man from the Emerald Isle,
Whose wit and humor would surely beguile.
With just a few lines, he'd capture our laughter,
And leave us all smiling long after.
From silly tales to bawdy humor's delight,
Limericks can bring joy, morning, noon, or night.
They celebrate people, places, and absurdity too,
Entertaining us all with their rhymes so true.
So, let limericks fill your shelves and halls,
In the National Library, where knowledge enthralls.
Preserve the heritage of these verses grand,
And let their mirth and charm forever expand.
May the limericks bring laughter to your aisles,
And in your collections, spark countless smiles.
For words have the power to delight and inspire,
And limericks are a testament to that desire.
Keep the spirit of wit and whimsy alive,
In the National Library, where stories thrive.
Let limericks dance across your pages with glee,
And embrace the joy they bring, endlessly.
Sincerely,
A Lover of Limericks
Yikes!
==============================
Poem
Mossie’ by Brían De Vale
‘Mossie’
Had a cousin, name of Mossie,
He was his father’s second boy,
Born up in the hills of Kerry,
He was his family’s pride and joy.
Yes, and joy was just the thing that he was raised on,
Love was just the way to live and die.
Gold is Sam in Kerry and ‘The Sportsfield’
And blue is just a Kerry summer sky.
And all the things that he would teach me,
Back when I was just a lad.
How to cut the turf, dig ‘praties’
How to milk a cow by hand.
Growing up a Kerry farm boy,
Life was mostly having fun.
Work the farm with all the fam’ly
Church on Sunday, then the pub.
Yes, and joy was just the thing that he was raised on,
Love is just the way to live and die.
Gold the Sam in Kerry and ‘The Sportsfield’
And blue is just a Kerry Summer sky.
Well I guess there were some hard times,
Back in nineteen eighty three.
He came to live in New York City,
And he came to visit me.
We’d hit the bars along Kantonah,
Stay out late along McLean.
But bright and early every morning,
He’d head off to work again.
Singing, joy is just a thing to be raised on, Love is just the way to live and die.
Gold the Sam in Kerry and ‘The Sportsfield’
And blue is just a Kerry summer sky.
He worked with stone and brick and mortar,
And laid foundations, all by hand.
He built the New York City Skyline,
And he came to be my friend.
And so I wrote this down for Mossie,
Up in Currow where he’s laid.
I know we’ll meet again in heaven,
For pints and music once again.
Because joy is just a thing that you were raised on,
Love is just the way to live and die,
Gold the Sam in Kerry and ‘The Sportsfield’
And blue is just a Kerry summer sky.
Adapted from Matthew by John Denver. RIP Mossie. Le meas agus grá, Brían.
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http://www.iverusresearchfoundation.com/editoruploads/files/FPM_concise_biographies.pdf
Brothers
Dower, James Eugenius (1897-1954)
James Dower, son of James Dower and his wife, Bridget
Relihan, was born in the family home, Rathoran,
Kilmorna, Abbeyfeale, Co. Limerick, on 2 October,
1897, and baptised in the local parish church one week
later. He attended the local National School and entered
the novitiate of the Presentation Brothers, Mount St
Joseph, Cork, on 9 May, 1914, at the age of sixteen. He
received the religious habit, together with a new
religious name, Brother Eugenius, on 26 December,
1914. His new patron saint, Eugenius, was a saintly Bishop of Carthage, who
died in 505. On completion of his novitiate, Eugenius made his religious
profession on 13 October, 1917. He qualified as a teacher and was assigned
initially to the English province, where he taught for several years at St
Joseph’s Orphanage, Orpington, and was superior there for two 3-year terms
(1924-1930). He was a man of great energy, who loved to be outdoors. He
also liked gardening and his favourite exercise was walking.
On his return to Ireland, he was appointed Principal of the primary
school in Cobh, an appointment he retained from 1942 until his early death.
He was also superior in Cobh for two 3-year terms (1944-1950). It was while
he was principal in St Joseph’s school, Cobh, that Liam Nolan encountered
him. Liam remembered Eugenius him with respect and affection and
described his love of poetry, especially the rousing ballads of Robert Service:
Eugenius opened the door and strode in, a small red book in his right
hand, his forefinger crooked inside the covers, marking a page. He
settled himself on the front edge of a small table facing us, and said,
‘All right men. Listen to this. It’s called ‘The Shooting of Dan
McGrew’ and it was written by Robert Service.’ He opened the book
and began to read in a quiet voice, but loud enough to be heard at the
back of the partitioned classroom. The accent he used was
consciously Mid-Atlantic:
A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon;
The kid that handled the music box was playing a rag-time tune;
Back of the bar, in a Solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,
And watching his luck was his light-o’-love, the lady that’s known as Lou.
We were electrified at the unexpectedness, the muscularity and
vividness of the images. Eugenius didn’t lift his face from the printed
pages, but twice he stopped momentarily, and his eyes, for just a few
seconds, seemed to be focussed somewhere far away from that
classroom. His glasses glinted with the movement of his head...Yes,
Eugenius was an outdoors man even in his literary likes. (Nolan, in
Feheney, 1996, 68)
Towards mid-summer in 1954, Eugenius began to feel unwell. His doctor
advised him to spend a week in bed. Instead, Eugenius decided to go on his
annual summer vacation to the sea side in Kilkee, Co. Clare. He died there
suddenly on 29 July, 1954, aged 56 years. He was buried in the cemetery
attached to Mount St Joseph, Cork.
===========================
New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXV, 24 December 1897, Page 9
Bartholomew Dowling, the writer of "Life's Wreck," was born at Listowel. County Kerry, about the year 1822. While still a child his parents emigrated to Canada, where his father died. Later the mother and children returned and settled in County Limerick, He wrote several poems for the Nation after its foundation. In 1848 he proceeded to California, where, after spending some time as a miner, he lived on a farm at Crucita Valley. In 1858 he was appointed editor of the San Francisco Monitor. In 1863 he met with an accident while driving, and soon afterwards died from its effects in St. Mary's Hospital, San Francisco. Dowling's best, and best known poem is probably "The Irish brigade at Fontenoy."
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Poetry
Sounds of Summer
Rocking in my garden seat,
Creaking gently to and fro
Watching life continuing on,
Like a stream in constant flow.
Listening to the chirping birds
Busy at their daily tasks
The leaves are whispering in the breeze
A honey bee goes buzzing past.
A tractor drones in a neighbour’s field
Boasting of a busy day
Taking advantage of the sun
Cutting silage, turning hay.
A cow concerned for her calf
Calls him back with a gentle moo
The clothes are flapping on the line
Peaceful times like this are few.
Children play out on the lawn
Sending out their squeals of joy
Laughing, singing, cheering on
Their playmates in a rugby try.
I close my eyes to appreciate
The restful sounds that I can hear
It’s easy to believe in God
When His presence is so near!
By Peg Prendeville
https://www.athea.ie/category/knockdown-news/
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© Neil Brosnan 2022
Until today, I’d thought of you as old,
But sixty-three is far too young to die,
And as I stand here in the rain and cold,
The question I am asking still is why.
Why pick on me to be your captive muse?
A toehold on your meteoric climb,
Your love canard has made me a recluse,
Forever chained to your most hackneyed rhyme,
And publicans not taken with your verse
Nor needful of your custom to survive,
Parade in sombre garb behind your hearse;
Your status greater now than when alive.
But fallen leaves and old ghosts must away
Like nightmares at the dawning of the day.
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Poetry
Sympathy
By Paul Laurence Dunbar
I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals—
I know what the caged bird feels!
I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting—
I know why he beats his wing!
I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings—
I know why the caged bird sings!
Paul Laurence. Dunbar, "“Sympathy.”" from The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar. (New York: Dodd, Mead and Company, )
Source: Twentieth-Century American Poetry (2004)
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46459/sympathy-56d22658afbc0
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By JJ Leahy
The Silence
Andante moderato
You XY women, best you know who you are
You’re special, well strange, no sign of a scar?
Indifferent medical tests claimed all that it could
Not in tune with nature – be it bad or be it good?
Emotions over racked, believed better you had died
If not for the screaming – that’s coming from inside.
Resort to behavioural therapy, for those in denial
Society’s embarrassment itself – puts the innocent on trial.
I’m sure the fine Doctor will do everything he can
Says old ladies in shop doorways, what a lovely man.
He’s good with Arthritis – Septicaemia with pills
A practiced bedside manner with knowledge of ills.
Assessing every fact – next issue the medication
Then moves on at speed, with little hesitation.
Girl on the outside and what? A boy within
Quandary of a problem, you’re potentially a sin!
Prescribe medieval magic – of time it does unfurl
Chance one of two options, a boy or a girl?
When cornered for a answer, no comment and hide
Wash hands of this problem and let the parents decide.
This medical condition, left the qualified confused
No test is conclusive, No avoidance unused.
A freak of environment – has been encountered here
Little interest in the indivual so, better stand clear.
Civilization when confronted, will surely apply blame
It’s the parents, it’s the child’s, its nature’s total shame!
You upset harmony, so now you are on your own
No advice and no support, so just carry on alone.
Disenfranchised asunder from given defined gender
To a lifetime of doubt – must not to surrender.
Now we have a name for this endocromic ambiguity
Androgen insensitivity syndrome, 46XY continuity.
Well the medical profession, anxiously now make plans
For a better educated society – more likely understands?
But seeing the picture laid bear – not a comprehensive roll
Of the sad tortured heart of the confused lonely soul.
People should not be defined by their conformity to plan
As long as one is genuine, matters not a women or a man
Care not the attachment – to a label that we’re knowing
So is nature’s cruel experiment is still ongoing?
Poetry
==============================
Poetry
Peg Prendeville
Mid April 2023
I hear from a friend in Tipperary that the cuckoo has arrived! I just love to hear that news as it means we are into summer season whether we get summer weather or not. But we can look forward and hope. I take the liberty of including a poem I wrote years ago.
On a Summer’s Morning
The curlew calls way up in the sky,
The cuckoo’s song comes back in reply,
The cattle are lowing on their way to the barn;
Sounds on a summer’s morning.
The perfume of hay just recently cut,
The scent of the flowers as they open up,
The sterile fresh air as it sweeps in the dawn;
Smells on a summer’s morning.
The rustle of leaves in the pure gentle breeze,
The chirping of birds making nests in the trees,
The turf machine promises “I’ll keep you warm;”
Sounds on a summer’s morning.
The cloudless blue sky with its streamers of white
Whispers to us of its traffic all night,
The gorse all ablaze, the spray of whitethorn;
Sights on a summer’s morning.
Flower gardens resplendent in colours so bright,
Grasses all glistening from the dew of the night,
Bathed in brightness, all lovely and warm;
The world on a summer’s morning.
Heart light and airy, the world’s at peace.
With each breath of air all my worries cease,
God is in Heaven – the devil I scorn
Thoughts on a summer’s morning.
==============================
Lorraine Nash – Winter Sun (official video) – YouTube
Lyrics
You approached me in the darkness
A figure I knew well
The silhouette was known to me
But it was far too soon to tell
With each step that you drew towards me
I knew you less and less
A creature of your likeness
With a kind of hollowness
And all that winter sun
Has ever gave to me
Was a couple hours of light
And a heat I couldn’t feel
So don’t you come to me
So bright and bold
You promised me the world
But you left it in the cold
And I was waiting for the heat to come
The light it touched my skin
I kept waiting for the heat to come
But the cold came creeping in
Like stepping out onto a frozen lake
Hid underneath the snow
I put my trust in something bound to break
But how could I have known
And all that winter sun
Has ever gave to me
Was a couple hours of light
And a heat I couldn’t feel
So don’t you come to me
So bright and bold
You promised me the world
But you left it in the cold
And I’ve been blinded by sunshine
And oh I hate how sweet the world has seemed
Bathed in your cold light
And all that winter sun
Has ever gave to me
Was a couple hours of light
And a heat I couldn’t feel
So don’t you come to me
So bright and bold
You promised me the world
But you left it in the cold
And all that winter sun
Has ever gave to me
Was a couple hours of light
And a heat I couldn’t feel
So don’t you come to me
So bright and bold
You promised me the world
But you left it in the cold
Source: LyricFind
Songwriters: Lorraine Nash
Winter sun lyrics © DistroKid
https://wordpress.com/read/blogs/116273915/posts/21586
https://www.discoverireland.ie/kerry/carrigafoyle-castle
===============================
Poetry
Poetry from Michael Patrick Moore
This entry was posted on April 10, 2023 by huntrogers, in creative writing, diaspora, News, Poetry and tagged Poetry. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment
MORNING
Woken by sunlight upon me that shone
Through my bedroom window the morning seen,
A raucous riot of red and green,
Lorikeets adorning callistemon.
An avian chorus announcing the day
From perfumed Eucalypts promising rain,
And now seeking flowers and seeking grain,
All manner of creatures at work and play.
Thankful am I for this sensory feast
Thankful am I for the gift of this day,
The return of light after night times’ fall.
Just to be part of this morning released,
For the few precious lines, mine in this play,
Just for the gift of this morning at all.
THE NEWNESS OF THINGS
The stars are fading,
To the east a match is struck
Heralding the dawn.
At one with the sun,
With gratitude I rise now
With the rising world.
Synchronicity,
My heart beats in perfect time
With the woken day.
The lines become blurred,
Between all that is and I
Such affinity.
No mere backdrop this,
I feel all, I am part of
The fabric of things.
================================
Poetry
FOR THE TRAVEL(L)ER
By John O Donohue
Every time you leave home,
Another road takes you
Into a world you were never in.
New strangers on other paths await.
New places that have never seen you
Will startle a little at your entry.
Old places that know you well
Will pretend nothing
Changed since your last visit.
When you travel, you find yourself
Alone in a different way,
More attentive now
To the self you bring along,
Your more subtle eye watching
You abroad; and how what meets you
Touches that part of the heart
That lies low at home:
How you unexpectedly attune
To the timbre in some voice,
Opening in conversation
You want to take in
To where your longing
Has pressed hard enough
Inward, on some unsaid dark,
To create a crystal of insight
You could not have known
You needed
To illuminate
Your way.
When you travel,
A new silence
Goes with you,
And if you listen,
You will hear
What your heart would
Love to say.
A journey can become a sacred thing:
Make sure, before you go,
To take the time
To bless your going forth,
To free your heart of ballast
So that the compass of your soul
Might direct you toward
The territories of spirit
Where you will discover
More of your hidden life,
And the urgencies
That deserve to claim you.
May you travel in an awakened way,
Gathered wisely into your inner ground;
That you may not waste the invitations
Which wait along the way to transform you.
May you travel safely, arrive refreshed,
And live your time away to its fullest;
Return home more enriched, and free
To balance the gift of days which call you.
https://www.johnodonohue.com/
======================================
#OTD in 1964 – Death of novelist Maurice Walsh, author of the original story of The Quiet Man.
Feb 18, 2023
IrelandCo. KerryIrish NationalistNovelistThe Quiet Man
Maurice Walsh was born in Ballydonoghue, near Listowel, Co Kerry, and is best known for the short story The Quiet Man which was later made into an Oscar-winning movie directed by John Ford and starring John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara. He was one of Ireland’s best-selling authors in the 1930s.
John Walsh’s main interests were books and horses and he himself did little about the farm, preferring to have a hired man. The most famous of these was Paddy Bawn Enright, whose name was to be immortalised by Maurice Walsh in his story The Quiet Man (though the name was not used in the movie version). John Walsh passed on to his son not only a love of books but also legends and folk tales and the theory of place that were later to be a feature of many of Maurice’s books.
Maurice Walsh was an Irish nationalist and made one of his main characters, Hugh Forbes, an active fighter against the Black and Tans in the Irish War of Independence. President Éamon de Valera attended Maurice’s funeral Mass.
Poetry
Tae Lane, February 2023
John Fitzgerald remembers Tae Lane in a different era.
Places like The Casbah and The New Road will be familiar only to Listowel natives of a certain age.
I enjoyed this epic poem of deeds of yore.
The Battle of Tae Lane
John Fitzgerald
There’s a one eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,
there’s a cavalcade of cavalry lost in Death Valley too.
there’s the pharaohs in their pyramids and the Eiffel on the Seine,
but who of you remembers the famous Battle of Tae Lane.
Napoleon planned his sorties from a galleon out at sea,
and Hannibal crossed the Great Alps on an elephant you see,
Bush set his sites on Bagdad as mighty Caesar did on Spain
and the Casbah planned new boundaries to encompass sweet Tae Lane.
‘Twas in the year of fifty nine, at the back of Sandy’s shed,
long since Hitler went to Poland and Paddy to Hollyhead,
and of all the wars you’ll mention, there is none will hold a flame
to the fight fought by the Gravel Crushers defending their Tae Lane.
For weeks before the New Road was a tranquil place by day
as the boys played round the grotto and the old ones knelt to pray,
but at night behind the Astor, they gathered one and all
to plan their deadly battle and The Gravel Crushers fall.
The sally and the hazel were long stripped before the fall.
Nature played no part in this of that I well recall.
‘Twas the hand of Tarzan Murphy paring sticks both thick and tall
as he swung through trees and branches letting bows and arrows fall.
The signs were all apparent if only eyes would see.
Paddles Browne went round the town on an errand of mystery.
From Moss Scanlon’s up to Shortpants he gathered off cuts by the score,
leather pouches for the making of the deadly slings of war.
Bomber Behan scoured the backways, picked up bits from forge to forge.
Each scrap of steel, the point he’d feel, an arrow tip or sword.
‘Til at the back of Charles Street, as the last forge he did pass
he felt the boot of Jackie Moore go halfway up his ass.
His shouts and bawls off backway walls went half way round the town
Mutts Connor and Gigs Nolan thought ‘twas the Bandsroom falling down.
But the ear of Tommie Allen, sharp as any corner boy
Heard the beans were spilt , they’d all be kilt , and he began to cry .
“The game is up”, he shouted from Scully’s Corner’s vantage point
“Poor Bomber he’s been captured as he was struggling to find
live ammo for the battle in the cold and p p pissing rain
Pat Joe Griffin must be warned to strike early on Tae Lane.”
Brave Victor of the Broderick clan defied the daring raid,
He called his troops together and ‘twas then this plan he made.
“We’ll meet them at the bottleneck” that went by the shithouse name
under Dan Moloney’s garage in the heart of sweet Tae Lane.
He marshalled troops to left and right, of the gushing sewer outfall.
No silver from these waters flowed of that I well recall.
Half were placed on the market cliff and half on Dagger’s dump
and there they’d wait in soldier’s gait ‘til Victor shouted jump.
The Gravel Crushers ammo was got ready for the drop,
gattling guns and gadgets from Fitzgibbon’s well armed shop,
no trees they’d cut, no face they’d soot, yes, they’d face no blame or shame
those gallant lads from William Street who defended their Tae Lane
The butcher boys, the Shaughnessys were such an awesome sight.
Young Mickey climbed the saddle of the King’s Tree on the right
Titch and Teddy ever ready, pointed bamboos on the bank
As P.J. stood next to Victor, his brothers he outranked.
While Back The Bank they gathered just below the Convent Cross,
where Mickeen Carey taught us all the game of pitch and toss.
John Guerin took no notice, no thoughts for God or man
only the rushing of those waters where the silver salmon ran.
Pat Joe was the leader of the Casbah’s fearsome band,
with the Nolans, Long John and Spats, he’d backup at his hand.
There were the Reidys and the Roches, the Cantys and the Keanes
and they all set off together to capture sweet Tae Lane.
‘Twas a battle worth recalling, there were heroes more than few,
as the sky above grew darker when the stones and arrows flew,
and in the close encounters , it then was man to man
one a Gravel Crusher and one a Casbarian.
With blood flowing towards the river, it all came down to two,
the leaders of those fighting hordes, Victor Broderick and Pat Joe.
They wrestled in the nettles, in the rubbish they did fight
among stickybacks and dockleafs and Mary B’s pigshite.
The duel it was well balanced as they struggled on the grass,
a rabbit punch, an elbow a kick in shin or arse.
No mercy would be given, sure the day would end in pain
such was the price one had to pay for lovely sweet Tae Lane.
The bold Mickey took a horsehoe which he’d pinched from Tarrant’s forge.
No more in vain he could watch in pain his brother poor Pat Joe.
The glistening shoe of steel he threw, it caught Pat Joe’s left grip.
“The odds have changed”, Eric Browne exclaimed “we’re on a sinking ship”.
Just then the sky above them changed, the sun shone through instead
as round by Potter Galvin’s came the flash of Ollie’s head.
Mounted on a milk white stallion from Patrick Street he came
thundering to the brother’s rescue as he lay wounded in Tae Lane.
There are mixed views of what happened next, but I was surely there.
No classic from the Astor or the Plaza could compare.
Mac Master or Mc Fadden could never stage the play.
Who won? Who lost? What matter, all were Gleann Boys on that day.
That battle royal still lingers in the confines of my mind.
No time nor tide dare loose it as long as I’m alive.
‘Twas the battle of all battles that held no blame or shame
fought fiercely by those boys of yore for the right to rule Tae Lane.
===============================
Irish Proverbs
-------------------------------------------
New York NY Irish American Advocate 1943-1945 - 0912.pdf
6 Jan 1945
-----------------------------
We could in vision visit the old land and see Wicklow the Garden of Ireland. Killarney's lakes and dells. Historic Wexford; Kilkenny, the marble county; Kildare, the home of Irish Sportsmen. Lava of the Kings. The lakes of Westmeath; Offaly of the Slieve Bloom Mountains; Cork with its Blarney Castle and Bells of Shandon. Limerick and the Walls of Garryowen; Clare with its many Cliffs; Tipperary with its Golden Vale. The Blackwater Valley in Waterford; Louth and its ancient Abbeys (now in ruins). T h e West with its Connemara and Hills of St. Patrick; Sligo the Killarney of the West; Dublin with its fine architecture. The Donegal Highlands; Cavan, where the River Shannon bursts forth. The Walls of Derry; Antrim with t h e Giant's Causeway. Co. Down a n d its Mourne Mountains Leitrim of t h e lakes. Roscommon with its Abbeys and beautiful bogs. Fermanagh and the winding
banks of Erne. The pleasing town of Omagh.
This is only a small sample of Ireland's historic and romantic natural scenery. T h e Irish Exile in large industrial cities of America appreciate now what he or she lost when taking the emigrant ship. We paid no attention to God's own Country that was outside the door with us as we looked out into the Irish dawn. Now, let us stop roaming and dwell on our own little parish and locality where we first saw the light in a small thatched cabin by the side of the road with its small river and many streams going on to the ocean. Follow the little river as it joins hands with the Shannon in North Kerry and you find yourself in the beautiful seaside resort of Ballybunion. And I will leave the description to a little national school girl who attended the same school as I did as taken from the Kerryman many years ago.
------------------------------------
Hail Ballybunion
You may picture Madonna's of beauty's own grace
You may p a i n t the gay landscape and lend them a grace
But for me there's no charm in culture or art
'Tis the deft h a n d s of Nature appeals to my heart.
With a third for new pleasures I mended my way
To t h a t place Ballybunion, 'tis ancient they say,
When its hoary old Castle broke out on my view,
My mind in a maze back o'er centuries flew.
How majestic in ruin, of visage, how gray,
But it mocks the proud storm, it plays with the spray.
And the soul of sweet music, whose magic enthralls,
Is the song of the light wind t h at steals through its halls
O'er the cliffs what a flood of wild grandeur is thrown,
Knockanore frowns behind with a pride all its own,
As if telling the Shannon, whose bright water lanes
To disturb n o t the echoes t h a t Swell in t h e caves.
You may go to the Lyral and tread o'er its snows,
You m a y go to a land where b u t zephyr-wind blows.
On the cliffs, Ballybunion, 'tis sweeter to be,
To watch the broad Shannon—join h a n d s with the sea
You may go to the land where the orange and vine
Cast their proud shadows o'er broad winding Rhine,
But, O sweet smelling Shannon what mighty power gave
Such a glow to thy water, such ease to thy wave.
All Hail! Ballybunion, thou stranger to wealth
Yet what richness is thine, thou safe harbour of health
Where the woe-begone toiler of h a n d or of brain
May partake at thy fountain—but never can drain.
—T. D. Curtin
------------------------------------
There's a spot that is hallowed by
mem'ries so sweet,
Tis the spot t h a t I always call home,
Where the Aves are told in that accent so sweet,
'Tis the land where the shamrock is grown.
Ah, yet haunts
See paper for more of poem by
(Sister) Mary V. McHale,
Native of Castlebar, Mayo, Ireland
--------------------
I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet.
The sound of a door t h a t is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.
From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.
=================================
Poetry
A Seasonal Poem from 1927
Butte Independent, Saturday, June 11, 1927;
CHRISTMAS EVE IN KERRY
“Tis Christmas Eve in Kerry, and the Pooka is at rest
Contented in his stable eating hay;
The crystal snow is gleaming on the mountains of the West,
And a lonesome sea is sobbing far away;
But I know a star is watching o’er the bogland and the stream,
And ‘tis coming, coming, coming o’er the foam;
And ’tis twinkling o’er the prairie with a message and a dream
Of Christmas in my dear old Kerry home.
‘Tis Christmas Eve in Kerry, and the happy mermaids croon
The songs, of youth and hope that never die;
Oh never more on that dear shore for you and me, aroon.
The rapture of that olden lullaby:
But the candle lights are gleaming on a hillside far away.
And peace is in the blue December gloam;
And o’er the sea of memory I hear the pipers play
At Christmas in my dear old Kerry home.
‘Tis Christmas Eve in Kerry, oh I hear the fairies’ lyre
Anear the gates of slumber calling sweet.
Calling softly, calling ever to the land of young desire,
To the pattering of childhood’s happy feet;
But a sleepless sea is throbbing, and the stars are watching’ true
As they journey to the wanderers who roam —
Oh the sea, the stars shall bring me tender memories of you
<<<<<<<<<
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 your Happy, Holy Christmas
Will be Blessed by Him above
Junior Griffin
Listowel
<<<<<<<<<<
Christmas in an Irish house in Kentish Town in the 1960s
Maurice Brick Irish Central December 2021
I was wiping the mud from a 20-foot length of half-inch steel reinforcing bar with a wire brush and cursing the frost from the night before, which made it harder. I had, by then, passed the “barra liobar” (frozen fingers) part and the blood was circulating well despite the freezing cold. Steel is about the coldest thing you can handle in freezing weather.
It just didn’t seem like Christmas at all. I received a card from home the day before and Mam said how they were looking forward to Christmas and going to Dingle for the day with Dad. The lads were fine, she said, and they were wondering why I wasn’t coming home and she told them work was tight in England and maybe I wanted to put a bit of money away. Poor Mam, she always thought the better of me.
Today was payday; at least there was something good about it. Tomorrow, Friday, was Christmas Eve, so we had money for a good booze-up if nothing else for the weekend. There were six of us staying in a boarding house in Kentish Town and since we were all from the other side the mood, to say the least, was somber.
There were two from Donegal and they worked in the tunnels and made tons of money. The work was hard but, I’ll tell you, they were harder. There were three of us from West Kerry and we worked straight construction – buildings, shuttering (concrete formwork) and the like. That was hard work, too, but not as tough as the tunnels with the compressed air. The other fellow was from Clare, a more respectable sort of chap and he worked for British Rail as a porter.
I tried the tunnels myself once. I persuaded one of the Donegal fellows to get me a start and to tell the truth it was the money that enticed me outright. But my venture was a disaster. I started and descended into the tunnel and while there the compressed air hit me like a shot after an hour and my ears screamed with pain.
They were worse again when I entered the decompression chamber and I couldn’t wait to get out. I gained a great deal of respect for the Donegal fellows after that. They both wore a medal-type apparatus around their necks that gave the address of the decompression chamber of their tunnel.
On Christmas Eve, we worked half a day. The foreman was a sly bastard. He was as Irish as we were, but when the “big knobs” from the Contractor’s office appeared on site he affected such a cockney accent that you’d swear he was born as close to “Petticoat Lane” as the hawkers plying their trade there on Sunday.
Anyway, we all chipped in and gave him a pound each for Christmas. This gesture did not emanate from generosity but rather preservation. Our erstwhile foreman could be vindictive and on payday, he would come by and ask for a light and you would hand him the box of matches with a pound note tightly squeezed in there and all would be well with the world. Not a bad day’s take as there were twenty in our gang. But the job paid well and no one complained.
When I got to the house on Christmas Eve, I paid the landlady and took a bath and dressed in my Sunday best. I waited for the others and we all sat down to dinner. It had some meat and lashings of mashed potatoes, “Paddy Food” they called it. It didn’t bother us much for we knew we would have steak in a late-night café after the pubs closed anyway. The six of us were dressed and ready to go at half six and we headed straight for the “Shakespeare” near the Archway.
After a few pints, there we went to the “Nag’s Head” on Holloway Road. However, we encountered a group from Connemara there and rather than wait for the customary confrontation – for some reason there was animosity between those from the Kerry Gaeltacht area and those from Connemara, which was also a Gaelic speaking area in Galway – we decided to forego it on Christmas Eve. But we assured each other that the matter would be taken care of in the very near future. Just as I was leaving one of the Connemara chaps said, “láithreach a mhac” (soon, my son) and I responded, “is fada liom é a mhac” (I can’t wait, my son).
We ended up in the “Sir Walter Scott” in Tollington Park and I barely remember seeing a row of pints lined up on the bar to tide us over the period between “time” called and when we actually had to leave. This period could last an hour depending on the pub governor’s mood.
We ambled, or rather staggered, into the late-night café sometime after midnight and the waitress gave us a knowing glance and said, “Steak and mash Pat, OK” and we all said “yes.” Some of us said it a few times just to make sure we had said it. It was then I thought, Jesus, I never went to Midnight Mass. That bothered me. I had always gone to Midnight Mass, but it was only last year I started drinking and it went completely out of my head.
We had our feed of steak and left and we decided to walk to the “Tube” at Finsbury Park and that would bring us to Kentish Town Station. Somehow, we made it and truthfully I don’t remember a moment on that train.
We arrived home at two and as quietly as possible reached our rooms. One of the Donegal fellows pulled out a bottle of Scotch and passed it around and we just sat on the beds and took turns taking swigs descending deeper and deeper into the realm of the absence of coherence of any sort.
I remember thinking again about missing Midnight Mass and I must have voiced my disgust a number of times to the annoyance of the others and one of them asked me to “shut the hell up.” I approached him and hit him right between the eyes and he crumpled to the floor and fell asleep.
The others struggled and lifted me onto the bed and everything just blanked out and I remember awakening on Christmas Day and the fellow I hit was nursing a bruised cheek by the window. I asked him what happened and he said he didn’t know and that he thought he bumped into something in his drunken state. I told him that I thought I hit him and that I was sorry.
He came by my side and sat there and I thought I detected a tear or two in his eyes. He looked at me and said, “You know, this is no friggin’ way to spend a Christmas, is it?” And I said, “You’re right” and I shook his hand for I thought he was a better man than I.
<<<<<<<<<<<
A Christmas Poem from an Emigrant
lI KNOW SANTA’S ON HIS WAY
GRANDPAW, Will you tell me the story, of how Christmas came to be
About the baby Jesus, the presents, and the tree
Why the stars all seem to sparkle, up yonder in the sky
And why there’s so much laughter, amongst every girl and guy
Can you tell me why the candles, seem to have a beacon light
Will it be like this forever, or is this a special night
Cometo me my little sweetheart, and climb up on my knee
And I’ll tell you the story, just the way ‘twas told to me
It started back many years ago, in a land far, far away
In a little town called Bethlehem, or so the people say
By a manger in a stable, so cold and all forlorn
There on the hay, that December day, Jesus Christ was born
You ask me of the presents, and what meaning they may hold
I guess it’s called affection, should the truth be ever told
They’re little gifts that are bestowed, and we all understand
On that special day we just want to say, God bless the giving hand
Now, I know what you are thinking, by the way you look at me
You want to hear the story, about the Christmas tree
Well, every day in His own way, God sends us from above
Some hurt, some joy, some strength and pain, but He does it all with love
He gave us gifts like mountains, the deserts, and the sea
And mankind enhanced this beauty in the form of a tree
My little girl with golden curl, about the candle glow
Should we get lost, by day or night, as on through life we go
When we’re in doubt, as we sometimes are, as on and on we roam
It’s the twinkling stars and candlelight, that will lead us safely home
Well, now I believe I’ve come to the end, I have no more to say
So go to sleep my sweetheart
I KNOW SANTA’S ON HIS WAY!
By Richard Moriarty of
Ballydonogue, Lisselton
and San Diego, California
Christmas 2022
https://listowelconnection.com/2022/12/
------------------------------------------------------
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.
===================================
Poetry
The following verses were composed by poet Michael Hartnett for a Templeglantine Glór na nGael Christmas card in the 1970s. Michael, at that time, resided at Glendarragh
Tar a Chríost, tá fáilte in ndán duit
Ó loinnir na gcoinneal I dTeampall an Ghleanntáin:
Tá gach tigh ina ósta is leaba le fái lann:
Fáilte Nollag dod’ chlann ‘tá ar fán.
Christ come to Templeglantine
Where a thousand Christmas candles
Welcome You, White Star, new from the womb:
You will get a linen bed here
A goose-down pillow for Your head here:
For every house is an inn here
And every inn has room.
----------------------------------
hristmas townlands wait,
Carrig, Lenamore, road and field they undulate
To every open door,
Village, byre and frosty ways
Show farmer, townie, whining crone
Grow generous with praise’
from The Wren Boy by Brendan Kennelly.
=================================
Poetry
Knockdown News – 13/12/22
Christmas Morning
By Peg Prendeville
“Mama, Mama, wake up quick
Santa has arrived.”
I checked the time, it’s ten past four!
In the blankets I want to hide.
But it’s only once a year I suppose,
So I don my new bed jacket
And forced myself to tumble out
And faced the din and racket.
There is wrapping paper and boxes
All scattered on the floor,
A fire engine motors between my legs,
As it goes honking out the door.
“Look at my remote control,
And he even brought batteries!”
Two happy eyes look up at me
And all my tiredness flees.
The Season would not be the same
If Santa comes no more,
So I’m glad that he has never died
Even at ten past four.
Frosty Night
The Star sprinkled sky
reflects the lighted homes,
Folds of fog,
Tucked into pockets,
Create an aura of gentle peace.
Earth’s rich colours
Diluted by moonlight.
==================
Home for Christmas.
Matt Mooney sent us his Christmas poem
-----------
Snug in our house at home Christmas Day,
Condensation heavy on the window pane,
Hearing the sudden click of our small gate,
Someone saw him come and said his name.
Mother hovering over the Christmas dinner,
Up on the Stanley range – her engine room,
Looks out in hope and then she saw her son
Walking in again the sloping path to home.
Her heart filled with joy so warm and full,
She emerges as if a wave in a warm ocean
Is carrying her to let him in and greet him,
Her embraces laced with motherly emotion.
He smells roasting goose as he sips soup,
And talks farming talk with his eager father;
Soon he melts into the man he was before
He took the boat to England with his brother.
He was happy he had made the journey west,
He knew that it was not a time to be alone;
Here by the fire he felt it even in his bones –
That at Christmas it was great to be at home.
Matt Mooney.
Taken from ‘The Singing Woods’ (2017).
========================
The Writers’ Museum
Housed in a splendidly restored 19th century Georgian residence in Listowel’s magnificent Square, Kerry Writers’ Museum takes you on a stimulating journey of discovery through the poetry, stories and songs of our acclaimed Kerry Writers. You will be immersed in the words of John B. Keane (The Field), Bryan MacMahon (The Windows of Wonder), Brendan Kennelly (The Man Made of Rain), Maurice Walsh (The Quiet Man) and George Fitzmaurice (The Magic Glasses). Experience the amazing themed installations in each writer’s room and view original artefacts and materials of the writers which forms part of the Museum’s vast collection.
Filled with an abundance of rich characters, humour, romance and tragedy drawn from the towns and villages of North Kerry, the works of the writers will make you laugh & cry, but, above all, you will come away from your visit to the Kerry Writers’ Museum with a sense of the people and places that shaped Kerry’s literary heritage
https://www.kerrywritersmuseum.com/writers-museum/
=============================
===========================
POEM
Round the Block
A Poem by John Fitzgerald
Let us go then, you and I
Round the Block, beneath the sky
Like two prisoners on a street
Back in time when young boys meet
Past busy lanes, bustling shops
Penny sweets and summer shots
Munched in silence when alone
Thinking of those friends now gone.
Up William Street, left and right
Pubs, clothes shops will catch the eye
Smell of commerce everywhere
Traffic vying to get you there
Coffee shops and restaurants
Fancy names when hunger taunts
“Hot dinners” there once in vogue
Pizzas, burgers now to choose.
At the Sheriff’s, Charles Street
Corner boys a vantage keep
Swapping tales and street reviews
Up to date with daily news
Live the painters, the wood grainers
Eagle eyes, true colour changers
Cut stone houses there to see
I know you and you know me.
Leaving Charles Street for Forge Lane
Halfway Round the Block we’ve come
Blacksmiths two and cobblers one
Artists each and everyone
Short the street but great the craft
Lineage of a class apart
As we head down to Church Street
Last leg of the Block we reach.
Linking Church Street to the Square
Young and old pass everywhere
Shopfronts of an older day
Proudly boast an ancient way
Harp and Lion in God we trust
“Spes in Deo” is put first
Latin, French and Irish mix
In bold relief, in plaster rich.
As we walk we talk a lot
Writers, stories priming thought
Bryan, the Master and John B.
Raise the bar for all to see
Characters, an endless list
Can lift mood at a twist
Each time ventured Round the Block
Transformed but no memory lost.
Threaded beads of incident
To be found in every sense
Raise your head, they put you down
That’s what happens in my town
Lower it and they raise you up
That is what is called support
As the bell strikes in the Square
Our walk is timed to finish there.
---------------------------------
Christmas is Coming
Christmas is coming
And the goose is getting fat.
Please put a penny in the old man’s hat.
If you haven’t got a penny a ha’penny will do.
If you haven’t got a ha’penny
God bless you.
--------------------------------------------
Thomas Moore- 1779–1852
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/thomas-moore
-----------------------------------
November rain in Dublin.
I was born in Queensland the fourth of six children, Fourth generation Australian born on my mother’s side who were predominantly of Irish stock who came to Australia post the famine years (for the most part from the counties of Tipperary, Wicklow and Donegal). My father came to Australia from Dublin in the 1950s; his father was raised in Maam Connemara and later in Kilkee County Clare but the Moore family going back were from Kilmorna, later known as Kilmeany near Listowel. His mother, was a Barrett from Ennis, County Clare, that whole family very involved in those troubled years of the war of independence in Ireland. Also just out of interest I was part of a little Folk/Irish trio called Welder’s Dog for 10 years or so, with a brother of mine David and our friend Peter Harris, some of our music is still on YouTube I believe. If you listen to Castle Hill Patriots, that is my Dad singing Boolavogue at the start of that song.
https://tintean.org.au/2022/11/10/november-rain-in-dublin/
============================
--------------------------------
Poetry
A poem for Jim on Father’s Day.
By Peg Prendeville
A Different Love
It was easy to love each other when we were young and free
We reared our lovely children and enjoyed being family
We worked hard and kept busy while also having fun
We relaxed at night together when our working day was done.
The years passed quickly by and our children are now grown
Work and hobbies kept us busy – oh, how the years have flown
At last retirement was in view and we had many plans
We’d be busy in the garden and would visit many lands.
But, alas, that’s not what happened and our future was to change
We were given a bigger challenge, our life was re-arranged
We would show our love another way, we would not fail this test
Though you lost your independence we still try to do our best.
Now we show our love in a different way as we remind each other
How lucky we are in our own house and what we’ve
endured together
So we spend our days in silence; we feed and listen to the birds
But our eyes can speak, our hearts still beat, there is no need for words.
=-------------------------------------------
===========================
A Poem from Anne Mulcahy
The River
For Hannah, my Friend
My friend is a Traveller and I am a Country-Buffer –
she has left an imprint on me like a fossil,
zig zag incisions that mould the hardest rock,
planting themselves – living forever.
The delicate sprig of friendship has blossomed
became a mountain with flowing spring waters.
The shared moments caught for us a time of no divide,
a silver net catching the Salmon Boyne-
– like a sparkling clear river – our friendship swelled
– each flow equal to the next –
our laughter shattered the thin vail that hovers –
between prejudice and unity –
between the – I’ll accept you – on my terms, fallacy
Prejudice acts as a lever to elevate our inferior selves
to heights of dizzy disillusion –
Society feeding the layered segmentation segregation –
like ladders – steps of insanity to clouds of fanaticism –
no one wants the bottom rung!
Instead we cling foolishly to the middle ground,
shouting –I’m good today – I’m better than you!.
Refusing to be fossils in Rivers of friendship.
================================
A Poem from Joe Fahy
Exploitation
Culture to Cain, the importance of label
In expressing social status.
Economic power, its Everest, from the steppingstone
It’s foundation, the rock of exploitation.
It’s superiority, its status,
Who pays for the products on the table?
It’s resources from third world locations.
Mixed by and through manipulation,
Political in essence
The priesthood of power,
Political domination,
Economic exploitation,
Social and Cultural
Marginalisation.
Our menus,
From first world T.V. stations
Emphasis on ‘having.’
Children forever grieving,
Totalitarian values at the
Crucifix of consumption.
The two thieves of much
And more, on either side-
Twin towers of greed.
But resurrection is guaranteed-
The first of the Nazarenes’
Abel, in our era.
Remember apartheid,
Our contemporary Roman Era.
That fella of the sixties,
Nelson Mandela.
Romero in the eighties,
Ignacio Ella Curia in the nineties,
The new Holy Land Cuscatlán,
Meaning, ‘land of Rivers and Jewels’
El Salvador, our Saviour.
===============================
Bono’s poem for Ukraine
Oh, St Patrick he drove out the snakes
With his prayers but that’s not all it takes
For the snake symbolises
An evil that rises
And hides in your heart, as it breaks
And the evil has risen my friends
From the darkness that lives in some men
But in sorrow and fear
That’s when saints can appear
To drive out those old snakes once again
And they struggle for us to be free
From the psycho in this human family
Ireland’s sorrow and pain
Is now the Ukraine
And St Patrick’s name now Zelenskiy
===========================================
=========================
Poetry
Matt Mooney – A Stark Cross
Jan 7, 2022
Matt Mooney. A native of Galway, he lives in Listowel. His six collections of poems are: Droving, Falling Apples, Earth to Earth, The Singing Woods, Steering by the Stars, Éalú. Winner of The Pádraig Liath Ó Conchubhair Award 2019. Deputy Editor of The Galway Review and its Poetry Reviewer.
His poems have been published in a number of literary publications which include The Blue Nib, Feasta, Vox Galvia, and in anthologies at home and abroad. He continues to feature in many live and virtual poetry reading events.
A Stark Cross
The only thing I wrote
that end of March
to mark your burial
were six simple lines,
grief laden and finite:
‘The rain fell gently
on your grave
the day they buried
you in Lucan,
a victim of the Virus,
a stark cross above you’.
Out the door of life
alone in isolation,
the rest of us
in lock-down far away;
consolation later
in the loyalty of friends
’round your estate
on a grief-filled day
in their applause
as you passed by
and they sang
our Galway song
that says,
‘It’s faraway I am today
from scenes
I roamed a boy’
in your funeral film,
their last farewell,
their hymn from home
for you.
I have hesitated long,
maybe in denial,
to open up the book,
the story of your life,
its good times
and the bad as well
bettered bravely,
for maybe I’m afraid
I’d find myself
inside there with you
living it to the full,
listening to you Pat,
my own big brother;
taking it all in, then,
seeing the funny side,
laughing in the end.
https://wordpress.com/read/blogs/40745830/posts/13801
=========================================
I Want To Go On
By John McGrath
I want to go on looking in
when they let us out again.
I like what I found there.
Alone I was afraid at first
but then I realised
Searching for what matters
Was what we’re meant to do
How we’re meant to be
Nothing to fear but fear, and me.
Don’t get me wrong
I miss the hugs, the friends,
the buzz of conversation
But I love the contemplation,
So now and then I’ll look back in
when we get out again.
https://listowelconnection.com/2022/02/
---------------------
Holiday by the Lake
Peg, she had a great idea
She was dying for a break
But how would she mange Jim at all
Great plans she’d have to make.
So she rang Jim’s sisters and enquired
If they’d like to book
A few days in the Lake hotel
That would get her off the hook.
Fair play to them, they responded
And so it came to pass
That all of them had the best of fun
Walking to Muckross.
And Seamus enjoyed the company
Of his sisters and their men
And did not feel left out at all
Though he could not walk with them.
And Peg was very happy
Among the mountains and the lake
Which filled her soul with wonder
and helped soothe her heart which ached
To watch her fine strong husband
Confined to his wheelchair.
But her troubles soon were melted
By Killarney’s fragrant air.
Peg Prendeville
------------------------------
I Want To Go On
By John McGrath
I want to go on looking in
when they let us out again.
I like what I found there.
Alone I was afraid at first
but then I realised
Searching for what matters
Was what we’re meant to do
How we’re meant to be
Nothing to fear but fear, and me.
Don’t get me wrong
I miss the hugs, the friends,
the buzz of conversation
But I love the contemplation,
So now and then I’ll look back in
when we get out again.
----------------------------------
Contributed by ChloeFinucane@aol.com
THE BEAUTIES OF LIFE
THE WINGS OF A DOVE
THE WILD OPEN SPACES
OF HEAVEN AND EARTH,
HOWLING OF THE WIND
HIGH IN THE HILLS,
HOWLING OF THE WIND
THE LOWLAND BRINGS.
A CLEAR CRYSTAL FOUNTAIN
A RAINBOW IN THE SKY,
A CLEAR CRYSTAL FOUNTAIN
IS DESTINED TO DIE,
A VEIN TO A HEART
A RIVER TO THE SEA,
A RING ON A FINGER
A LEAF ON A TREE,
THE BEAUTIES OF LIFE
HAVE ALWAYS BEEN
THE BEAUTIES OF LIFE
SHOULD ALWAYS BE SEEN.
JOHN FINUCANE
Contributed by ChloeFinucane@aol.com
============================
DANCE: https://youtu.be/zBpLphSZGJg
===========================
All Ireland Fleadh Ennis A August 2016
https://youtu.be/-JTd90xN1bQ
======================
Matt Mooney – A Stark Cross
5 Jan 2022
Matt Mooney. A native of Galway, he lives in Listowel. His six collections of poems are: Droving, Falling Apples, Earth to Earth, The Singing Woods, Steering by the Stars, Éalú. Winner of The Pádraig Liath Ó Conchubhair Award 2019. Deputy Editor of The Galway Review and its Poetry Reviewer.
His poems have been published in a number of literary publications which include The Blue Nib, Feasta, Vox Galvia, and in anthologies at home and abroad. He continues to feature in many live and virtual poetry reading events.
A Stark Cross
The only thing I wrote
that end of March
to mark your burial
were six simple lines,
grief laden and finite:
‘The rain fell gently
on your grave
the day they buried
you in Lucan,
a victim of the Virus,
a stark cross above you’.
Out the door of life
alone in isolation,
the rest of us
in lock-down far away;
consolation later
in the loyalty of friends
’round your estate
on a grief-filled day
in their applause
as you passed by
and they sang
our Galway song
that says,
‘It’s faraway I am today
from scenes
I roamed a boy’
in your funeral film,
their last farewell,
their hymn from home
for you.
I have hesitated long,
maybe in denial,
to open up the book,
the story of your life,
its good times
and the bad as well
bettered bravely,
for maybe I’m afraid
I’d find myself
inside there with you
living it to the full,
listening to you Pat,
my own big brother;
taking it all in, then,
seeing the funny side,
laughing in the end.
https://wordpress.com/read/blogs/40745830/posts/13801
----------------------------------------
Poetry
Orphans of Aleppo
I had a dream last night
of children – little fugitives,
refugees from Syria –
abandoned and bombed out,
crawling in a quest
for families they lost
like newly weaned lambs;
survivors of lethal waves
in overcrowded dinghies;
after the human chaos
then the frozen fear,
following urban air raids,
of those left alive
in honeycombs of horror;
and now they seek a lap
on which to lay their heads,
the orphans of Aleppo.
October 2016
----------------------------
Winterman
I do not like you winterman,
walking slowly towards me
with your long black coat
brushing against the bushes,
black as well this evening.
It’s your fault you old timer,
you stole the leaves of gold
and sent the sun to bed early,
donning your broad grey hat
for Halloween above us all.
Driving the grey road ribbon,
leaving Abbeyfeale behind,
headlights on at half past five
against your onward march –
dipping downhill to Duagh
through descending darkness,
ever trying to creep over me;
a rising string of street lights
up a glenside football village,
each orange glow my beacon.
Sameness
Couples on a mid-week break
in a hotel down Wexford way
descending from their rooms,
their children running free,
assembling for afternoon tea
with the same anticipation
as the seagulls I remember
hovering over the full tide,
and a shoal of mackerel
near the surface of the sea
off the promenade in Galway
and later landing on the rocks
showing off their seagullness,
searching us with steady eyes
in their brilliant whiteness
capped with backs of grey,
tails tipped with black,
orange beaks and orange webs;
we resemble them in ways
in the simplicity of our needs
and we gladly meet and mingle
to celebrate in our sameness –
the sealing of a common bond.
-------------------------
Glenageenty
A boorheen more than a road
looked like it might finish up
around a bend sooner or later;
yet it redeemed itself later on
in magnificent Mount Brandon
showing up on the skyline
as we were charmed to go on
along a wooded glen side
that towered above our heads
and sunk out of sight below
to the quietly flowing rivulet.
The heritage signpost heralded
a hideaway for an Easter rebel,
Captain Monteith of the Aud,
‘on the run’ from Banna Beach
after Casement’s capture there
and I climbed down, a pilgrim,
to see the plaque to our patriot
in the autumn of the centenary.
A simple cabin down below
reached only by a spiral path,
was a safe house for him,
down by the Ravens’ Waterfall;
the hazel and mountain ash
hid a hermit grey and bearded,
inside his forest family circle
of cow, donkey, dog and cat;
felt the peace of a place apart
and I stood to pay my tribute
to the old hermit and the hero
forging a link in our freedom
in Glenageenty woods for us
long before we were even born.
Burning Potato Stalks
Deep green barely seen
potato shoots coming up
in little firm bunches
thrilling from the clay
promising good times
in stepped out rows
headland to headland.
Growing up before me
in the land of summer
the straight stalks flower
in daisy white blossoms
tinged with purple –
time to spray they say
for blight a deadly enemy.
Digging time is looming
sometime in October
then the picking carting
and pitting for the winter.
Lying along erased drills
the stalks wilt fit to burn
in Indian summer time
we gather up with forks
myself and my father
on a hillside tillage field
tilted towards the light
from the sun’s journey
to Galway of the Races
we used as our timepiece
our weather vane as well
when we raised our heads
days ‘down in the garden’.
Piled up lit and burned off
leaving an undying flame
within me in his memory
bonfires of withered stalks
smoke like incense spirals
for a healthy crop given
crackling and consuming
smells that rock the senses.
The Elysian Fields
They looked like Elysian Fields
to me up in the sky above there
coming down the Hill of Leith
leaving the sun behind to sink
solemnly near Mount Brandon.
Above its rays had gone ahead
on red and purple pink and rosé
fleecy clouds in ridges running
towards the village of Kilflynn.
Perplexed as to its connotation
this glimpse of suspended glory.
Overhead our Champs – Elysée
furrows on the fields of heaven
where ‘Our God Reigns’ is sung
and the choirs sing Deo Gratias
for their lives for what has been
a land of no seasons and no sin.
Seeming to be so near from here
I’d like to climb its silken ladder
and see for sure our final destiny.
Matt Mooney
------------------------------------------------------------
Covid Sonnet
John McGrath (published in John’s anthology, After Closing)
The world has pinned us with a warning glance,
the kind our mothers gave us long ago,
the look that was designed to let us know
that this might be our last and final chance.
So grounded, we can only hope and pray
as, day by day, we inch away from fear
and tiptoe towards a future far from clear
our wounded planet showing us the way,
that voices raised in ignorance and greed
may yet be drowned by kindnesses and care,
together we may rise above despair,
united we will find the strength we need
as, all for one, we reach beyond the pain
and dare to dream tomorrow once again.
-------------------------------------------------
A Poem about Land and Legacy
John McGrath’s anthology, After Closing, is full of lovely poems to dip into. Here is one I like.
Foley’s Field
Dan Foley dug his field but not for gold,
Though long ago his father showed him how.
Plant trees! he said, The ground’s too poor to plough.
But sons don’t always do as they are told.
Dry summers gave a glimpse of buried store
And so Dan dug where mighty trees had grown,
Where cows had grazed and summer crops were sown
And men had thrived two thousand years before.
Great golden roots of long-dead deal he found.
Dan raised them one by one from acid ground,
And as he filled their void with fertile soil,
He knew the field would soon repay his toil,
For land is like a poem, it draws men back
To write another line and leave their track.
-------------------------------------------------------
John O’Donohue
A Blessing For The New Year
On the day when
The weight deadens
On your shoulders
And you stumble,
May the clay dance
To balance you.
And when your eyes
Freeze behind
The gray window
And the ghost of loss
Gets into you,
May a flock of colors
Indigo, red, green
and azure blue,
Come to awaken in you
A meadow of delight
When the canvas frays
In the curragh of thought
And a stain of ocean
Blackens beneath you,
May there come across the waters
A path of yellow moonlight
To bring you safely home.
May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
May the clarity of light be yours,
May the fluency of the ocean be yours,
May the protection of the ancestors be yours.
And so may a slow
Wind work these words
Of love around you,
An invisible cloak
To mind your life.
Poetry
=========================
The Missionary who came to the Rock
Bishop Ray came last June, on a visit,
Poor Niall, he got a big shock.
‘cause a move was in hand,
a successor was planned.
So sad to be leaving the Rock.
He spent 14 years in Kenya,
There, he was tending God’s flock.
But Kerry, he reckoned,
As the Lord had him beckoned.
In 2017, he arrived on the Rock.
He wandered around in his sandals,
No toes, just a view of his sock.
Since in Africa he wore,
Bare feet on the floor.
But we don’t have such heat on the Rock.
He puts on odd wager on horses.
Well versed on their breeders and stock.
Paddy Power was unsure,
Of this guy looking mature,
Who cleaned him out, once he came to the Rock.
He loves to play golf on his day-off,
On fairways in Kerry, not Cork.
With a swing and a smile,
The ball goes a mile,
No hope of that game on the Rock!
He’s proud of his hair and his moustache,
Plenty follicles and many a hair-lock.
Sure his hair was like thatch,
even plaiting his moustache.
While cocooning up here on the Rock.
He’s chaplain now to David Clifford,
The latest kid on the block.
But we’ve heroes galore,
Outside our front door.
The Street of Champions up here on the Rock!
Our congregations come from all over,
From Fenit to Tursillagh.
His stories were many,
Insightful or funny.
As he nurtured us here on the Rock.
His gentle manner won us over,
Sincere and never to mock.
He ministered to us,
Without stress or without fuss.
We’re so grateful up here on the Rock.
Best wishes to you Niall in Fossa,
In the shadows of Aghadoe and of Torc.
They’re blessed to have you,
May God bless all that you do.
All praying for you here on the Rock.
(By Fr Padraig Walsh)
September 2020
==========================
==================================
Poetry
I penned the following ballad about Seamus Maguire; it was put to music by John Hoban
SEAMUS MAGUIRE By Mattie Lennon
The soup-runs of well meaning people
Could not heal the souls or hurt pride
Of the Irish in alien doorways
With no one but God on their side.
Through decades of drink and misfortune
Returning was out of the frame;
The streets and the hills of their homeland
Were but specks on an ocean of shame.
Despondency fed by resentment
Ran loose like an unbroken colt,
‘Til a hero, unsung, from Tipp’rary
Gave the conscience of Ireland a jolt.
“We’ll bring some of them home for next Christmas,
Who haven’t seen loved ones for years.
All we need is the will and the courage”
He blasted at pessimist ears.
Chorus;
Dreams dreamt, under cardboard in Camden,
Of a whin-bush, round tower or turf fire
Were realised beyond expectation;
We were brought home by Seamus Maguire.
The captains of business he badgered
While his care-workers beavered away,
Collecting the cash and resources,
And then came the memorable day
When the “rescue coach” left Dublin’s quayside
In December of seventy nine,
Taking fifty glad hearts to the country
With their loved ones once more to entwine.
For the next twenty years every Christmas
Maguire and his team would ensure
That the birth of the Saviour was special
For those He called “Bless’ed”; the poor.
And many a parent died happy
Resigned to their ultimate fate
With the son or the daughter they cherished
United before ’twas too late.
Chorus
The date on a gravestone in Thurles
Proclaims ninety-nine as the year
That God gave to Seamus Maguire
The reward for his mission down here.
And his name in more permanent fashion
Is forever inscribed in that tome;
The hearts of our destitute exiles
Who once had no hope of going home.
Chorus.
(c) Mattie Lennon 2004
For a man who was so good to so many it is very sad that in the end, he died alone. It is equally sad that nobody saw fit to keep Youth-in-Need going after his death.
----------------------------------
by Kathlen Mullane
HAPPY CHRISTMAS
I’ll finish for 2021 with these lines: –
There’s something about Winter as the days draw to a close,
With curtains drawn, lamps all lit, turf fires and cosy toes.
There’s something about winter with warming winter dishes,
Soup with buttered home made bread, fire gazing making wishes.
There’s something about winter when it’s full of Christmas cheer,
Present buying Midnight Mass, carols sung with families dear.
There’s something about winter cold winds and icy rain,
Then it loosens it’s Iron-Fist, and soon it’s SPRING again.
HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ONE AND ALL
<<<<<<<<<<<<
Poetry
A Poem for our Exiles
Shared by the poet on Facebook
AN EXILE’S CHRISTMAS
It was Christmas Eve in London,
And an Irishman, called Joe.
Stood by an upstairs window
That looked on the street below.
He could see the shoppers passing by,
Their voices filled with cheer.
As they shouted Happy Christmas,
And a prosperous new year.
As he looked around the little room,
That for years had been his home.
He was fifty years in London,
Since he crossed the ocean foam.
His youthful days behind him now,
And his working days long gone.
In retirement, his days were spent
On his own, to carry on.
He could hear a church bell ringing,
On the street across the way.
Where mass was celebrated, on
The eve of Christmas day. |
Then a choir started singing and
The strains of silent night,
Came drifting through the window.
Into Joe’s old flat that night.
As he listened to the singing,
He began to shed a tear.
For he always felt emotional,
On Christmas Eve each year.
When old memories came flooding back,
And his thoughts began to stray.
To his childhood days in Ireland,
Long ago and far away.
He could see again the old thatched house,
At the corner of the lane.
Oh what he’d give to be a lad,
and be back there once again.
The candle in the window,
To light a welcome way.
For the virgin and the Christ child,
On the eve of Christmas day.
The holly and the ivy,
and the cards Around the fire.
And his mother’s Christmas cooking,
That would fill you with desire.
The boxes left for Santa Claus,
In the hopes that he would call.
With the toys to play on Christmas day,
The happiest times of all.
As his memories began to fade,
reality Set in.
He was back once more in London,
In his little flat again.
And he drew his coat around him,
as he sat back in his chair.
And for all those in his memories,
he began to say a prayer.
And he asked the Lord, to grant them rest,
In the land beyond the sky.
All the folks he once shared Christmas with,
In the happy years gone by.
Tomorrow at the Centre, he will meet o
His old friend Jack,
an Irishman just like himself.
That never made it back.
They will have their Christmas dinner,
and a glass or two of beer,
As they join their old acquaintances,
And the friends they love so dear.
Everybody has their party piece,
To raise a bit of cheer.
At their Christmas get together.
In the Centre every year.
So to all our Irish exiles,
in lands far off and near
The blessing of this Christmas time
we wish you all this year.
And although we are divided,
by land and sky, and foam,
A very Merry Christmas,
from the Irish Folks at home.
Martin O’Hara © 29/11/2021
=================================
Poetry
By Peg Prendeville- 15 Dec 2021.
Rudolf’s Red Nose
You know I suppose about Rudolf’s red nose
But do you know how it got there?
Just sit back a while and I’ll make you smile
When I tell you what happened his hair.
Now Rudolf, one day, got bored with his play
And decided to dye his long hair
He went to the shop, there wasn’t a drop
So he had to go to the fair.
Says he to the man who had the red van
“Will you colour my hair a bright red”
“Begor”, said the man, “I’ll do what I can
But if your mother sees it you’re dead.”
So with his face in a frown Rudolf sat down
While his hair was lathered with paint
He looked in the mirror and froze with the terror
And nearly fell down in a faint.
To the man in the van he said “Do what you can
To get it all off my head
I can’t go home now or there will be a row
Come on, hurry up” Rudolf said.
So the man got some soap and muttered “you dope”
And started to wash Rudolf’s hair
It flowed down his face and all over the place
There were puddles and soap everywhere.
Rudolf started to cry when it got in his eye
And out of the chair he arose
He looked in the mirror and started to shiver
When he saw the red paint on his nose.
To Santa he ran, away from the man
Crying Santa my nose is all red
Now Mam will be mad, and say I am bad
Oh Santa please save me he said.
“Oh ho ho ho” laughed Santa, “you know
It shines like a light in the snow
Now drink up your tay and we’ll fill up the sleigh
All the children are waiting you know.”
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ONLINE EVENT | POETRY
16TH VIRTUAL POETRY EVENT
In association with Ó Bhéal
14 JUNE 2021, 8.30pm-11.00pm
FREE
Don’t miss Ó Bhéal’s 16th Virtual Poetry event will feature three parts, a Five Word Challenge (max 30 – after 15 minutes writing time); Featured Guest Poets (Theo Dorgan and Lang Leav and Open-Mic Session for original poetry (max 30).
We will live-stream the session at obheal.ie/live and via Ó Bhéal’s Vimeo, Facebook and YouTube channels. The event will be hosted on Zoom and limited to 100 participants.
MORE INFO & TO REGISTER: https://corkharbourfestival.com/2021/o-bheal/
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Poetry
By Peg Prendeville
The following poem is a light-hearted version of my weekend.
Booster Shot
Everything seemed to fit just right
When I got my Booster call
My hubby was in rehab
So I had no care at all.
And then I had a great idea
Now that I have time to spare
I’ll go to see some family
In Fanore in Co. Clare.
On the way to Patrickswell
My battery light flashed red
So I had to make a detour
And get that fixed instead.
But with guidance from my angels
I got my battery replaced
And got my booster shot, no bother,
And headed to Co. Clare.
Some Neurofen and water
Was the advice I took
I had no symptoms, pains nor aches
I did everything by the book.
But when I went to bed that night
And was thanking God in prayer
I got a fit of shivering
In Fanore in Co. Clare.
The cold attacked from inside my bones
And invaded every pore
I couldn’t warm up at all
I was frozen to the core.
I wrapped up inside a duvet
Tucked pillows here and there
But not a wink of sleep I got
In Fanore in Co. Clare.
I yawned and tossed and turned
As I counted down the hours
And now my body was on fire
And I could not cool it down.
I was not the best of company
As I rested all next day
But thank God I slept on Sunday night
In my bed in Co. Clare.
And now I hear of Omicron
And I wonder will I dare
Accept another booster?
It’s hard to know, I swear!
Now I’m cuddled up in my own bed
And offering up a prayer
For the people who put up with me
While shivering in Clare.
====================================
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By Peg Prendeville
I was sorry to hear of the death of Tom Normoyle, Drumrisk. Sympathies to his sons Michael and Tom and sister Mary and all his extended family. I am sure he is dancing in Heaven right now.
Halloween has passed and what an awful evening it was for those who might have wanted to go Trick or Treating. I am sure it stopped many from venturing out.
I have been holding back from commenting too much on the poetry books launched by my sisters recently simply because they are family but then I thought if they weren’t family I would be very eager to lavish praise on them so I hope you don’t mind me rambling on about them. I know that Paddy Faley would be delighted that the poetry gene was passed on to his children and would delight in the fact that they published their own collections. He, himself, took great pride in his own book The Life and Rhymes of Paddy Faley back in 2003. Bridie Murphy’s book Connections is on sale in O’Riordan’s Chemist, Athea and in the Knockdown Arms among other places. It is a beautiful book of colour photographs interspersed with lovely rhymes and evocative articles. All Bridie’s poems are based on real events in her own family or in the area and her witty lines are a joy to read. I find it very uplifting, especially on these dark nights to pick it up and read one or two. It would make a lovely Christmas present for anybody with a love of reading or anyone who is handy with a camera. It is priced at €20, which is very reasonable for a hardback colour book. Ger White’s book “Newspapers on the Floor” is selling through www.amazon.com and is another collection of poems, long and short, funny and serious, light and dark. Ger lives in East Grinstead in the UK but has a great love for her home place and many of her poems refer back to her time living in Turraree with her Uncle Dan and Ciss. The poems range from quite funny to spiritual to imaginative to a hint of darkness. Her sense of humour is infectious and the title itself sucks one in and makes one curious to read more. It is a black and white paperback. Poetry, as I’ve said before, is only really enjoyable when read aloud and read more than once. At each reading more of a story is told and more sentiment and emotion is expressed. If anybody would like a copy let me know. My mobile is 087 6826878. As I said it is sold through Amazon but for those who would prefer a copy put into their hand I can get some for you for €15. Again, another lovely Christmas present. I wish both my sisters the very best and encourage them to keep writing. The funny thing is that both were intending to publish this year but had kept it to themselves and surprised us all and each other when they let us in on their project. Sure their launches nearly clashed!
https://www.athea.ie/category/news/
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John W Sexton - Poetry Workshop
Saturday, September 11, 2021
10:00 AM 1:00 PM
The Bunker Ballybunion, KY Ireland (map)
Google Calendar ICS
John W. Sexton was born in 1958 and is the author of seven poetry collections, the most recent being: The Offspring of the Moon (Salmon Poetry 2013), Futures Pass (Salmon Poetry 2018), and Visions at Templeglantine (Revival Press 2020). A chapbook of his surrealist poetry, Inverted Night, came out from SurVision in April 2019.
Tickets for the Poetry Workshops are limited, please contact ballybunionartsfestival@gmail.com to book a space, price €20
He is a past nominee for The Hennessy Literary Award and his poem The Green Owl was awarded the Listowel Poetry Prize 2007 for best single poem. His poem In and Out of Their Heads, from The Offspring of the Moon, was selected for The Forward Book of Poetry 2014. His poem The Snails was shortlisted for the 2018 An Post / Listowel Writers’ Week Poem of the Year Award. In 2007 he was awarded a Patrick and Katherine Kavanagh Fellowship in Poetry.
During 2019 and 2020 he was Writer in Residence for the Dromineer Nenagh Literary Festival.
Join John for a three hour poetry workshop at The Bunker.
https://www.ballybunionartsfestival.ie/programme/john-w-sexton-poetry-workshop
=======================
Poetry
by John Fitzgerald
Out from the pastures in early Spring
On trucks and on trailers, the loading begins
The tents and the tigers, the bright colored ring
John Duffy, the circus is callin’
Travellin’ the highways and tourin’ the towns
Ringmaster, jugglers, the cats and the clowns
The posters are printed so word gets around
John Duffy, the circus is callin’
They drive the long nights without any sleep
Wire walkers, tight ropers, all hands to the wheel
Each dawn a’peggin’ the circle of steel
John Duffy, the circus is callin’
They ring round our market, wagons galore
Tractors and trailers, the canvas and more
With riggin’ and cages, ropes by the score
John Duffy, the circus is callin’
Four beats to a bar, the sledges ring
Four men of iron their music to sing
The canvas is spread,” the heave-ho” begins
John Duffy, the circus is callin’
Its haul down the ropes, and let the tent rise
Like clockwork they know, each cog to prise
They heave and they haul ‘til the tent is full size
John Duffy, the circus is callin’
The brass band of old is pipe music new
Monkeys are scarce and the elephants few
The trapeze has nets and the safe rope has too
John Duffy, the circus is callin’
The circus, alas, is not that of old
The magic, the music, the laughs and the roars
See a child’s face when the sparkle’s gone cold
John Duffy will soon not be callin’
Poetry
POEM IN HONOUR OF THE LATE TERESA: Teresa Riordan was in her 98 th year when she died on June 23rd. last. This poem, written by a young relation, was read at her funeral:
Nana Teresa lived to ninety seven,
a place she got above in heaven,
always a lady for the rosary,
evenings she’d say a decade or three.
She loved her holidays in Ballyagran,
down with her sister Joanie’s clan.
Or down to Anna in lovely Croom,
it was a good house for a lovely tune.
Eliah’s daily visits for a run down on the farm,
Teresa loved his craic and his charm.
She loved TV and radio Kerry,
her dog Shizzy and a wine to make her merry.
Teresa was a noted baker,
& very little time it would take her.
famous for her bread and her scones,
a serious operator when in her zone.
Nicola would call for a cup of tea,
In her kitchen Shauna and Caoimhe learned their one, two, threes.
Teresa loved an Irish tune,
Caoimhe on the concertina could be heard in the room.
Teresa had a great circle of friends,
on the phone to them for hours on end.
Neighbours in Banard from above and below,
would always stop by to say hello.
In her early years she milked many a cow,
It isn’t something you’d often see now.
We are living on the farm for 26 years,
Nana Teresa always treated us with love and great cheer.
A trip to Cissy for Saturday mass,
This is something she’d never pass.
First to the hairdresser and dress up in style,
up to receive from the centre aisle.
Years ago Dan and Teresa’s was the only house with a phone,
rarely were they in the house alone,
She’d always have a huge welcome for anyone who’d call,
adults and children both big and small.
Paud Woulfe and Mike Leahy would call every night
Teresa’s flowers and garden was a wonderful sight.
Jim Ahern used to call to fix everything,
while the nieces and nephews would drop by after a quick ring.
Teresa’s home help were super to her in Banard,
she’d love to see them pull into the yard.
A weekend away with James and Katherine in the Sheen Falls in Kenmare,
it was almost as good as a day with Dan at the fair
Her last six weeks were spent in the hill,
with Norette and Nana Riordan she got to chill.
She loved her drives to BallyB,
sitting in the mobile looking out at the sea,
On Wednesday you said goodbye to us,
like everything in life it was with little fuss.
We are sure you are reunited with your darling Dan,
Cissy, Ita and the rest of the Fam.
Rest in Peace Nana Teresa
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===================================================
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.
--------------------------------------------
By Peg Prendeville
I was saddened to hear of the death of Nancy Langan, Glenagragra last weekend. Sincere sympathies to Mossy and all the family.
Knockdown was buzzing again on Monday night when the Knockdown Arms opened its doors after the long COVID break. Ta has done great work to ensure the safety of all patrons. Let us hope now that this will be the last of the shut-downs. But it is up to us all to abide by the rules as much as possible so as to enable the publicans to keep their businesses running smoothly.
Many local people, who would normally go on a sun holiday, are enjoying holidays in Ireland this year and claim to be enjoying them very much. There is no doubt we have a beautiful country only for the weather so the last week has been the icing on the cake for those on holidays. I hope we have not seen the last of the sun. It is like a feast and a famine at the moment. A little bit of consistency would be nice.
The literary bug is running rampant in the Faley family this year. I am informed that two of my sisters are producing poetry books before the year is out. Bridie Murphy, who writes lovely poems of local people and places and events, will be combining her photography with her poems while Ger White in the UK will not let Bridie away with it and might even get in before her with her collection, ranging from light to serious topics. I know Paddy Faley is smiling in Heaven and glad that the tradition lives on. Watch this space!
I know I am gone from the Library staff but I am still happy to visit all libraries and was glad to see that the Newcastlewest staff have a lovely display to honour native Carolyn Hayes who represented Ireland in the Women’s Triathlon on Monday night.
Don’t forget that Glin library is reopened. Danielle Byrne is delighted to get to know all the local readers.
https://www.athea.ie/category/knockdown-news/
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Poetry
Contented Diner
Glass House
John McGrath
I must have ordered onion rings for two.
They’re stacked above my steak like lifebelts;
Pepper sauce and wedges on the side,
salad and a subtle Chilean Red.
Beyond the glass I watch the river rise
swiftly with the tide. Swans
feed frantically, bottoms in the air.
Mine hugs lime-green leatherette.
The waiter smiles, tops up my wine
and leaves. I watch his bottom too,
then raise my fork and stab my plate
like a Polynesian fisherman.
Out on the river, the swans swim on,
pedalling frantically against the tide,
Diving, feeding, pedalling again.
I marvel at their weight-loss plan.
I put down my fork and sigh contentedly,
raise my feet onto the lime-green leatherette,
smile at the waiter as he takes my plate and muse
on why others choose to swim against the tide.
==================================
By John McGrath
Bang!
A finch against my window.
I felt the shudder as its world met mine,
Rushed to where it fell.
Sapped of sense and movement,
Eyes glazed, grey, lifeless,
Wings splayed, stone still.
I saw its small beak quiver,
Move as if to speak.
A tiny pulse throbbed in its downy throat.
Cupping it in my palm,
I felt the soft, warm beat within,
Willed life into stillness.
Restored by simple touch
It stirred, fluttered, faltered, flew
And healed the poet too.
===============================
A Poem that will strike a Chord
Box
by John McGrath
I wondered why the box
was so much bigger than the book;
why the book the poet sent to me
was so much smaller than the box.
Then I opened the book
that was filled with love and lore,
with longing and laughter
and weeping and rivers
and oceans and pain,
so much wisdom and wonder and joy
and so many people and stories,
that I marvelled at the miracle
of how a box so tiny
could hold so great a book.
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<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
Laborare est Orare
Cathedrals
By John McGrath
Walking with dolphins on a summer’s day
High over Ballybunion,
Talking with ravens in Ballyegan bog,
December morning after rain,
Watching a tumbling star
In a blue-black January sky,
The moon ringed with gold
Over Cnoc An Óir,
Listening to a choir of thrushes
Or the vespers of a thousand starlings,
Turning day-old hay
Towards a sweetening July sun,
Smelling the first rose of April
Or the first turf-fire of autumn.
Incense, mystery, music, majesty
And many places,
Many ways to pray.
=============================
Elegy to Road Kill
Fox
by John McGrath
I killed a fox last night
outside the graveyard wall.
Too late to brake I caught
a flash of golden fur
in headlight’s glare,
Felt the thump and crunch
of steel on bone,
Slow-motion silence,
Disbelief and then,
certitude
that fate had mindlessly conspired
to lead us to this place,
this point in time,
this intersecting line
where two lives intertwine
with tragedy.
One of us remained
outside the graveyard wall.
One moved on
and died a little too.
=========================
Photo by Éamon ÓMurchú of farm implements at Newbridge House
The Land
John McGrath
I stand in fields where my forefathers stood once
And feel the dreams of those who’ve gone before me.
I tramp through damp and half-remembered pastures,
The folds and features of the land that bore me
All around. Above the sound of lark’s song,
Below the spring of earth beneath my feet,
The green and gold of April in the hedgerow,
The purple haze where sky and heather meet.
Where mighty men have thought to mark their passing
The furze creeps back to mock the spade and plough,
Those futile epitaphs of generations
In Folk Museums condemned to moulder now.
Where men have raised a fence or tilled a furrow
The land, as if to scorn their simple gains,
Erases each proud trace until tomorrow.
The men have gone; the land alone remains.
========================================
================================
Poetry
The Ball Alley
A poem by John Fitzgerald
The Alley
Standing on the dead line
I face the pockmarked wall,
it hides the bridge above me
fond memories I recall,
the side walls mark the theatre,
the concrete floor the stage,
four players take their places
the finest of their age.
The cocker’s hopped and hardened,
Junior’s feet fix solidly
he contemplates the angle
of the first trajectory.
His swinging arm begins the game
the ball’s hit low and fast,
a signal to John Joe and Tom
this will be no soft match.
Dermot standing by his side
sees his neighbour win first toss,
a simple game to twenty one
no ace is easily lost.
I watch them from the grassy mound
behind the dead ball line
hear the cries of older boys
cheer each one at a time
and in the space of half an hour
the ball has weaved its way
through every nook and cranny
in this battlefield of play,
the long ball to the back line
the close one to the wall
the deadly butted killer
seemed to hit no wall at all
and in end the four of them
take leave just as they came
and beckon us to take our place
and learn more of their game,
the game that gave such pleasure
the game I got to know.
when I was young and full of fun
in the Alley years ago.
(The cocker was the name they had for the ball)
-------------------------------------------
-----------------------------------
A new poem from John McGrath
I Want To Go On
I want to go on looking in
when they let us out again.
I like what I found there.
Alone I was afraid at first
but then I realised
Searching for what matters
Was what we’re meant to do
How we’re meant to be
Nothing to fear but fear, and me.
Don’t get me wrong
I miss the hugs, the friends,
the buzz of conversation
But I love the contemplation,
So now and then I’ll look back in
when we get out again.
====================================================
My days working in the library are coming to an end as I am retiring in June. This past year has seen the libraries closed more often than open so it has been a strange final year of work. I sent in my retirement notice in poetry as follows:
The 4th of June is a special date
‘Twas the day I wed my faithful mate
On that date too I began my career
As a branch librarian for 19 years.
These years have given me much joy
And, in truth, this time has flown on by.
But now my life has changed its plan
And I must adapt as best I can.
So I pick the 4th of June once more
To hand in my keys of Glin Library door.
I am grateful for the years within
This lovely place in the town of Glin.
Poetry by Peg Prendeville
===========================
Poetry
Poll an Eas in the sunshine by Tom
Poul an Eas … never more shall I see thee dark Poul an Eas
Shall I behold or hear thy flood,
For thy loved banks no more I’ll pass
Or wander by Killeany woods. It was there the cowslips were first seen,
To deck those sheltered banks so green.
For they loved banks no more I’ll pass
Or wander by Killeany woods. Turn then to where my youth was spend
Long beside my native home
Where Saxon rents and Saxon Laws
Compelled us here from there to roam
But if her sons united were,
There need not be an exile here
For grave should be the grabbers end. Written by: Kathleen Dillane
Glin, Co Limerick Composed by: The Late Timothy Costello
Killeany Cross, Glin
https://glin.info/2021/04/25/poll-an-eas-in-the-sunshine-by-tom/
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Patneen Ahern Remembered By Tom Aherne
2013 is the 25th anniversary of the passing of the master fiddle player Paddy Ahern (affectionately known as Patneen) from Glenagore, Athea; He died on Saturday 26th November 1988 aged 87 years old. I compiled the following tribute to him about 10 years ago which I would like to share with our readers. Traditional music has been played for centuries all over Ireland. It has been handed down from father to son, mother to daughter, and from neighbour to neighbour, for Irish music is a living tradition. Since the dawn of time people have enjoyed making and listening to music. We are fortunate in Ireland to have a very rich tradition of instrumental music.
It is a most enjoyable pastime with much fun generated at the many sessions that take place, on a regular basis all over the country. Somebody once said music resembles poetry, -‘in each are numerous graces, which no methods teach and which a master hand alone can reach.’ Today the fiddle is one of the most popular instruments for playing traditional music in Ireland. Over the years we recall many famous fiddle players, such as Michael Coleman, Johnny Doherty, Padraig O’Keeffe, Sean Maguire, Denis Murphy, Seamus Connolly, Paddy Glackin, Martin Mulvihill and Johnny Donegan.
West Limerick has also produced many top class exponents of the fiddle and bow over the years, too numerous to mention here. An expression you often hear nowadays is ‘if the cap fits wear it.’ It was the name of a recording by fiddle player Kevin Bourke back in 1978. The expression brings to mind memories of the man with the cap in musical circles, in our locality Patneen Ahern, from the Glenagore/Knockfinisk border in the parish of Athea. He came from an area rich in music and he dedicated his long life to the promotion of fiddle playing.
Paddy Ahern from Glenagore was born in 1901 the eldest of five children. He had three brothers, Con Mick and Dan, and one sister Catherine, who died at a young age. His father was Patrick and his mother was Ann Madigan from Rooskagh. His grandmother was a woman by the name of Woulfe, from Athea, whose brother was a teacher there in times past. A very interesting link with his past relations was his great-grandmother, who was a woman by the name of Coll from Bruree. She was probably a relation of Eamon De Valera and they met up when Paddy’s great grandfather was in service around that locality.
Paddy went to Carrigkerry National School where his teacher was Master Halpin and he was a keen scholar, being especially good at Maths. It was all walking in those days and the two miles plus journey was done morning and afternoon in all types of weather. When school days were completed along with his brothers and friends he entered service with farmers around the West Limerick area. His social life centred around the Village of Carrigkerry where his music was highly regarded and valued.
Paddy Inherited his music from the fine fiddle player ‘Jackson’ and he could trace back his relationship to the great man who was a legend at playing and composing music. Paddy’s ability to read and write music and to play the fiddle and tin whistle, helped him greatly to develop into a master musician and to be regarded as one of the best fiddle players of his generation. His collection of Irish traditional tunes was enormous, and many were from O’Neill’s Collection of music, which was the good musician’s bible at that time. He could play away all night without repeating a tune. In the early days of the century he was in his prime, playing for gambles, raffles, dances, weddings, socials and wren nights. His name was renowned not alone in Limerick but also in adjoining counties.
His distinctive style of music attracted a host of top class musicians who wanted to claim the honour of playing with the master of fiddle and bow. Down the years he taught many pupils the art of fiddle playing at his cottage overlooking Ahern’s Glen. They included Sean Lynch, Glenagore, George Walker, Rooskagh, Tom Ahern, Knockfinisk and John and Mike O’Sullivan, Carrigkerry. They are now scattered to the four corners of the World and to Heaven above, but his music has been transferred and still lives on. His style of penning down a tune was unrivalled at the time considering that he had very poor eyesight. It is true to say that he kept the Céilí music going when it was not fashionable or rewarding and that he left a legacy of his music and good musicians after him to carry on the tradition.
Timmy Woulfe, from Athea (who has done great work teaching and collecting dances over the years), has great memories of Paddy which he shared with me at the time. Timmy recalled many visits to Ahern’s house in Glenagore over the years. Colm Danaher and he would attend music sessions there along with many others from the locality. A gentleman by the name of Lynch, who was a bank manager in Newcastle West, was amongst the callers. Paddy was regarded as an icon by the people, who came from far and wide to play with him and also to hear him display his great talent. Timmy said ‘He had a rake of music and tunes, which many others had never heard of and he was always on the lookout to collect more new tunes. Timmy recalled writing out Cooley’s Reel for Paddy on one occasion. A warm welcome awaited all who came to his house, and tea and refreshments were always served.
Paddy is still remembered by the older generation around Athea, twenty four years after his death. He would attend Irish Nights arranged by the local Comhaltas branch and other events around the Village. Timmy recalled a Radio recording that featured Paddy which was held in Kelly’s Hall and Mick Lynch’s Bar. Ciarán Mac Mathúna visited Kelly’s Hall to record material for his Radio programme ‘A Job of Journeywork.’ The Hall was packed and the noise levels high, making recording near impossible. The crowd went wild when Paddy commenced his performance, stamping their feet and urging him on. To help the recording Dinny Kelly, a player from Knocknaboul, shielded Paddy from the crowd by opening his overcoat wide and turning his back to the crowd.
In frustration Ciarán left by a side window for the sanctuary of the pub and the enjoyment of a few drinks. The late Seán
O’Ríada made a recording one fine summer’s day at Mick Lynch’s which Paddy attended. A famous fiddle player John Kelly from Carrigaholt in Clare took a shine to him and the two spent a lot of the day playing together. Timmy concluded by saying that Paddy Ahern and Con Greaney were the two outstanding talents that came from the locality. They were generous with their time and music and singing was their fulfilment in life. They were blessed with great talent, but both remained modest and unassuming and a credit to their parish.
Paddy Ahern was always referred to as Patneen or Padneen in local circles. He was humorous and full of wit and many stories were told about him over the years. One of his famous sayings was that he could play the fiddle as good as Geraldine O’Grady (the famous violin player) if only he had her fiddle. He was asked on one occasion if he could play a certain tune. His reply was swift saying if it was in the book he could play it. Paddy never married, similar to the great Sliabh Luachra fiddle player Pádraig O’Keeffe. The latter always called his fiddle, ‘the missus’ because he thought so much of it. It was much the same with Paddy as he was always minding his fiddle, and being very careful where he left it.
A couple of more stories that come to mind are as follows: – He was at a wren party on one occasion and enjoying himself to the full. It was to finish up at a certain hour of the morning to allow the owners of the house to tidy it up and to get a few hours sleep. The leader of the wren boy group had a job to get Paddy out, but after some persuasion he got him out and pointed him in the direction of his home which was only a short distance away. When the leader had the house sorted out and all things put back in place he also headed for home. He received a big surprise when he lifted the latch and walked into his own kitchen, to see Paddy sitting on his armchair and fast asleep in front of the open fire.
On another occasion Paddy was in Stack’s Bar, Carrigkerry after collecting his pension. He was playing a few tunes for those present when one person asked for a loan of his fiddle. He played a few tunes and was inclined to boast of his ability as he handed back the fiddle. Paddy and a few others were discussing the merit of his playing a while later. Paddy’ sight was failing badly at this time and he turned to the person next to him, unaware that it was the fiddle player. ‘Take no notice of that family’ said Paddy ‘they are only a crowd of blow holes.’
My own memories of Paddy are mainly from the 1960s and the wren parties he attended at Kennelly’s house in Glensharrold. He was in advancing years at the time, but he was still very much sought after for his expertise on the fiddle. A driver was always sent for him, as he had no means of transport. He would sit near the fire and play away to his heart’s content. The slant of his cap and the head shaking as his foot kept time are visions I still retain after close on fifty years. He would keep the floor going for long periods, with rousing polka sets, siege of Ennis, foxtrots, and waltzes.
His only reward would be a few pints of porter and plenty of food to eat. Paddy had a habit of falling asleep and when he awoke rested would play on with renewed vigour. At one party the dancing continued late into the following morning until Paddy fell asleep. As he awoke from his slumber, he came out to the back yard to answer a call of nature. Rubbing his eyes that January evening as the dusk was falling, he looked to the sky and declared. ‘It’s a grand morning thank God; it’s breaking fine and clear.’
Paddy Ahern died in the Regional Hospital Limerick on Saturday 26th November 1988 aged 87 years. His remains were removed to Athea Church, and the burial took place in the family grave in Holy Cross Cemetery on the Monday. Musicians provided a guard of honour and traditional music was played at the graveside. It was one of the first times music was played there, and that would have made Paddy really proud.
Now close on a quarter of a century later it would be nice to see his memory recorded in some way in the parish. A memorial could be erected, or a music competition held annually to commemorate his name. A true son of Ireland, he deserves continued recognition for keeping the music alive, and teaching others to preserve our great musical heritage. I dedicate the following lines in his honour.
In Carrigkerry so fair, his music filled the air from June to May, through night and day,
Much music he taught, to all who were brought, and the tunes they sought, sure they were taught for naught,
He travelled the west, and played with the best, with fiddle and bow, he was always on the go,
His mind was at ease, from Glenagore’s heather breeze, with the jigs and the reels; sure, the music filled his needs,
Paddy is now at eternal rest, under a headstone three miles west, he should be forever blessed, as he was simply the best.
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Jim in Rehab
Jim has been in rehab now for almost 14 weeks
In St Ita’s in Newcastlewest where therapy he seeks
After his life has been capsized due to a dense stroke
He’s had to start a different life and I tell you it’s no joke!
He was a right hand man to all and did the best he could
To help out anyone in need as he thought he should
But his right hand side has now shut down and taking a wee rest
While his left hand stepped up a gear and is proving to be best.
He was a man content to sit and listen while others spoke
But now he has no choice at all due to that dense stroke
His gentle therapist Elaine is trying to help him get words out
They are swimming in his head but won’t come through his mouth.
But his determination to get well is wonderful to see
He is not bitter, does not complain and is working
patiently
Helping his brain to make new pathways to replace those which have died
And soon we hope he will recover some of the life he once enjoyed.
By Peg Prendeville 16 3 2021
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To Winter
Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
Away from here,
And I shall greet thy passing breath
Without a tear.
I do not love thy snow and sleet
Or icy floes;
When I must jump or stamp to warm
My freezing toes.
For why should I be happy or
E’n be merry
In weather only fitted for
Cook or Perry.
My eyes are red, my lips are blue
My ears are frost bitt’n;
Thy numbing kiss doth e’n extend
Thro’ my mitten.
I am cold, no matter how I warm
Or clothe me;
O Winter, greater bards have sung
I loathe thee!
Eugene O’Neill
Written in early December 1912 at his parents’ home in New London, Connecticut.
On December 9th of that same year, he embarked on a journey to a Sanitarium in Shelton, Connecticut, to undergo treatment for Tuberculosis from which he made a complete recovery.
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Poetry
The Darkling Thrush
BY THOMAS HARDY
I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-grey,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
The land's sharp features seemed to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
This evening we study ‘After the Opera’ by DH Lawrence:
Down the stone stairs
Girls with their large eyes wide with tragedy
Lift looks of shocked and momentous emotion up at me.
And I smile.
Ladies
Stepping like birds with their bright and pointed feet
Peer anxiously forth, as if for a boat to carry them out of the wreckage,
And among the wreck of the theatre crowd
I stand and smile.
They take tragedy so becomingly.
Which pleases me.
But when I meet the weary eyes
The reddened aching eyes of the bar-man with thin arms,
I am glad to go back to where I came from.
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cummings’ poem is right. Soon spring will explode into the opposite of tentative, but now:
Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and
changing everything carefully
spring is like a perhaps
hand in a window
(carefully to
and fro moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there)and
without breaking anything.
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Rambling Jack
Of the many characters who graced the streets of Bruff, Rambling Jack is one of the most colourful. Born in Darnstown, Martinstown just over the road, Jack would have known Bruff like the back of his hand. And he needed to, for Rambling Jack who was known all over Ireland, was blind. And he lost his sight fighting so you and I could be free.
Born Edmond Houlihan in the Year of the Big Wind in 1839,Rambling Jack was brought up in a staunchly nationalist household .All his life his main aim was to achieve Irish freedom and his joining the famous attack on Kilmallock RIC barracks in 1867 comes as no surprise. Led by Capt. John Dunne, this attack, filled with Bruff men, was later to inspire Seán Wall and others in the War of Independence. However, the attack failed and large numbers of locals were rounded up and sentenced for up to 15 years imprisonment. But Jack suffered an even worse fate in the attack. He was blinded.
To be blind in the 1860s was to mean, almost inevitably, that the workhouse was your lot. But our man refused to enter the institution that symbolised the degradation of Ireland and he took to the roads, fiddle in hand. Up to now, he had played the fiddle for fun but now it became his passport to survival. All around the country, Ned travelled being known as The Fenian Balladeer or Rambling Jack. Ned, indeed, became probably the last in the line of centuries of roaming bards and wandering minstrels that once enriched the culture of Ireland. A sad loss to our society.
Jack only ever sang republican songs. Asked to sing the ballad, Master McGrath,(about the famous greyhound) he spat, “I only sing of Irishmen. I never sing of dogs. ”His favourite song was “The Smashing of the Van” which tells the story of the Manchester Martyrs. Other ballads in his repertoire were “Sliabh na mBan” and “Patrick Sheehan”. The latter song once showed his bravery as he sang it in his rich baritone voice at a British Army recruiting drive in Ferbane , Co. Offaly in protest at the Connaught Rangers assembled there. Often arrested for singing seditious songs, Rambling Jack refused to stop his keeping the flame of nationhood alive, the Offaly Independent reporting that his fiddle was “an instrument in the cause of Irish independence”.
Understandably, Rambling Jack was good friends with most of the nationalist leaders at the time. He was actually on the podium with Michael Davitt when he launched the Land League in Mayo. Davitt, with one arm missing from the mill accident he suffered as a child and Blind Jack would have been an unusual and eye-catching focus of attention. On hearing of the demise of the great Fenian, O’Donovan Rossa in 1915,Jack fiddled his way, blind don’t forget, across Ireland and heard Pearse give the oration at the graveside in Glasnevin cemetery.
Rambling Jack could be seen all over Ireland, his fluent Irish language songs interspersed with his odes to the Bold Fenian Men. He was attacked and beaten by a bunch of loyalists in the midlands who objected to him playing his rebel songs.But Jack merely moved on, blackthorn stick in one hand, the other behind his back, rosary beads dangling as always.
Time eventually caught up with Rambling Jack and he fiddled his way home to die so he could be buried in his native Kilbreedy, passing away in 1931 at the incredible age of 92.His relatives still reside in Bruff today. Rambling Jack is a forgotten hero of Ireland, one of those people who kept the light of liberty alive whilst sacrificing their own lives for the cause. A proud member of the Bold Fenian Men.
Sources:
The Republican File 1932
Capuchin Annual 1968
Offaly Independent 10 Jan 1953
An Phoblacht Dec 2007
With thanks to Mike Cronin.
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Siegfried Sassoon was a British poet turned officer who served on the Western Front during the First World War.
He was decorated for bravery, but by 1917 had become disillusioned by the war and had written a letter of protest to Parliament, for which he was banished to a mental hospital.
Upon his release, he returned to France to fight because he cared deeply about his soldiers and felt it was his duty to return to them, and to tell their stories in a way no one else could.
In February of 1918, he published this poem, Suicide in the Trenches, along with other war poems.
~*~
Suicide in the Trenches
I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.
In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.
You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.
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It is such a pity that the libraries are closed due to Covid 19 as there are many people who relied on library books to pass the long winter evenings. I know that books can be read online but there is nothing like having a book in the hand ‘til you drop off to sleep and let it fall to the ground. Check out https://www.irelandreads.ie
By Peg Prendeville-- Poetry
The Curse of Covid
When someone goes to hospital
It was the natural thing to do
To go and sit beside them
And bring them all the news.
That was the way it used to be
‘til Coronavirus came
And got rid of nightly visits.
It should hang its head in shame.
We’re now left with window visits
Or talking on the phone
No tender touch to ease the fear
For each person is alone
With only latex touch for comfort
From a kind and caring nurse
With blue gowns and masks and shields
To keep out that wretched curse.
We all are longing for the day
When normal times return again
And we can hug and kiss our loved ones
Without fear of killing them.
I pray that day will come quite soon
Meantime I hope and pray and trust
That all the people we love so much
Will understand why we cannot touch.
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Life’s Surprises
Life turns up surprises
When you least expect it to.
On days when everything goes wrong
And it seems there’s no way through
A chance word from a stranger,
A letter from a friend,
A glowing sky at sunset
God’s blessings never end
Then deep inside your weary heart
A little spark takes hold
And shattered dreams are swept away
As the flame of HOPE burns bold.
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From Tom Aherne -------- Feb 2021
Johnny Walsh on Song
The Bard of Sliabh Luachra Johnny Walsh from Mountcollins is steeped in music song dance and Gaelic games. His latest The Mighty Men from the Shannonside composition pays tribute to the Limerick hurlers who won the All Ireland Championship last December. Written and performed by Johnny with a lovely music beat the CD is priced €5 and on sale in select outlets due to Covid restrictions. It is receiving great airplay on Radio Kerry, Cork and Clare etc and all proceeds will go to Milford Hospice Limerick. Johnny told me he is close to his sale target but copies are still available and all support will be greatly appreciated.
Johnny has been involved with West Limerick GAA, the County Board, and Scór since the mid 1990s, and his colourful match reports and poems have featured in all the local papers. Over the years Johnny has been very generous with his time and talents, (attending numerous functions and events) to all clubs and organisations. A born entertainer, composer and storyteller (pure true) par excellence Johnny has lit up many a stage and venue, to the delight of all present. It is now peoples chance to return the favour to Johnny and to support the great work that Milford Care Centre do. Johnny can be contacted on 086-3517589 to arrange a copy
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LAST WORD: Experience is a hard teacher because it gives the test first and the lesson afterwards!!
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I hope I am not boring all you readers by giving you another poem. But I was so delighted during the week when, on phoning Jim, who has lost his speech and reading skills, I heard him utter the words Hello and Thank you that I had to write a poem on
The power of words
Those two little words meant the world to me
After nearly nine weeks of silence
No words between us since you got struck down
And have had to endure the violence
Of your voice stolen and left bereft
Of all ways to communicate
I shudder to think how it must be for you
To have to suffer such a fate.
So imagine how lovely it was for me
When I heard from you tonight
When the word Hello came quiet but clear
It almost gave me a fright.
But hope flowed in and filled my heart
And gave me such a thrill
At hearing your voice in my ear
After sixty days of still!
And to finish with a Thank you
Put the icing on the cake
It proves your voice is coming back
As mind and muscles re-awake.
So let us celebrate this day
When those words freely came
Let it be the start of a whole new life
When we can talk to each other again.
By Peg Prendeville
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James Goodman (1828-1896), a native of Dingle, Co. Kerry, was a canon of the Church of Ireland and Professor of Irish at Trinity College Dublin. However, he is now chiefly known as the compiler of an outstanding manuscript collection of some 2,300 mainly traditional tunes held in the Library of the college.
In his later years, the music collector James Goodman was a canon of the Church of Ireland and Professor of Irish at Trinity College Dublin. But his 'vernacular' qualities are of greater interest here. As a native of the Dingle area of West Kerry he spoke Irish from infancy. Soon he became attached to music as something between a hobby and an obsession. He sang the local songs, perhaps played the flute, and certainly became an accomplished performer on the Irish, or uilleann, pipes. By 1866 he had compiled an exceptional manuscript collection of tunes which is remarkable especially for its traditional Irish content. These tunes, as he said, were partly 'taken down by myself as I heard them played by Irish pipers &c.', and partly drawn from other manuscripts and from printed sources. Since Goodman's death in 1896 his music has remained unpublished in the Library of Trinity College. (From Irish Traditional Music Archive)
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Poem by Helen Steiner Rice called
The Bend in the Road. It reads as follows:
Sometimes we come to life’s crossroads
And we view what we think is the end.
But God has a much wider vision
And he knows that it’s only a bend.
The road will go on and get smoother
And after we’ve stopped for a rest,
The path that lies hidden beyond us
Is often the path that is best.
So rest and relax and grow stronger,
Let go and let God share your load
And have faith in a brighter tomorrow-
You’ve just come to a bend in the road.
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Poets
Collector Kathleen Cronin - labourer. He worked in this district and also around Listowel and Knockanure. He made a very fine song about the miser Farmer and still a better one about the late Father Casey. A part of the song that he composed was.
"No matter what your offences were.
He would forgive your sins.
He had more power than any Priest.
Himself and God were friends.
He is rolling in the heavens now.
https://www.duchas.ie/en/src?q=knockanure&t=CbesTranscript&p=6
Collector
William Broderick Age 12 Informant- Daniel KeaneAge 58 Occupation farmer
There is a man in the parish of Knockanure named Patrick Drury, commonly known as "Pá" Drury.
One day as he was going to Listowel he met two priests, and they told him to make a rhyme about O'Sullivan the reporter, who was then living in Listowel.
This is the rhyme he made.
In this bright town there lives a clown,
He would sell his soul for porter,
O'Sullivan John he is the man,
The dirty mean reporter.
One of the priests gave him 1/6, and the other one gave him 2/6. Pá said "God bless you" to priest who gave him 1/6 and he said "God Almighty bless you" to the priest that gave him 2/6. The priests asked him what the difference
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Home » People » Danny Mulvihill
taken from the CCE magazine ‘Treoir’ (Winter ’96)
Dan Mulvihill & Frank Thornton
Dan Mulvihill (left) with Frank Thornton
The lamented death and passing of Danny mulvihill of Chicago on February 5, 1996 removes from among us a kind hearted soul, a genial character, who devoted his entire life to promoting all that is good and great in our Irish Tradition
Daniel Joseph Mulvihill was born on November 15, 1899 in Kilbaha, Moyvane, Co. Kerry. He was the second child and first boy in a family of eleven children.
He attended school in Moyvane until 1915 when his mother passed away leaving his father with the responsibility of eleven children with the oldest 16 years and the youngest just an infant. Danny assumed the daily responsibility for the farm under his father’s guidance.
Somewhere around 1918 he became an active volunteer in the Kerry Brigade of the Irish Republican Army. Because of his involvement and activities withe the old IRA, he was forced to leave Ireland in 1920.
His trip from Ireland landed him in Brooklyn, New York where he found a job with New York City Transit where he worked for a year before packing up and moving to Chicago where he would spend the rest of his life.
In Chicago, he worked as a conductor for the Surface Lines Transit Systems. After 12 years, he joined the Chicago Fire Department and retired as a Lieutenant in 1963.
Danny was ever proud of the Mulvihill name and in between jobs, he married Mary Agnes Mulvihill from Ballybunion, Co. Kerry. The Mulvihills had two children, Danny and Mary-Jane, the present Mid-West Regional Secretary for Comhaltas North America.
I will always remember the prominent role that Danny played in the founding of Comhaltas here in North America together with his lifelong friend and colleague – Comhaltas founding member, Frank Thornton, also from Moyvane. Culturlann na hÉireann, a permanent home for Comhaltas, was something that Danny worked for, hoped for, and envisioned, and he was proud to see it become a reality.
He was also proud of his native Kilbaha near Moyvane, Co. Kerry, an area steeped in Irish tradition. It was then known as newtownsandes, a thriving little village that straddles the North Kerry and West Limerick border. The name Mulvihill is a common name in the area. And a great many members of the Mulvihill clan found fame, if not fortune, in their adopted lands.
Martin Mulvihill, a renouned fiddle player, was born in the townland of Glenalappa in the parish of Moyvane. Before leaving for England and America he got his early lessons on the fiddle from Barney Enright, still happily with us. This early training stood him in good stead, for in later years as a talented teacher of music, he produced many All-ireland champions in New York. Jerry Mulvihill, the well known traditional dancer, als hails from the same area. This sprightly septuagenarin is still king of the concert stage. He has starred on two Comhaltas Tours of North America.
The famous Ahern family also hail from Moyvane. Father Pat Ahearn is now the artistic Director of Siamsa Tíre Folk Theatre in Tralee. He was also the producer of the first two concerts to North America in 1972 and 1973.
Knockanure is probably the best known townland in the parish of Moyvane. Its popularity stems from the famous ballad composed by Professor Brian McMahon of Listowel. ‘The Valley of Knockanure’ which commemorates the death of Walsh, Lyons and Dalton, in that townland during the War of Independence. Danny Mulvihill knew them personally before they gave their lives for Ireland. Thanks to Danny Mulvihill who raised the necessary funds in Chicago, a monument to the memory of Walsh, Lyons and Dalton now stands in that lonely valley of Knockaure, paying silent tribute to three hereos that he knew from his youthful years in Moyvane.
Moyvane famed in song and story also produced two very famous poets. The late Paddy Drury, a farm labourer whose gift of instant compositions is still talked about in the parish. Also our own genial Dan Keane, still happily with us, he seems to have inherited Paddy Drury’s great gift as a poet, writer and collector of verse. Again I am grieved that Danny Mulvihill is no longer with us. To Mary-Jane, Danny and his immediate family, I offer my deepest sympathy on the loss of a kind and gentle soul.
For all the rest of us to mourn his passing, we should be encouraged by his life of dedication, his love of music and song from his beloved Moyvane, and area rich in lore and in culture, that gave to us and to Comhaltas such stalwarts as Danny Mulvihill and many others as well, who are indeed a credit to their parish and to Ireland.
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A Christmas poem from Junior Griffin
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
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Tom Lynch dabbled in a bit of poetry from time to time but from whom he inherited the gift he could not say. He couldn’t recall there being any poets or sages in the Lynch family. One of his poems that springs to mind was one he wrote in the early 1980’s known as ‘Modern Progress’ It was around the beginning of the computer era and it went as follows –
I dream of the days and old-fashioned ways
Before life got confused with inventions
That has addled our brains, brought stresses and strains
And left us with headaches and tensions.
To move with the times is called progress alines
Where life’s a continual rat race
To reach for the stars after stopping in Mars
If ever they jet us to that place.
But that as it may but I’ll venture to say
That predictions too often come true
And before very long unless science is proved wrong
There’ll be nothing for man left to do
Take the silicon chip with a built-in horse whip
To make robots perform just like men
Who will work night and day without overtime pay
And wont stroke over tea-breaks at ten.
They can wire TV sets and put engines in jets
They can make the spare parts for our trains
And they never get tired for their bodies are wired
To a mass of mechanical brains.
I have no crystal ball to tell what may befall
In the forthcoming decade or two
But computerised schemes will put paid to our dreams
Of a future with skies over blue.
Now heaven forbid but I’ll bet you a quid
Or a dime to a fistful of dollars
That the whole human race will be launched into space
Lest we stop teaching science to our scholars.
In a less sombre view let me add a refrain
To this preview that’s only hear-say
For no matter how great are the threats to our fate
Where there’s a will there’s always a way.
When the oil wells run dry don’t sit down and cry
Just because you can’t drive your new rover
Get a good lively ass that will take you to Mass
And your problems of travel are over.
https://langangeorgedotcom1.wordpress.com/?wref=bif
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SEÁN Ó h-AIRTNÉIDE 1928 - 2017
I met an old friend in Mountmahon today
And he said Jackie Thady had just passed away.
The great Seán Ó h-Airtnéide has gone to his rest.
Devon Road is in mourning. He was one of the best.
https://abbeyfealeonline.blogspot.com/p/poetry.html
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Beal Strand
“Tis often I dream of the days long ago,
When young life in old Ireland was grand,
And I whistled and sang as I'd plough, sow or mow
In the fields looking down on Beal Strand.
You may travel elsewhere, by sea and by air,
And roam many a fair, foreign land,
But where'er you may go, through sunshine or snow,
You'll find no place like lovely Beale Strand.
The idle and rich search here and search there,
For false pleasures that they say are grand;
Oh! had I but one week, the pleasure I'd seek
Is to roam over Beale's golden strand.
In the days long ago, bright with warm sunlight,
The ebb tide racing down by Asdee,
The lark's song in the air, Burton Castle in Clare,
What sweet memories they all bring to me.
When the sun sank to rest away in the west,
And the shadows crept over the land,
The peace and the quiet that came round with the night,
Sure 'twas then that I loved you Beal Strand.
Were I young once again, 'tis at home I'd remain,
Midst people so kindly and grand;
“I'd build a nice cot on that beautiful spot,
To live always beside you, Beal Strand.
Now my end is in sight, I pray God day and night,
As I'll die in this far-away land,
That my spirit shall soar o'er the old Shannon shore,
To look down on you, lovely Beal Strand. ”
Brian O'Grady
A poem to lighten the mood. I wrote this a few years ago. But the magic continues thankfully.
My Morning Visitor
She comes in every morning and brightens up my day
With her easy chatter and sense of fun and play
She eats a slice of bread with jam announcing it is “yum”
Oh, the joys of being a Nana are far better than a Mum!
Our conversations take us all around the world
We can go to far Australia and see that flag unfurled
Or maybe we’ll just stay in Ireland and drive up to Athlone
Even though we’re sitting in our kitchen chairs at home.
We say a prayer for all the sick and those who’ve passed away
We light a candle for them all and wish them a pleasant day
We wonder how “Big Nana” is, in her life up in the sky
We guess she might be busy making up an apple pie.
But now the bus is coming and to school she has to go
“I’ll call again this evening. I want to, don’t you know.”
So she puts on her jacket, and kisses me goodbye.
I am so very happy that she calls – just to say “Hi”.
Due to Covid-19 Pandemic, Siamsa Tíre theatre and arts centre has remained closed since mid March. In the absence of being able to host our local community for this year’s Culture Night, as we have done previous years, we ask you to join us as we celebrate Ireland’s #CultureNight from 7pm Friday 18th September to midnight Saturday 19th September with a special screening of the lively closing scene from An Ghaoth Aniar.
An Ghaoth Aniar (The Wind from the West) premiered in Siamsa Tíre on August 22nd 2018. It formed part of the 2018 and 2019 seasons where it received great reaction from audiences and countless standing ovations throughout the run. The scene to be screened, Ón Farraige – from the Ocean, combines the sounds of the wild west coast with the best of traditional Irish music and dance. The crashing waves, the west Wind, the sea birds - they all inspire the notes of a new tune on the Fiddle. As the tune is carried on the wind across the land, the tune, becomes a dance, the dance becomes a celebration. Music and dance become one with each other in this lively finale!
Kick off your #CultureNight celebrations with our traditional music and dance spectacular.
@CultureNight @KerryCoArts @ArtsCouncilIreland @DepartmentofCultureHeritageandGaeltacht
@Tralee Chamber Alliance
#culture #traditional #irishdance #irishmusic #ExperienceKerry #Tralee
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Thank you to our world-class talented artists who have allowed us to share their performance in this way, during these unprecedented times.
Siamsa Tíre, home of the National Folk Theatre and one of Ireland's busiest theatres and arts centres, is situated in the capital of County Kerry - Tralee. Located on the south western coastline of the Wild Atlantic Way in Ireland, Tralee is an ideal location for exploring the beauties of world famous County Kerry.
The National Folk Theatre presents Ireland's premier cultural experience with a cast of over 100 professionally trained in the Irish arts performing across the season. Ireland's best Irish dancers, musicians and folk stage performers present five folk theatre productions of exhilarating, colourful and lively representations of Irish culture and heritage through the best of Irish music, song and dance.
CULTURE NIGHT Fri 18th Sept.: Live streamed from St John’s Theatre & Arts Centre- Listowel
An evening of storytelling, poetry, music and song, presented as part of Listowel International Storytelling & Folklore Festival 2020. Celebrate the best of local and visiting storytellers, poets, musicians and singers in the Kingdom’s cultural capital including: Youth Drama Monologues, Kate Fitzpatrick (Voilinist) and Dave Morrisson (Visual Artist) and harpists.
Time: 7.30pm - 10pm- Genres: Literature / Music / Poetry / Storytelling / Visual Art
Website: http://www.kerrywritersmuseum.com/
Listowel Writers Week; Share your ‘cultural cures’, the things that have brought you enjoyment and cured your ailments during COVID-19. It could be a poem by a well-known author, a book that whisked you off on a literary adventure, a film that uplifted your spirit, or a quote that was your. A virtual event streamed live on the Listowel Writers Week Facebook page from 8pm on Culture Night.
Time: 8pm - 10pm Website: http://writersweek.ie/
Robert Leslie Bowland Award
Freedom Fighter by Margaret Sheehan
When they were finished with you
there was skin on the road.
There’s a man who says
that you are living still
chained to the memory.
All those years ago
you could not have known
you’d be held so long.
I would sprinkle water
on the four corners
of your house
to set you free.
That would be my
Contribution.
Ballydonoghue Bardic Festival- Results
https://ballydbardfest.com/competitions/
Dig another drill,
Plant a cabbage there.
One bought from the Yank back in Tralee
A *gabháil of planters for a song
30 in it, instead of 24!
The Yank was a generous man.
Each plant he considered a blessing
And planted those blessings in prayer
In tune with God and the land.
Abundant cabbages, carrots, onions, scallions.
Leeks needed much water.
Use that space for strawberries;
Beans and peas he grew with ease
Knew the stakes, positioned with care.
Blackcurrants hogged the corner
Summer jam for the daughters
Rhubarb came good, as well it should
Layered generously with dung
From the cows he lived among.
He’d pull weeds from drills
With consummate skill.
Placed onions near carrots
To keep away maggots
Knew each piece of soil
Which he pleasurably toiled.
That garden pulsed his heart
His paradise on this earth.
(*gabháil – armful. Pronouced: gwaall) ©GerWhite2020
Back to Puck
The tinkers caravans on the Killarney road,
as far as the eye could see.
We were going “back to Puck”.
Five children clutching pennies
It was our summer Christmas.
A wild mountain goat reluctantly crowned king.
A tinker woman asking a penny for the child,
Hidden out of sight, under her tartan woollen shawl,
Later to be seen drinking cider from the bottle neck
With her drunken man.
Bird’s Bazaar, fair ground lights,
Sounds and smells lingering in the cool night air.
Wet slippy streets of cow dung to trample through,
Squeezing through the laughing crowd.
Trying to find my father in Falvey’s bar,
Catching his tender eyes across the crowded room,
Now reflecting he will take me “back to Puck” no more
https://wordpress.com/read/feeds/104860127/posts/2754039861
==================================
By Matt Mooney June 2020 Kerryman
'Thistledown' from my book Falling Apples:
"'Thistledown: flight so light,
floating summertime on river air;
on the bank first kisses.
In the same poetic vein this stanza is from a poem I wrote a long time ago but never saw the light till now entitled 'A Writer's Weakness':
'Some lunchtime Patrick Kavanagh
in the day-dark of St John's Centre
presented in a song and poetry show,
a sean-nós singer singing Úna Bhán;
there were men talking farm talk -
Monaghan accents in Tarry Flynn;'
================================
Taken from Kerryman July 2020
"I was talking to him last week about old times," Maurice Kelliher wrote in his article. "He fought down around Clonmel in the Civil War and he still possesses a pair of boots bought for him in Clonmel by Éamonn de Valera."
Markie the Tan - The Poem
On the sixth day of March 1922,
Three I.R.As came up to our school.
The first was named Buckley, a fine stalwart man,
The others named Carey and Markie the Tan.
When they entered the school, there the boys they did meet,
They searched them all over from head to the feet.
They found some explosive by a manly young man,
Hurrah now boys we have ye says Markie the Tan.
Buckley stood out in the middle of the school,
If ye have these explosives y'er breaking the rule,
These explosives and bullets would shatter a man,
So please hand them over to Markie the Tan.
Hands up then was given and the boys did obey,
Mr. Buckley stood out saying he'd something to say.
These bullets and explosives Mr. Buckley began,
Must be all handed over to Markie the Tan.
Some put their revolvers in holes in the floor,
While Buckley and Kearney were shivering all o'er.
And Heffernan came up with a face like a pan,
Surrender your arms cried Markie the Tan.
When they got to the last desk they were shivering with fear,
Kearney screamed out "revolvers are near".
About revolvers and bullets we don't give a damn,
We've had good experience says Markie the Tan.
The three I.R.As went out by the door,
Revolvers were taken from holes in the floor.
And the boys gave a cheer and said we don't give a dam,
About Buckley of Carey or Markie the Tan.
When they went back to the Barracks their pockets were full,
Of empty old cartridges and a broken old gun.
Said Buckley to Carey "we've defeated their plan,
And all through the genius of Markie the Tan.
So now for a finish we ask for a cheer,
For the boys of Castleisland and a cause we love dear.
We will have our explosives and all our own plan,
In spite of the threats of bold Markie the Tan.
With thanks to Mary Wrenn Crowley for sending the poem from Sligo. It would be great to hear from anyone who may know the identity of the author.
Kerryman
======================================
Boland from Listowel Connection
John B. Keane on Bob Boland
John B. Keane wrote a regular column in The Limerick Leader. He wrote often of lesser known local writers. It is clear that John B. saw great merit in Boland's writing as you will see in the following essay from the Limerick Leader archive.
LAST week we dealt briefly with the life and works of the late George Fitzmaurice. This week we will look at the works and life of the late Robert Leslie Boland of Farnstack, Lisselton.
Before we do, however, I would like to clear up a misunderstanding concerning the religion of George Fitzmaurice. George was born into the Protestantism of the Church of Ireland, and was not a Catholic, as two of my readers would have me believe.
George’s father was a parson. His mother was a Winifred O’Connor who worked as a maid in the Fitzmaurice household at Kilcara, Duagh. The marriage took place before the Ne Temere decree which meant that the sons were brought up in the father’s faith and the daughters in the mother’s faith. Wiffred O’Connor, of course was a Catholic.
Robert Lee Boland, on the other hand, was a Catholic. He was born in the Farnstack farmhouse in 1888 where his son Daniel continues the tradition of farming. The Bolands of Farnstack distinguished themselves in almost every aspect of Irish life. Bob was educated at the local national school and at St Michael’s College, Listowel. He died a comparatively young man in 1955.
A few short years before he had the heart rending experience of seeing his youngest son Val, precede him to the grave. Val was probably the most promising of all the young Kerry writers of his time. From a young age he produced excellent poetry but it was not until he came to Saint Michael’s that his talents really started to take shape. He died a schoolboy. Anyone who ever knew him will remember him forever with affection and respect.
Robert Leslie was a poet of consequence. He preferred to be called Bob and that is how we shall refer to him from now on. He was a colourful character with a host of friends. He liked a drink and he liked good company. Some of his best poems were Rabelasian. Those that were not were often compared to the poems of Robert Burns for whom Bob held an enormous respect. Personally, I think he was more influenced by Matthew Arnold than any other.
Private
Only one collection of his works was published and this for private circulation. The work was entitled, “Thistles and Docks” being, according to the author, “a selection, grave, gay and Rabelaisian from the works of Robert Leslie Boland, Farnstack House, Lisselton, Co. Kerry.”
It contains many of his more popular pieces. There is “Sonnet to a Lavatory.”
Temple of seclusion! Aptly set apart
To house the toilet needs, Repository
Where bodily wants are eased and the heart
Feels restful, too, in thy sweet privacy.
Thou art the throne room of soliloquy
Where each lone patron with no special art,
Relaxes for expulsion, setting free
Imprisoned waste and the unmuffled fart.
Quiet citadel! Kings and Queens have sate
Within thee, glad to leave their votive gift
(So democratic for their Royal state)
And grateful for kind nature’s daily shift.
Who would not hail thee, backward edifice ?
Cloister for brief retirement and for peace
Sugar
I don’t think readers will be really offended by the foregoing. The great merit about Boland was that he was always marginally ahead of the censor. During the war years Bob applied to the Department of Commerce for sugar . He had six beehives and he needed sugar to keep the inmates alive. His application was naturally in verse:
Dear sir, I beg hereby to make application,
For sugar for bees whose plight is starvation .
Be generous you must for my (six in number),
Like Europe are feeling the pinch of the hunger.
You know how the weather down here militated
Against the good “workers” who waited and waited.
For fine sunny days to go out in the clover,
But vain were their longings and summer is now over.
This is a thought your Department should cherish
Tis urgent, tis needed or my colonies perish.
There follows an incredibly beautiful allegory in which the queen bees have their say. One describes her honeymoon with a drone who has just been stung to death:
I remember the morning of our wedding flight;
His vigour, his passion, his speed like a kite
When up towards the ether, with wings humming loud,
He gave me the razz right on top of the cloud.
Answer
Bob once participated in a Radio Eireann question time which was broadcast from Ballybunion. When asked his occupation by the question master, he replied immediately: “Philosopher, philanderer and farmer.”
His most oft-quoted poem, “Loneliness”, deserves to be quoted in full but alas there isn’t enough space It was compose, after midnight, whilst walking over a three mile stretch of moorland between Ballylongford and Farnstack. He was also very fond of walking from the Ballybunion strand to the mouth of the Cashen. Sometimes he would recognise and salute acquaintances. Other times he would be lost in his thoughts and heeded nothing but nature;
Lone as a climber on some Alpine peak.
Lone as the last kiss on a lover’s cheek
Lone as the Pole Star from its sky tower watching.
Lone as a gander when the geese are hatching.
Lone as a maiden weeping in distress.
Lone as a bullock when the cow says “yes.”
Lone as a skylark who has lost his song.
Lone as a eunuch for his gems are gone.
Lone as a petrel on the stormy wave.
Lone as a deadman in a nameless grave.
Lone as a lassie on the bathroom bowl,
When she finds no paper in the toilet roll.
Lone as the Artic when the Polar bear howls
In the blizzard from his
frozen lair.
A shame
There is in the poetry of Bob Boland an underlying dismissal of himself. He builds beautifully with a series of perfectly disciplined couplets and then for what would seem like pure devilment he allows his theme to collapse by following up with a Rabelaisian climax. It is a conscious dismissal and it could be that he was uncertain about his ability to write poetry. This was a shame because in many ways he was unique particularly in his choice of themes which range from “Ode to a Po” to “Sonnet to a Spud” which was broadcast by the B.B.C.
There was the same self dismissal in George Fitzmaurice who was born less than three miles from the Boland home at Farnstack. Bob however, was outgoing and gregarious while George was pathologically shy.
There are such diverse composition as “Ode to a load of Hay” and “Sonnet to a Cowdung”:
Cowdung all nature greets you with a smile,
Your blending essence made our Emerald Isle.
This article by the late and great John B Keane first appeared in the Limerick Leader on April 9, 1977
Newtownsandes Social Club 9 Dec 1911 NY Irish American Advocate.
Ball Saturday, Dec. 16—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, Gurtdromosllihy, with blue-eyed maidens rare,
And old Glln 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.
Life in the time of Covid. A poem by Marian Relihan
Enveloped by four four-legged
who don’t watch the news
they don’t listen to Dr Holohan
they do not hear Trump
What is the HSE?
Even when I was covid-ed
they did not practice social distancing
No, they sat on my lap
curled at my feet
seeking closest contact
Cowslips and primroses
joyfully present themselves
Blackthorn and Lilac blossom
reach down to shower their scent.
Young calves run and frolic
Crows rush around building homes
Mornings full avian songs
Grass competing to be tallest
Life when we are gone
Life in the time of covid.
was written from David's perspective from beyond the grave.
Dear Sister, thank your noble heart, that fought my need to sleep,
In sheets that smelt and felt so familiar to me,
You spoke my words when my voice could not be found,
Through divided chaos you firmly stomped the ground,
Chin firm, teeth clinched, and no budge to make-
Steering the ship to higher ground!
Now, here, in this realm my tongue is loose and free,
And sings songs like Jingle Bells and happy melodies.
I cannot keep a pair of shoes, so worn are they from dancing.
And I laugh so much, I cry big tears, till my shirt oft needs changing.
Cold nights I read before I sleep, warm tales of hope and peace,
And all the while, I lay entwined, in my own familiar sheets!
Everything here is wonderful, both the company and the food,
And I’ve met many here that I once knew.
Pain does not exist here-only a great peace of vast magnitude.
Dear Sister, hold fast the times we had,
We both know the efforts you made, the gifts you brought, the prayers you said,
And when we meet, as sure we will, I’ll have a bed ready and made!
©Anne Mulcahy 2014.
‘Tis the first rose of summer that opes to my view,
With its bright crimson bosom all bathed in the dew;
It bows to its green leaves with pride from its throne–
‘Tis the queen of the valley, and reigneth alone.
Kerry CCÉ - Kerry County Board of Comhaltas.
May 25 at 10:28 PM ·
Over the last 10 weeks (16th March - 24th May 2020) Kerry CCÉ has been promoting Comhaltas and their members by uploaded 256 videos on our social media, Facebook page/Youtube/twitter. We reshared them for those who missed them over the last couple of weeks, and we have now ended this project.
On behalf of Kerry CCÉ we would like to thank all the Musicians, Singers and Dancers who participated in this project, and the enjoyment that they have given to everyone and this has been appreciated by the positive and encouraging comments, likes and views.
Here are the statistics from our Facebook Page Kerry CCÉ Virtual Féile Cheoil
Top 10 videos views
1 Neville Sisters B'longford 10,411
2 Kelliher Family Fossa 6,920
3 Happy by Kerry CCÉ 6,801
4 Mackessy Brothers B'donoghue 5,539
5 Bryan O'Leary Gneeveguilla 4,597
6 Conor Walsh London/Lyre 4,425
7 Michael Healy Kilcummin 4,158
8 Shay & Jack Walsh Scart 4,130
9 Anne & Nicky McAuliffe C'land 4039
10 Colm Guilfoyle Roisin Cronin Abu Dhabi/Kilcummin 3,509
Total Number Video Views 304,327
As you can see from these figures we have reached out to many people across the world and have promoted Kerry CCÉ in a very positive manner.
We have reached the following Countries and many cities within these Countries
Ireland, England, Scotland, Wales, France, Spain, Poland, Lituania, Italy, Germany, All over the USA, Canada, Japan, South Korea, Argentina, Brazil, Abu Dhabi, Sweden, Norway, Dubai, Australia. New Zealand and these are only the ones we know about.
Here's to the next project
Ciarraí Abú
Covid Sonnet
The world has pinned us with a warning glance,
the kind our mothers gave us long ago,
the look that was designed to let us know
that this might be our last and final chance.
So grounded, we can only hope and pray
as, day by day, we inch beyond the fear
and tiptoe towards a future far from clear
our wounded planet showing us the way,
that voices raised in ignorance and greed
may yet be drowned by kindnesses and care,
together we can rise above despair,
united we will find the strength we need
as, all for one, we reach beyond the pain
and dare to dream tomorrow once again.
John McGrath May 2020
Listowel Connection
A Forgiving Poem from Róisín Meaney
For some, it’s all about reading,
For others it’s painting, or kneading,
If it helps you come through it
Find time just to do it,
Right now, it’s our souls that need feeding.
Life in the time of Covid. A poem by Marian Relihan
Enveloped by four four-legged
who don’t watch the news
they don’t listen to Dr Holohan
they do not hear Trump
What is the HSE?
Even when I was covid-ed
they did not practice social distancing
No, they sat on my lap
curled at my feet
seeking closest contact
Cowslips and primroses
joyfully present themselves
Blackthorn and Lilac blossom
reach down to shower their scent.
Young calves run and frolic
Crows rush around building homes
Mornings full avian songs
Grass competing to be tallest
Life when we are gone
Life in the time of covid.
I live in North Kerry and attend regular writing groups. I published a book of poetry ‘Skyland ‘ a few years ago. I work as a creative writing tutor.
I enjoy putting little rhymes together to pass the time.
Peg Prendeville
Knockdown area is gleaming
Since this virus came to stay
Everythings been painted
And not a nettle in the way.
All houses getting makeovers
Both inside and out
Cupboards are being rearranged
Tiles being filled with grout.
The turf is almost dry by now
With the sunshine and the wind
At this rate of going
We might have to cut more bins.
Farmyards are tidied
White’s Skip hire is very busy
With all the stuff that’s been thrown out
Everyone’s in a tizzy.
How long more we’ll keep this up
I cannot even guess
But if it goes on for long more
We’ll have to stop and make more mess
May 2020
BETTER TIMES A COMIN’:
Oh dear old Abbeyfeale,
what are we currently seeing?
Who’d of thought such disruption,
would be caused by Covid-19.
The streets are eerily quiet,
it’d make one feel alone,
but please listen to the experts,
and continue to stay at home.
Will there be a Sunday Game?
Many sports fans are going insane,
fearing they won’t see their favourite games,
at this stage we’d stand in hail or rain.
The barstools stand empty,
the chatter still for a time,
but we’ve so much to be thankful for,
especially the beautiful sunshine.
In the bar we’d have a good sing song,
young and old would sing along,
there’d always be hush in the room,
many a customer loves a good tune.
It’s important for our older customers to cocoon,
when all you’d love is a drink in Jack & Nora’s room,
when we’ll be open remains to be seen,
until then continue to quarantine.
During this time Abbey has made it on TV,
they failed to show our many wonderful committees,
‘Make Abbeyfeale Great Again’,
post pandemic this must be our meme.
Our committees are keeping our town nice and clean,
our priests delivering mass through the big and small screen,
we have already missed the ‘fleadh’ and it’s wonderful scene,
the only plus for many is their gardens are green.
A night on the town with our friends we dearly miss,
a pint of plain, oh it would be bliss,
to gather, to chat and have a natter,
but we must wait it out no matter.
Right now there is no one on the streets,
friends and family we rarely meet,
overcoming covid is no mean feat,
when we do the bar taps will be flowing on repeat.
But this too shall pass,
and normal service will resume again,
we’ll cherish each other’s company,
while enjoying a Dingle Gin.
Our shop keepers are keeping our food in supply,
our front line workers’ courage we cannot deny,
the last few months have just flown by,
please stay indoors and heed our leaders cry.
It’s times like this that can shine a light,
as hardship often can,
to see the best in people,
and the good there is in man.
And when these days are over,
and all but memories remain,
we’ll continue to be thankful to the frontline staff,
who stretchered so much pain.
When John Mike’s opens its doors again,
we will welcome one and all,
until then, stay safe,
and abide by the governments call.
By
John & Robert Browne
By John Fitzgerald
The Clown
Who is this one I call the clown,
Comes in and out of every town?
You take a child of tender years,
Fill with laughter, touch with tears.
You live inside a sawdust ring,
A peg on which the circus clings;
A whited face, a button nose,
What is beneath, who is to know.
A comic look of tragedy?
A tragic look of comedy?
Wise enough to know the fool,
Kind enough to not be cruel;
A mask that ever hides your face,
A shining light, a saving grace?
Who is this one I call the clown,
Comes in and out of every town?
Who is this one, what is your role,
When touching hearts, you touch the soul?
GLIN Library
https://www.facebook.com/glinlibrary/
I enjoy putting little rhymes together to pass the time.
Peg Prendeville
Knockdown area is gleaming
Since this virus came to stay
Everythings been painted
And not a nettle in the way.
All houses getting makeovers
Both inside and out
Cupboards are being rearranged
Tiles being filled with grout.
The turf is almost dry by now
With the sunshine and the wind
At this rate of going
We might have to cut more bins.
Farmyards are tidied
White’s Skip hire is very busy
With all the stuff that’s been thrown out
Everyone’s in a tizzy.
How long more we’ll keep this up
I cannot even guess
But if it goes on for long more
We’ll have to stop and make more mess
BETTER TIMES A COMIN’:
Oh dear old Abbeyfeale,
what are we currently seeing?
Who’d of thought such disruption,
would be caused by Covid-19.
The streets are eerily quiet,
it’d make one feel alone,
but please listen to the experts,
and continue to stay at home.
Will there be a Sunday Game?
Many sports fans are going insane,
fearing they won’t see their favourite games,
at this stage we’d stand in hail or rain.
The barstools stand empty,
the chatter still for a time,
but we’ve so much to be thankful for,
especially the beautiful sunshine.
In the bar we’d have a good sing song,
young and old would sing along,
there’d always be hush in the room,
many a customer loves a good tune.
It’s important for our older customers to cocoon,
when all you’d love is a drink in Jack & Nora’s room,
when we’ll be open remains to be seen,
until then continue to quarantine.
During this time Abbey has made it on TV,
they failed to show our many wonderful committees,
‘Make Abbeyfeale Great Again’,
post pandemic this must be our meme.
Our committees are keeping our town nice and clean,
our priests delivering mass through the big and small screen,
we have already missed the ‘fleadh’ and it’s wonderful scene,
the only plus for many is their gardens are green.
A night on the town with our friends we dearly miss,
a pint of plain, oh it would be bliss,
to gather, to chat and have a natter,
but we must wait it out no matter.
Right now there is no one on the streets,
friends and family we rarely meet,
overcoming covid is no mean feat,
when we do the bar taps will be flowing on repeat.
But this too shall pass,
and normal service will resume again,
we’ll cherish each other’s company,
while enjoying a Dingle Gin.
Our shop keepers are keeping our food in supply,
our front line workers’ courage we cannot deny,
the last few months have just flown by,
please stay indoors and heed our leaders cry.
It’s times like this that can shine a light,
as hardship often can,
to see the best in people,
and the good there is in man.
And when these days are over,
and all but memories remain,
we’ll continue to be thankful to the frontline staff,
who stretchered so much pain.
When John Mike’s opens its doors again,
we will welcome one and all,
until then, stay safe,
and abide by the governments call.
By John & Robert Browne
He lived in the midst of the world
without wishing its pleasures:
A member of each family,
yet belonging to none;
To share all suffering;
to penetrate all secrets;
To heal all wounds;
to go from men to God
and offer Him their prayers;
To return from God to men
to bring pardon and hope;
To teach and to pardon,
To console and bless always.
My God, what a life;
and it was yours,
O priest of Jesus Christ.
—Lacordaire
A Tribute to Father Liam Comer from his Cousin
Always For Others
You were the image and likeness of God
But with you the morning awoke
With the call to rise
Not for you
But always for others.
God handpicked you from a myriad of souls
Moulded you since you were a babe
To prepare you for a journey
Not for you
But always for others.
God blessed you with wisdom
To use to give form to his plans
And love to carry them out
Not for you
But always for others.
You beheld the Body of Christ
Embraced his name and proclaimed it
And a Father and counsellor you became
Not for you
But always for others.
God forever blessed you
Walked and carried you when your feet were weary
Brought peace and joy to your heart
For though your life was never for you
It was Christ’s and he delighted in you.
(With acknowledgement to Easter Almuena of Hawaii)
THE TIME IS NOW
If you are ever going to love me,
Love me now, while I can know
The sweet and tender feelings
Which from true affection flow.
Love me now while I am living,
Do not wait until I am gone
And then have it chiselled in marble,
Sweet words on ice-cold stone.
If you have tender thoughts of me,
Please tell me now,
If you wait until I am sleeping, never to awaken,
There will be death between us,
And I won’t hear you then.
So if you love me, even a little bit,
Let me know it while I am living,
So I can treasure it,
These are ideal days to put the above sentiments into practise – the time is now.
John Duffy, the Circus
Out from the pastures in early Spring
On trucks and on trailers, the loading begins
The tents and the tigers, the bright colored ring
John Duffy, the circus is callin’
Travellin’ the highways and tourin’ the towns
Ringmaster, jugglers, the cats and the clowns
The posters are printed so word gets around
John Duffy, the circus is callin’
They drive the long nights without any sleep
Wire walkers, tight ropers, all hands to the wheel
Each dawn a’peggin’ the circle of steel
John Duffy, the circus is callin’
They ring round our market, wagons galore
Tractors and trailers, the canvas and more
With riggin’ and cages, ropes by the score
John Duffy, the circus is callin’
Four beats to a bar, the sledges ring
Four men of iron their music to sing
The canvas is spread,” the heave-ho” begins
John Duffy, the circus is callin’
Its haul down the ropes, and let the tent rise
Like clockwork they know, each cog to prise
They heave and they haul ‘til the tent is full size
John Duffy, the circus is callin’
The brass band of old is pipe music new
Monkeys are scarce and the elephants few
The trapeze has nets and the safe rope has too
John Duffy, the circus is callin’
The circus, alas, is not that of old
The magic, the music, the laughs and the roars
See a child’s face when the sparkle’s gone cold
John Duffy will soon not be callin’
By John F Fitzgerald
Sobriety in Rhyme
One of the tools that helped Noel Roche on his rehab journey was his faith. In this poem/prayer he outlines how he takes life one day at a time and relies always on God's help.
One Day
Lead me gently through the day
Don’t let me do it my own way.
If I stumble, let me fall,
If I can’t walk, let me crawl.
If I’m in denial let me doubt,
If I’m in self pity, let me pout.
If I’m in pain and it’s real
All I ask is, Let me feel.
Please don’t let me drink today
Because that would be the old way.
Oh Holy Father, don’t you see,
It’s Footprints time. Please carry me.
Hold me in your arms
Hold me near
I have faith in you, my God
Because its stronger than my fear.
Yes my faith is stronger than my fear today
So I’ll handle anything that comes my way.
I’ve got to work the steps, do the next thing that is right.
Ask God for help in the morning,
And thank him every night.
A Kilflynn Teacher penned a Kerry anthem in 1903
Kerry People Saturday, November 21, 1903
“Kerry Diamonds”! “Kerry Diamonds
From -your setting rich and rare,
Shedding rays of dazzling brightness
On our Kerry homesteads fair.
” Kerry Diamonds “! ” Kerry Diamonds “!
Well, you’re worth the paltry price,
Even though of love a labour.
You are sold at sacrifice
“Kerry Diamonds”! “Kerry Diamonds”!
I shall cherish you for aye,
Hoard you up amongst my treasures,
Careful of your every ray.
“Kerry Diamonds”! “Kerry Diamonds”!
You are brilliantly ‘reset’;
Many hours were spent in ‘cutting,’
May they be rewarded yet.
” Kerry Diamonds”! “Kerry Diamonds”! –
Precious Christmas gift you’d be
To our Kerry boys and girls
Here at home, or o’er the sea.
“KerrOn whatever shore you shine,
You will take them Kerry’s blessing,
You may also take them mine.
—Katie ‘ M. Pierse, N.T. Kilflynn, 17:11:’03.
Today's Poem
Dear Old Shannon’s Shore
by Jerry Histon (1886-1975) Dirreen and Clounmacon. He is best known for the lyrics of “The Lovely Banks of Blain” and “The Vales of New Dirreen”
Sent in by his grand daughter Noreen Neville O Connell
I once stood on Queenstown harbour,
On a bright September’s eve,
I saw some sights that grieved me,
As a ship was going to leave;
Some handsome boys and girls were going,
Some may return no more,
And they left their place of birth behind,
By the dear old Shannon’s shore.
By the dear old Shannon’s shore,
Where the foaming tide does roll,
And the shamrock clings to every rock,
By the dear old Shannon’s shore.
I saw a pair of lovers,
As they stood there hand in hand,
They made their vows together,
In their own dear native land.
I heard him say “Goodbye love,
I must cross the ocean wide,
But when I will return,
Will you promise to be my bride?
It may be months, it may be years,
But I’ll come back a stór,
And we’ll live in peace and happiness,
By the dear old Shannon’s shore.”
I saw a grey-haired woman,
As she bid her son goodbye,
Her face it wore a look of care,
As the tears stood in her eyes;
She said: “goodbye, God bless you,
Will I see you any more,
As you leave me broken-hearted,
By the dear old Shannon’s shore?”
As that ship left Queenstown harbour,
With that Irish exile band,
Who were going to seek a fortune,
In a far off distant land.
But wherever they may wander,
Old Ireland they will adore,
And they will always think of ,
Their rustic roots and home
By the dear old Shannon shore.
GST Activist: Mary Carmody, RIP
Liam O Mahony <lomahony@hotmail.com> 16 April 2020 at 12:34
Cc: "omahonyliam@gmail.com" <omahonyliam@gmail.com>
IN MEMORIAM MARY CARMODY TEMPLEGLANTINE.
Do Máire Ní Chearmada, Teampall an Ghleanntáin Ó Mike Mac Domhnaill.
Bhí grá ag Mary don teanga i gcónaí agus seo ceann a scríobh mé fuithi cupla bliain ó shin, bhí mé ag Devon Road Cross agus ar fáth éigin thainig sí isteach i mo cheann.
Gníomhaí
‘Tá ceann díobh san agam!’
Bhain sin preab astu,
na hoifigigh ón gComhairle
anseo in ár measc –
faoi dheontas éigin –
nuair a luadh cromán na gcearc.
Séard a bhí i gceist –
agus thóg sé roinnt ama
orthu socrú –
ná gur thuirling cromán
go rialta ins an Tulaigh,
áit a raibh seilbh glactha aici
ar na crainn,
ar gach a bhain leis,
glactha go daingean
ina haigne istigh
agus gheobhadh bás ar a son.
Sea, cinnte
‘Tá ceann díobh san agam’
agus bhí –
sa chiall is doimhne
dá bhfuil againn.
(Environmentalist
I have one of them!
she famously said,
to the astonishment of the Heritage people
being entertained by us
(seeking a grant!),
when the hen harrier was mentioned.
What she meant –
and it took a while
for their pupils to deflate –
was that one landed regularly
near Tullig Wood,
an area of landscape
she had appropriated
in her own mind,
and would die to protect.
Yes indeed
‘I have one of them’:
and she truly had
in every God-given sense.)
The verses above and their translation were penned by Mike Mac Domhnaill as a tribute to Mary and to acknowledge her dedication to the parish of Templeglantine. Mike, as a founding member of the Great Southern Trail saw at first hand the willpower and dedication of Mary to ensure that the old railway which traversed her native parish from Barnagh Tunnel to Devon Road Station would be rejuvenated as the Great Southern Trail. Her stalwart support was invaluable to Mike, myself and the other pioneers of the trail some thirty years ago. Mary served as joint treasurer with Pat Condon for several years. She also organised walks along the trail with the section through Tullig Wood being her favourite. Afterwards her wonderful homemade cakes and buns were snapped up by the participants, many of whom made haste to Halla Inse Bán to ensure their portion. I never had to hurry as Mary always set aside some treats for me! She was relaxed and assured with whomsoever she met and had no qualms in lobbying visiting politicians to the Trail such as Éamon Ó Cuív and Leo Varadkar.
Both of the approaches to Tullig Wood involved bridge crossings and both railway bridges had been demolished. This made access to the Wood somewhat awkward for many years. Mary vowed that the situation would be remedied. She ensured that one bridge was reinstated in 2003 by the Great Southern Trail Ltd. with the assistance of international and local volunteers. Some years later her prayers were finally answered when local business man, Mike Condon, manufactured, donated and installed a new bridge over the public road near Devon Road Station in 2009.
In recent years Mary's health deteriorated and it was with great sorrow that we heard of her death on the 7th of April 2020. She is now buried in her native Templeglantine and our sympathy is with her sister, Pat (USA) and with all her relatives and friends. Go n-déana Dia trócaire ar a h-anam dílis.
Liam O Mahony.
Pics: 1)The 4th August 2003 bridge: Mike Mac Domhnaill, Mary Carmody, Denis McAuliffe, Tom McCoy, Fr. Tom Hurley P.P. who blessed the bridge.
2) The 7th March 2009 bridge: Mike Condon, Mary Carmody, Paddy Condon R.I.P.
Alanis Morissette’s Thank U
How 'bout getting off of these antibiotics
How 'bout stopping eating when I'm full up
How 'bout them transparent dangling carrots
How 'bout that ever elusive kudos
Thank you India, thank you terror
Thank you disillusionment
Thank you frailty, thank you consequence
Thank you, thank you, silence
How 'bout me not blaming you for everything
How 'bout me enjoying the moment for once
How 'bout how good it feels to finally forgive you
How 'bout grieving it all one at a time
Thank you India, thank you terror
Thank you disillusionment
Thank you frailty, thank you consequence
Thank you, thank you, silence
Patience!
Milton’s poem, written when he was going blind.
When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide;
‘Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?’
I fondly ask. But Patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: ‘God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait.’
A Poem from Róisín Meaney
To Venice the fish are returning,
Down under, the bush has stopped burning.
When humans stay home,
And leave nature alone,
The world gets the break it’s been yearning.
Memories of the ball alley in Listowel
When school was o’re, our hearts would soar,
At meals we would not dally,
With homework done, to seek our fun,
We’d wander to the alley.
To toss that ball against the wall,
And combat every rally,
With pouring sweat we’d play‘til death
Those games within our alley.
With left hand or right we’d try our might,
Until the grand finale,
But win or lose, how we’d enthuse
On those games played down the alley
Each game was fought, the prize was sought,
The marker counts his tally,
The match was won at twenty one,
‘Twas victory in the alley
But time moves on, the youth now gone,
No more do young men sally
To toss that ball against the wall
Of my beloved alley
Yet, memories hold of comrades old
Until the last reveille,
Of times gone by which brought such joy
Those days spent down the alley
Junior Griffin
Dear Friend...
My heart is heavy with helplessness.
I would gladly take the weight from you,
Share your loss. But you are there
And I am anywhere but there.
Yet even if I walked beside you
You would need to walk alone.
Losses are like fingerprints, each one different
As every breath we take, and each our own.
But know dear friend, if love can lighten
This burden you endure, if love can share
One tiny step with you, look to your heart,
Be sure you’ll find me there.
John McGrath October 2014
The following poem, written by Sr. Maud Murphy SSI. and submitted by Fr. Brendan Duggan
The Challenge of Corona
We were flying to the Moon
We were finding life on Mars
We were dropping bombs with drones
We were getting bigger cars.
We were building finer homes
Flying out to warmer lands
We were busy buying clothes
We were brushing up our tans.
We were throwing out good food
While we watched the starving poor
We kept burning fossil fuels
And our oil became less pure.
We were warned by our Pope
Need to mind our Common Home
Need to watch our Carbon Footprint
Try to save our world from doom.
But we didn’t want to listen
And we didn’t want to hear
We just watched TV and Tablets
Drank our wine and quaffed our beer.
Then Corona chose to visit
We were all caught unprepared
This wee microscopic VIRUS
Has our whole world running scared.
So our hands we keep on washing
And we’re careful when we cough
We stand six feet from our neighbour
‘Cause this virus might jump off.
Now we live in isolation
While our hearts are full of fear
And we fill our fridge and cupboards
Just in case it lasts a year.
Pubs and cafes are forbidden
And we dare not go to Mass
Nursing homes we must not visit
Hospitals we have to pass.
But this enforced isolation
Gives us lots of time to think
Time to clean the kitchen cupboards
Time to make our wardrobes shrink.
Could it be that this Corona
Is a blessing in disguise
Makes us think about our lifestyle
Makes us open wide our eyes.
We thought we were all important
Greatest beings on this earth
So we used it and abused it
As if it were ours from birth.
But Corona is a challenge
Makes us take a different view
Helps us see what really matters
What it is we need to do.
We must watch out for our neighbour
Doing everything we can
We are all in this together
Let us love our fellow man.
God is with us every moment
Minding us with loving care
Now we know how much we need Him
Let us talk to him in prayer.
So Corona, thanks for coming
Truth to tell we needed you
But don’t overstay your welcome
That, alas, would never do!
Life in Covid time
Our days are quiet, not much to do
But stay inside, maybe cook a stew
No need to fuss, we have all day
We’re staying at home, it’s safe that way.
How did we ever get to this?
We thought ‘twould never come to us.
Twas fine in China, so far away
But it speeded up without delay.
And now it’s lurking all around
Businesses closed, we’re gone to ground
Talking to family through window pane
Not sure when we can touch again.
But we’re learning a fact which we had forgot
We’re all one together in the pot
No difference now tween black or white
All held up in the same light.
And that is how we’ll beat this virus
By facing head-on whatever arises
Giving each other a helping hand
One big family in this land.
And though we may have some pain to bear
We’ll all be the happier when we care
And ask for blessings on all mankind
And offer thanks … and love we’ll find.
By Peg Prendeville
Late in the sixth century, Pope Gregory the Great saw an opening to reassert Rome’s control of this far-off island, when the Christian daughter of King Charibert of Paris married the pagan King of Kent. To this end, he sent an obscure Benedictine monk called Augustine as a missionary. The mission was a shot in the dark, and nearly collapsed even before reaching Kent. Yet Augustine proved so adept on arrival that he converted the Kentish king, founded the English Church, built cathedrals at Canterbury and Rochester as well as St Augustine’s Abbey, and became the first Archbishop of Canterbury.
https://wordpress.com/read/blogs/116961667/posts/127
Victoria Kennefick’s chapbook, White Whale, won the Munster Literature Fool for Poetry Competition 2014. It will be launched as part of the Cork Spring Poetry Festival 2015. A collection of her poems was shortlisted for the prestigious Melita Hume Poetry Prize 2014 judged by Forward Prize winner, Emily Berry. She has also been shortlisted for 2014 Over The Edge New Writer of the Year Award. In 2013 she won the Red Line Book Festival Poetry Prize and was shortlisted for the Bridport and Gregory O’Donoghue Prizes. She was selected to read as part of the Poetry Ireland Introductions Series 2013 and at the Cork Spring Poetry Festival Emerging Writers Reading in February 2014. Her work has been published in The Stinging Fly, Southword, Abridged,The Weary Blues, Malpais Review, The Irish Examiner and Wordlegs. She was a recipient of a Fulbright Scholarship in 2007 and completed her PhD in Literature at University College Cork in 2009. Originally from Shanagarry, Co. Cork, she now lives and works in Kerry. A member of the Listowel Writers’ Week committee and co-coordinator of its New Writers’ Salon, she also chairs the recently established Kerry Women Writers’ Network . She is the recipient of both a Cill Rialaig /Listowel Writers’ Week Residency Award and a Bursary from Kerry County Council this year.
https://wordpress.com/read/blogs/3136025/posts/71444
Moya Cannon was born in 1956 in Dunfanaghy, County Donegal. She studied History and Politics at University College Dublin, and at Corpus Christi College, Cambridge. She has taught in the Gaelscoil in Inchicore, in a school for adolescent travellers in Galway, and at the National University of Ireland in Galway. She served as editor of Poetry Ireland in 1995. Her work has appeared in a number of international anthologies and she has held writer-in-residence posts for Kerry County Council and Trent University Ontario (1994–95). Cannon became a member of Aosdána, the affiliation of creative artists in Ireland, in 2004. Her first book, Oar, (Salmon 1990, revised edition Gallery Press 2000) won the 1991 Brendan Behan Memorial Prize. It was followed by The Parchment Boat in 1997. Carrying the Songs: New and Selected Poems was published by Carcanet Press in 2007.
Eileen Sheehan is from Killarney, Co Kerry. Her collections are Song of the Midnight Fox and Down the Sunlit Hall (Doghouse Books). Anthology publications include The Watchful Heart: A New Generation of Irish Poets (ed Joan McBreen/Salmon Poetry) and TEXT: A Transition Year English Reader (ed Niall MacMonagle/ Celtic Press). She has worked as Poet in Residence with Limerick Co Council Arts Office and is on the organizing committee for Éigse Michael Hartnett Literary & Arts Festival. Her third collection, The Narrow Place of Souls, is forthcoming.
The following poem, written by Sr. Maud Murphy SSI. and submitted by Fr. Brendan Duggan
The Challenge of Corona
We were flying to the Moon
We were finding life on Mars
We were dropping bombs with drones
We were getting bigger cars.
We were building finer homes
Flying out to warmer lands
We were busy buying clothes
We were brushing up our tans.
We were throwing out good food
While we watched the starving poor
We kept burning fossil fuels
And our oil became less pure.
We were warned by our Pope
Need to mind our Common Home
Need to watch our Carbon Footprint
Try to save our world from doom.
But we didn’t want to listen
And we didn’t want to hear
We just watched TV and Tablets
Drank our wine and quaffed our beer.
Then Corona chose to visit
We were all caught unprepared
This wee microscopic VIRUS
Has our whole world running scared.
So our hands we keep on washing
And we’re careful when we cough
We stand six feet from our neighbour
‘Cause this virus might jump off.
Now we live in isolation
While our hearts are full of fear
And we fill our fridge and cupboards
Just in case it lasts a year.
Pubs and cafes are forbidden
And we dare not go to Mass
Nursing homes we must not visit
Hospitals we have to pass.
But this enforced isolation
Gives us lots of time to think
Time to clean the kitchen cupboards
Time to make our wardrobes shrink.
Could it be that this Corona
Is a blessing in disguise
Makes us think about our lifestyle
Makes us open wide our eyes.
We thought we were all important
Greatest beings on this earth
So we used it and abused it
As if it were ours from birth.
But Corona is a challenge
Makes us take a different view
Helps us see what really matters
What it is we need to do.
We must watch out for our neighbour
Doing everything we can
We are all in this together
Let us love our fellow man.
God is with us every moment
Minding us with loving care
Now we know how much we need Him
Let us talk to him in prayer.
So Corona, thanks for coming
Truth to tell we needed you
But don’t overstay your welcome
That, alas, would never do!
Sunday Dinner”
The table was set with the best we could boast of,
The bread was as light as the first fall of snow;
We had plenty for twenty, and we made the most of
That old Sunday dinner a long time ago.
( Poem about March 2020)
Reclaim Our World Once More
A halt has come there’s time to ponder
My mind can’t help but deeply wander
And memories grow so much fonder
Of the life we knew before
This plague cast across our earth
And executed so much hurt
New ways of living we had to birth
To reclaim our world once more.
The things that once were trivial
Now seem much more convivial
We yearn times when it was liberal
To bring friends inside our door
But since the people have unlinked
And we have time to overthink
Our sanity now on the brink
We pray for earth to be restored.
Requested of us as a nation
To participate in isolation
So that we can fight in correlation
Until we win this war
Although it’s hard not seeing friends
We practice what they recommend
If we’re to flourish in the end
Our distance must ensure.
Businesses lock down their gates
Country leaders in hot debate
Many a livelihood at stake
Finances no more secure
Anxiety now commonplace
Infection happening at high pace
Challenging times we all must face
Until we find a cure.
People working the frontline
In times to come I hope you find
Peace of mind, people kind
And happiness at your door
After darkness there comes light
When we overcome this plight
In simple pleasures we’ll delight
And live our lives once more.
But for now we must abide
With regulations they provide
Need to take it in our stride
As our communal chore
Now we stay in quarantine
But soon again we’ll live the dream
In a world where countries lean
A little closer than before.
(composer, Roisín Walsh)
Tribute To Paddy Faley, By George Langan
My heart it did break when the sad news it leaked
That the ‘Great Bard,’ he had just fallen
His loss I deplore, for I’ll never see more
My guide, my true inspiration.
He was that tall mast, a link with the past
His works, they were so much sought after
Now on history’s page, they will sing the high praise
Of this genius, the poetic master.
Equally strong, be it prose, verse or song
With a brain that was ever so fruitful
And his poems and his rhymes, were ever sublime
And for that, I will always be grateful.
Incessantly there, always eager to share
The ways, of our loving ancestors
And each story he told, I’ve indexed in bold
For to help out, and aid the researcher.
On the bare mountainside, he grew up with pride
With his kin, that he loved oh! so dearly
I’ll name them at will; there was Mick, Dan and Bill,
Young Joe, and their sister Mary.
Soon a family man, with a young wife and clan,
Glenbawn to the east came a callin’,
Moved there to reside, reared their daughters, all five,
When the good Lord took Mum, away from them.
So sleep long and hard, dear friend, ‘Greatest Bard’
Beside those, who have long since departed
And ‘though your pathway of life, brought you much pain and strife
For that, you’ll be richly rewarded.
If it’s a prayer that you need, then I’ll do that deed
I’ll go on my knees, twice daily
For it gave me such pride, just to stand by the side
Of the poet, the great Paddy Faley.
A Poem from John McGrath
Missing the Last Waltz
My mother wears her bitterness
Like a dark shawl tonight.
Turf-smoke curls about her smoke-grey hair.
'Your father had two left feet,' she spits
Grasping the tongs with blue-veined fingers,
She pokes the fire to coax the dying flames.
'I should have married a dancer,' she sighs
And now her eyes are filled
With the hornpipes of memory
As the ghosts of a thousand hopefuls
Swirl her round the room.
'O, how we loved to dance.'
We lose her for a moment
In the ashes of lost chances,
Until once more the fading embers flicker.
'We could have had our pick,
Kathleen and me.'
Twin heartbreakers in pleated dresses.
They left the dancers standing,
Dashing down Oxford Road
For the last train home,
Missing the last waltz.
John McGrath
On death of Patrick J Mooney in Dublin March 2020.
My deepest sympathy Kathleen, Damien, Deirdre, Patrick and Michael. I was so sorry to hear of Pat's passing. My thoughts and prayers are with you at this difficult time.
A life well lived that meant
so much,
In each and every way..
Complete with friendships true,
And good times shared,
And laughter through the years..
A life that leaves a legacy,
Of joy and pride and pleasure,
A loving, lasting memory,
Our grateful hearts will treasure.
Eileen Mc Grath, Oranmore, Co Galway
Field of Dreams is about a game of Soccer that took place in the Mart Field ( now Feale Drive) in late 70s/ early 80s between Listowel Celtic and Gleann Rovers. As a Prelude to the poem I would like you to state that the Poem has enough truth to be Fact but it also has enough Fiction ( poetic license) to be entertaining. "
Field of Dreams
Noel Roche
The biggest bunch of misfits,
That you have ever seen.
Ran out onto the mart field,
Wearing the red and green.
To take on the might of Celtic,
That was their quest on that day.
And erase the tag of second best,
This was the only way.
The Celtic team arrived on time,
And got out of their cars.
They had shiny boots and Munster youths,
They looked like soccer stars.
Eric made the team favourites,
He said, “they’re the best in town”.
But he forgot eleven misfits,
Who called themselves “The Gleann”.
The people manned the side-lines,
They came from near and far.
And one man said “t’won’t be no game,
This will be bloody war.
Unless the ref can keep them quiet,
I’m not so sure he can.
But if anyone can do it,
Then ‘The Sheriff’ is that man”.
Three o clock, the whistle blows,
At last the game is on.
Now it’s down to soccer,
Coz the hype and talk is done.
The Gigs runs up the side-line,
With a fury never seen.
For months he gave his heart and soul,
To the boys in red and green.
Then Celtic got a free kick,
Which prompted Gigs to call.
“Don’t let em in boys, stand in front,
And build a human wall”.
But they bent the ball around the wall,
Twas buried in the net.
And the Gleann boys said “don’t worry Gigs,
The games not over yet”.
The Gleann played hard and furious,
And moved the ball upfield.
A Celtic defence, a tower of strength,
Now would these Gleann boys yield.
Come on said Gigs, you have em now,
As a tear came to his eye.
And they passed to Noel, who scored the goal,
That made the game a tie.
What happened next is history,
Of which people often talk.
The miracle of the mart field,
That made Jack Galvin walk.
The crowd was stunned in silence,
As the ball hit Celtics net.
But Jack jumped out of his chair,
And said, “that’s the best one yet”.
Soon the game was over,
And the Gleann boys jumped for joy.
And Gigs who could not hold it back,
Cried like a little boy.
And for the other Gleann boys,
This I’d like to say.
We did not feel like misfits then,
We felt like kings that day.
Now years later, the field is gone,
And I am far away.
I close my eyes, it takes me back,
To the mart field on that day.
I hear Gigs screaming, “C’mon boys”,
Till he could hardly talk.
And the goal we thought was holy,
Coz it made Jack Galvin walk.
From Listowel Connection Soccer March 2020.
By Peg Prendeville
I have been going through some of my father’s (Paddy Faley) stuff and am finding poems which he wrote long ago. The following was written after a visit to Riordan’s in Clounleharde when, back in the 60’s they used to have a Rambling House. The locals acted out plays, directed by Mrs O’Riordan and lots of the neighbours took part in singing and dancing. I was young but I have a vague memory of this time. It was my introduction to drama in my life.
A night at Riordan’s 12/08/1960
I don’t know what has come over me, my mind is gone astray
I’m all the time distracted from the work I do today
I think that the good people, they carried me last night
And took me to the fairy fort to see a
wondrous sight.
There was music, rippling music like I never heard before
Magnified by the volume ‘neath a special marble floor.
And the dancers; oh the dancers were the best I ever saw
As they spun around and twirled in the Clounleharde polka.
On his throne there in the corner guarded well from the melee
Was king of all the fairies like the old-time seanchaí.
If the dancers they were failing to live up to the mark
He’d infuse in them new spirit when he’d give a lively bark.
I saw there a magician who put my mind agog
When he changed a human creature into an ugly frog.
Although the act was humorous I kinda got indread
As I saw him sprawling on the floor with claws and legs outspread.
And a queer thought then it struck me as he looked sideways up at me
If they didn’t bring him back again what an awful frog he’d be.
And then the scene it changed a bit for love was in the air
And a wedding it was then arranged for a couple I knew there.
They sent for the local pastor but he to bed had gone
So they dressed me up in sacred robes and made me clergyman.
I felt quite elevated in ecclesiastical attire
And to unite these lovers was my one big desire.
The congregation they were jubilant and jumping with delight
To see Davy search his pockets for the ring for Eileen White.
To think that I was privileged to such a state of honour
With the best man there his nephew and the bridesmaid
Miss O’Connor.
The Chawkes they were trainbearers with Eileen O’Riordan
so well fared
John Dillane with face so fervent and head with reverence bared.
But then as I proceeded Davy’s guardian did appear
And said “Cut out the ceremony. There will be no wedding here”.
For poor Davy I had pity his one chance in life had gone
For no doubt he would be married if they let me carry on.
But I was stripped of my regalia and relegated to my place
And silenced by the scornful look on his benefactor’s face.
All these things I see before me and my senses they do shake
Am I doting? Am I crazy? Am I sleeping or awake?
Of course I must be dreaming, I remember now alright
I wasn’t with the fairies, I was in Riordan’s house last night.
Paddy Faley
Following poem which Paddy Faley wrote in 1960, I’m sure he wrote it with tongue in cheek.
Before Election for the Council
Our county councillors are a fraud and a waste of wanted cash
And if they are not set aside our country they will smash
They’re there to draw their money or so it does appear
For they’re silenced by the Manager and the County Engineer.
Sure they let him close our quarries and our workers
unemployed
And sent them off to England and those countries outside.
If the council worked the turf banks we could keep our
labourers here
But the Manager didn’t want them nor the County Engineer.
With lorries now they’re bringing sand, our county roads to grade
They say no stones are needed for stones are out of date.
But wait, and time will tell them whether tis sand or stones that’s dear
But of course they’ll clap the Manager and
the County Engineer.
The Engineer he told them he would make the lorries pay
He had his facts and figures so they gave him all his way.
But now he has them hypnotized, they are trembling with fear
They wont say no to the Manager nor the County Engineer.
Then when you approach them if you’re ever in distress
They will guarantee you much support to get you out of the mess.
But when you’re gone away from sight it will go out the other ear
If it is not pleasing to the Manager and the County Engineer.
You can be sure they don’t consider us, poor labourers
dejected
Except around the polling day when they want to be elected.
But after that why should they, they have champagne and beer
To drink there with the Manager and the County Engineer.
Storming Heaven
We stormed Heaven today in Listowel
You and I,
Well I stormed and you listened
Way above in Gods Kingdom on a high.
We talked silently,
Amid the windows of stained glass
In St Marys with the reds, blues & yellows
Dancing in the sunlit aisle
After Writers' Week mass.
I talked to you of a week of writing celebrations,
You would listen for a while, to my literary delights
Then you’d say “oh light a few more candles there,”
You know for the relations…
I thought of how you taught about me all the writings of John B,
The stories of Brian McMahon, the works of Maurice Walsh
And the poems of Brendan Kennelly.
As I stood there with my candle in my hand
I though of how you loved to talk about their prose and poems
When you were out working on the land.
Then I told you all about the great literary debates,
The many a Listowel Arms discussion,
The artistic late nights and of where I was going next,
To the John B Healing session.
I could see you raise your eyes in Heaven
You’d say well, “for all those late nights
You should be going to confession…”
I thought of how you would have loved the River Feale.
As the June summer sun shone on its foaming water.
This magical place awakening my love of writing,
Bestowed from a father to a daughter.
You know, maybe up there in Heaven you could your hero’s meet,
Well thank them for all the inspiration,
For memories, both old and new
As I hear a pianist on a Market Square seat.
I thought of how you never passed a church,
There were too many candles to be lit.
well thanks to God for a week of Literary treasures
So, I smile to you here in spirit as I sit.
Yes, we stormed Heaven today,
You and I, and as Listowel Writers' Week ended
I only hope that my little candle,
Lit up your Heavenly sky.
Michelle McCormack
Foley’s Field (from Listowel Connection)
Written by John McGrath and Neil Brosnan, September 2019 and sung by Neil at John B's, Listowel, January 2020
Never did what I was told. I dug the field but not for gold,
Though long ago my father told me how.
‘Forget the cows,’ the old man said, ‘to make it pay, plant trees instead,
This boggy ground is far too poor to plough.’
But land, like poetry, draws you back, to write a line and leave your track.
Dry summers gave a glimpse of buried store.
I dug where mighty trees had grown, where cows had grazed and crops were sown
And men had thrived two thousand years before.
‘Too poor to plough,’ my father said, ‘Forget the cows, plant trees instead.
Plant trees and then sit back and watch them grow.’
But I was wilful, I was bold, and far too smart to heed the old,
With much to learn and still too young to know.
Golden roots of deal I found, and as I raised them from the ground
I filled each space with fine and fertile soil.
Now the grass grows sweet and green, the finest sward you’ve ever seen,
A rich reward for all those years of toil.
‘Plant trees, my son,’ the old man said, but I dug deep for trees long dead
And found the gold of myth and ancient lore.
Now I sit beside the fire. I watch the bog-deal blazing higher
And drink a toast to all who’ve dug before.
‘Too poor to plough,’ my father said ‘Forget the cows, plant trees instead.
Plant trees and then sit back and watch them grow.’
But I was wilful, I was bold, and far too smart to heed the old,
With much to learn and still too young to know.
John McGrath
Prayer for the Dead
God our Father,
Your power brings us to birth,
Your providence guides our lives
and by Your command we return to dust.
Lord, those who die still live in Your presence
their lives change but do not end.
I pray in hope for my family,
relatives and friends
and for all the dead known to You alone.
In company with Christ
who died and now lives
may they rejoice in Your kingdom
where all our tears are wiped away.
Unite us together again in one family
to sing Your praise forever and ever. Amen.
GLIN Fair by John Mulvihill
THE GLIN FAIR
A fair is held in sweet Glin town
At the falling of each year
On the first of dark December,
When Christmas times are near,
Gay crowds of sporting people
To the town do gather in
To buy and sell, and drink as well
At the winter’s fair of Glin.
‘Tis there you’ll see the sporting boys,
The girls grand and gay
They gather in to sweet Glin Town
To have a sporting day.
Upstairs at Mary Regan’s tent
They will drink strong wine and gin,
And talk of future happiness
At the winter’s fair of Glin.
‘Tis there you’ll see the spendid cows,
Fine calves and breeding mares.
From the golden vein of Drumrisk
That land so rich and rare.
From Scart and Sandes’ mountain
Prize cattle do come in
And they all will wear their medals
At the winter’s fair of Glin.
‘Tis there you would see the sporting boys
Going out for exercise
With loaded butts and plants of ash
They break each other’s eyes
Cut heads and broken noses
The blood will freely swim
From Connell’s forge down to the quay
At the winter’s fair of Glin.
Those Drumrisk boys are men of science,
They have a record made;
I’m told by good authorities
They knocked out all the Fees
The Curlew with his gallant band
He then had to give in
And seek for police protection
At the winter’s fair of Glin.
They have a noble training school
In Drumrisk hill I’m sure,
For day and night in Drumrisk hill
The gloves they freely use,
They break wire lines knock down ash trees,
They damage bone and skin.
And no wonder they are boxers then
At the winter’s fair of Glin.
So now good bye to you old fair,
You’ve gone and passed away;
And as Christmas time is drawing near
I have one word to say
I wish a happy Christmas to all of you good men
And maidens fair beyond compare,
In that lovely town of Glin.
Composed about 15 years ago by-
John Mulvihill, Scart, Glin, Co. Limerick.
(From Ballyguiltenane school children c 1930’s)
From: https://www.duchas.ie/
By Peg Prendeville 13 11 2019.
It was lovely to see such a huge crowd in the Devon Inn last Friday night for the Lip Sync Battle organised by the Gerald Griffin’s male and female footballers. The atmosphere was great as 11 teams took part giving great fun and entertainment. Well done to them all and to all those who put in so much background work. I’ve summarised it, as best I can, in the following poem…….
Lip Sync Battle in the Devon Inn
You’ve heard of the Battle of the Boyne
And the battle of Waterloo
But there’s another which you may have missed
Just wait ‘til I tell you.
About this battle which was fought
And each side vowed to win
And were prepared to do or die
In the Lip Sync Battle in the Devon Inn.
For weeks they planned their tactics
And kept all under cover
No secrets were betrayed at all
As we were to discover.
Then came the night and all did gather
Amidst much noise and din
As the Gerald Griffins fought it out
In the Lip Sync Battle in the Devon Inn.
Some were there For One Night Only
And some who had No Clue
While Martin’s Angels shocked us all
As did the Chain of Fools.
Scrambled Legs and the Bally Boys,
Together with Good Looking Jim
Did their best to win the fight
In the Lip Sync Battle in the Devon Inn.
Then Mothers and Others joined the fray
And Blue Rose Bellas did not hold back
Ballyhahill Ramblers with Spice Lips too
Were not afraid and did not slack.
The battle was long and fearsome
As they fought kith and kin
Nobody wanted to lose this fight
In the Lip Sync Battle in the Devon Inn.
And when the energy was spent
And the warriors downed their tools
The judges gave their comments
Having outlined all the rules.
The audience was on tenterhooks
As we wondered who would win?
It was announced! For One Night Only
Had won the Battle in the Devon Inn.
Well done to all concerned
Who put so much work and time
Into getting this organised.
In such a limited time.
The Gerald Griffins men and women
From Bally, Loughill and Glin
Will be remembered for many years
For their Lip Sync Battle in the Devon Inn.
ON THE STREET IN ABBEYFEALE
Or, The Theft of a Lady’s Brolly,
Which dastardly crime occurred in Abbeyfeale on a Rainy
St. Patrick’s Day, 2012)
On the street in Abbeyfeale
Loud and high the bagpipes pealed,
And the banners on the breeze did proudly soar;
As the sun came shining bright,
And the rain-clouds dark took flight,
I left my brolly down, the rain being o’er.
To some folks I went to chat,
And sure where’s the harm in that?
It being Patrick’s Day, my pals were all in town;
As the gossip fast did flow,
Of good news - and tales of woe,
A shower of rain once more came pelting down.
Well, I turned to grab my brolly
But then soon realised my folly,
For light-fingers mean had stolen it away!
I had paid for it good money
And it isn’t one bit funny;
That snaky wretch in hell will surely pay!
May the rain and sleet come down,
With no mercy on his crown,
May the sun ne’er heat his bones for evermore.
May his good luck go astray,
May the rain sweep off his hay,
And may Bank and Bailiff ever haunt his door!
Nicholas.
By Peg Prendeville 6-11-2019.
As I sit down to write these notes on a Monday afternoon I hear that Gaybo has died. It is like a family death as we all, in my generation, grew up listening to Gay Byrne on the Late Late or on his Radio show. I remember when I was a young mother in Co. Meath, home alone each day with a baby and no phone or car, Gay Byrne on his radio programme each morning made me feel not so alone or isolated. I had a friend in the house with me. He could be exasperating or consoling or funny depending on one’s own mood. I happened to get on a Late Late show in 1995 and had the honour of reciting a verse which I composed on the journey up to Dublin. It went like this:
Hello there Gay, I just want to say
I’ve realised my life’s ambition
To get on the Late Late I just couldn’t wait
But I must make one confession.
You’re nice, I know, and you present a good show
But it’s not always to my taste
Sometimes I get sad when I think you’re being bad
And I resent all my time that you waste.
But just for tonight I’ll sit back and be quiet
And proclaim you the greatest of all
To all those at home I’m sorry you couldn’t come
But I’m here and I’m having a ball.
SCHOOL Folklore; Local Poets
Collector Thomas Walsh- Informant Maurice Stack Age 39 buried in Murhur.
There are no stories told about how he got the gift of poetry. His father and Uncle were poets. One day a widow woman asked Rucard Drury and three other men to eat a meadow of hay. They had a piece of a boar for their dinner and he made a piece of poetry about it. "O God on high who rules the sky Look upon us forth and give us meat that we can eat and take away the boar."
He made a song about the Listowel Races, Foley's donkey, Knockanure church. In English he composed those songs. He had an Uncle Mike who also had the gift of poetry but was not as good as Rucard. He was a labourer and he spent most of his time in Knockanure. He was a great scholar and the people liked him very much. He was working with a woman and in the evening she got short of tea and sugar. When drinking his tea she asked him if there was sugar in his tea. He said no because if there was he could see it in the bottom.
Bryan McMahon Listowel Races
Oh, Puck may be famous and Galway be grand,
And the praise of Tramore echo down through the land,
But I'll sing you a ballad and beauty extol,
As I found it long ' go in the Town of Listowel.
I've been to Bundoran, I've rambled to Bray,
I've footed to Bantry with it's beautiful bay,
But I'd barter their charms, I would, pon my soul,
For the week of the Races in Lovely Listowel.
There were Bookies and Bagmen and Bankers and all,
Biddy Mulligan was there with a green-coloured shawl,
And a cute little boy pitching pence in a bowl,
Took me down for a crown in the Town of Listowel.
The Hawkers were kissing and bleeding as well,
We had Hoop-La and Loop-La and the 'oul Bagatelle,
And silver-tongued gents sure I'd bet they'd cajole,
A pound from a miser in the Town of Listowel.
Beyond on the course there was silk flashing past,
The unfortunate nag that I backed he was last,
When he ran the wrong way sure I lost my control,
And I prayed for the trainer and Lovely Listowel.
Oh night time, how are you-the night sure 'twas day,
And the stars in the sky sure they looked down in dismay,
And they sez to the moon then in accents so droll,
'You're done, for the sun shines to-night in Listowel'
And you'd travel the land to see maidens so rare,
With buckles and pearls and grace I declare,
In my troubles and toils there is one can console,
she's a wife, be me life, from the Town of Listowel.
My rhyming is over, God bless those who heard,
For I'll take to the roads and go off like a bird,
And before I depart well you all must pay toll,
So three cheers for the Races and Lovely Listowel.
PERHAPS
Perhaps, if we could see the splendour of the land to which our loved ones are called from you and me – WE’D UNDERSTAND.
Perhaps, if we could hear the welcome they receive from old familiar voices – all so dear –
WE’D UNDERSTAND.
Perhaps, if we could know the reason why they went we’d smile – and wipe away the tears that flow –WE’D UNDERSTAND.
September 2019
STORYTELLING CONCERT on Sat Sept.7th at 8.00 pm: Join our guest storytellers Lizzie McDougall, Randel McGee, Batt Burns, Frances Kennedy, Bryan Murphy and singer/songwriter Mickey McConnell for an evening of stories and music. MC – Gabriel Fitzmaurice Venue: Kerry Writers’ Museum.
RIVERS OF WORDS – MAURICE WALSH on Fri 6th Sept at 5.00 pm: A screening of the acclaimed documentary produced by the North Kerry Literary Trust in association with RTE.
Venue – Kerry Writers’ Museum, Admission – Free
LISTOWEL RAMBLING HOUSE Seanchai on Sunday 8th Sept. 3 to 6 pm:
To close our Festival weekend, join us for an informal afternoon of traditional Irish music, song, dance & storytelling. Light Refreshments served. Venue: Kerry Writers’ Museum.
Full programme at Seanchai Tel. 068 22212.
http://www.kerrywritersmuseum.com/2019-festival-programme/
this tribute to Connie O’Donnell bus driver retires June 2019
By Peg Prendeville
Dear Connie, I fear the time has come
When you’ll no longer pass the gate
You’ve been a landmark a long time now
From 1984 to date.
It was in that year that James first took
The journey on the bus
With his little peaked cap and schoolbag
He never caused much fuss.
Back then there were many children
Sure the bus was always full
But you kept them all in happy mood
And their days were never dull.
Time moved on and twas my delight
To see my grandchildren at the gate
Waiting for “Connie’s bus” to come.
The excitement, it was great. .
But time it changes many things
And now the children are so few
That Bus Eireann is pulling the plug
So we must say Goodbye to you.
It’s a sad day for all of us
To see this service taken
You were the best bus-driver
If I’m not mistaken.
A special thank you from your girls
Katie, Clodagh, Saibh
Who were your final passengers
On the Ballyhahill drive.
Observing the Pieties
Garry MacMahon
I confess I’m a creature of habit, as down life’s road I go
Observing annual rituals is a must for me, and so
Before the crib at Christmas Eve I kneel with all the clan
And on the feast of Stephen go to Dingle for the wran.
Then for sweet St. Brigid’s Day a straw cross I have made
To hang upon the threshold whereon it will be laid.
In the house of my Redeemer I chant a hymn of praise
My throat criss crossed with candles on the feast day of St. Blaise.
Shrove Tuesday I eat pancakes dipped in honey from the hive
And thank the Lord that yet I live and another year survived,
And when the long gospel is read before the end of Lent
Home I take the blessed palm and breathe its sacred scent.
On Good Friday I buy hot cross buns and before the day is past
Gather cockles from the sea shore and keep the old black fast
And then on Easter morn I rise to see the dancing sun come forth
Not forgetting Patrick’s Day between, as the shamrock I still sport.
The coming of the swallow, the awakening of the earth
The promise of a primrose I await with bated breath,
And lest ill luck should follow me and give me cause to grieve
I never bring whitethorn to the house upon May Eve.
June bonfires once I lighted on the feastday of St. John
A custom all but vanished as relentless time moves on.
July sees me hit for Milltown and Willie Clancy in the County Clare
In Marrinan’s pub I pay my sub and a song or two sing there.
And then its Munster Final time and the piper must be paid
To Thurles, Cork, Killarney the pilgrimage is made.
Again I fetch my fishing rod before the season’s out
Take the time to wet a line and coax elusive trout.
To the Pattern of the Virgin, from thence on to Puck Fair
The Races of Listowel come next and I’m certain to be there.
Dew drenched fields provide me with mushrooms gleaming white
While plump and juicy blackberries for my sore eyes are a sight.
When comes November of the souls and all the leaves are shed
Will you light a candle then for me as I do for the dead?
You’ve heard an old man’s story, each word I swear is true,
Be blessed thrice, take this advice I now implore of you
Don’t turn your back on dúchas or on history’s learned lore
And pass it on before it’s gone and lost forever more.
Old Video
Keeping it all Alive
By Domhnall de Barra
I went to the concert in Abbeyfeale last Sunday night to hear the Kilfenora Céilí Band in concert. For me it was a bit of a trip down memory lane as I have very fond memories of the old Kilfenora who won all before them in the middle of the last century. At that time the three big céilí bands were the Kilfenora, the Tulla and the Liverpool. I had the good fortune to play with the Liverpool and we used to come to Ireland regularly for All-Ireland fleadhanna and the Oireachtas competitions. The Liverpool had a great connection with Clare as the leader, Sean McNamara’s people came from Kilmihil in West Clare. So, it was inevitable that we would meet the other bands and share a few tunes and even the odd drop! When I returned to live in Ireland in 1972 it was to take up the position of Reachtaire na Mumhan with Comhaltas Ceoltóirí Éireann. My job was to build up the organisation in Munster and service the existing branches. Once a month I delivered the magazine, Treoir, to every branch in the province and of course this brought me into contact with the secretaries of all the branches. In Kilfenora that secretary happened to be the leader of the céilí band, a fantastic piano player called Kitty Linnane. She was truly a great woman and welcomed me with open arms. The first day I knocked on her door she said “come in out of the cold, the dinner won’t be long”. I protested that I didn’t want anything to eat but she would have none of it and with a twinkle in her eye said “sure ye don’t get half enough to eat across there in West Limerick”. That started a trend and every time I called it was either the dinner or a plate piled high with salad. The Kilfenora had a unique sound that to me epitomised the soul of Clare. Alas all the members of the band that played at that time have gone to their eternal reward but the banner has been carried forward by wave after wave of musicians who kept the tradition alive. The current band have taken the art of performing to a whole new level. Gone are the days when the band sat on a stage to play for a céilí for about three hours or so. They now put on a great show which includes dancers and singers as well as extra instruments that were not in the original line-up such as cello and big bass. Yes, it is quite different but when they break into a selection of the old tunes the basic sound is the same. Anyway, I really enjoyed their performance but they weren’t the highlight of the night. That went to the group that opened the show, the traditional group from the secondary school in Abbeyfeale. I counted 35 on the stage, all young teenagers, playing music to such a high standard that I was totally blown away by them. They played solidly as a unit but they also exuded joy and happiness as they rattled off jigs, reels and polkas with such rhythm that it was impossible to stop from keeping time with the foot. It was lovely to see two in the group who play regularly in our sessions in Athea; Emma Flynn and Liam Broderick. Liam also sang a lovely song as well. One of the lads who was playing an accordion got up and told a story about getting a black eye at Mass, of all places. For one so young he had a great grasp of storytelling and kept us all amused and spellbound until the final punch line. Congratulations to the group and to those who prepared them for the stage. They did our area proud.
Storytelling was once a very important part of life in rural Ireland. In the days before mass communication methods it was often the only way of delivering the news but was also a way of entertaining especially during the long winter evenings at some rambling house. Some storytellers would frighten the life out of you with tales of fairies, ghosts and strange happenings in the night. After listening to some of these the walk home, especially in the dark, was an ordeal with imaginary creatures ready to spring from behind every shadow ready to carry us off to the other world. The practice of story telling has waned over the years but Comhaltas are trying to revive it. There is now a competition for story telling at the Fleadh Cheoil and it is getting great attention. As part of the County Fleadh here in Athea there will be a night of story telling at the Top of the Town with the renowned Frances Kennedy from Listowel in the chair. It is a golden opportunity to hear the best of talent regaling us with all sorts of stories so don’t miss it.
As story telling was once popular, so was the practice of whistling. It was not uncommon to hear people whistle while they worked or while walking and cycling along the road. I remember two great whistlers, Denny Kelly in Knocknaboul and a man named McMahon who worked at Sheehy’s in Cratloe. I don’t know what his first name was because he was known as “The Bird” because of his musical ability. You could hear him from a long distance as he whistled his way through the Glen on his way to Athea. Denny Kelly was also an accordion player and could whistle all the old traditional tunes. He also had the knack of being able to whistle continuously without a break by whistling while inhaling as well as exhaling, a remarkable feat. Donie Cusack and my father were coming back from Tipperary one time after delivering a load of turf to Donie’s aunt. They had a competition as to who could whistle and lilt the most reels between Bruree and Abbeyfeale! I was never told who won. It is good to see the old customs being kept alive especially now when we are bombarded with all kinds of alien influences. That is why groups like the one from Abbeyfeale are so important.
Thursday May 2nd 2019, is National Poetry Day. I am aware that poetry is not everyone’s cup of tea but it is good to celebrate it as it can be very relaxing to listen to or to read poetry. So try and find a minute to recall a poem you learned at school or have read at some time in your life.
Poetry and rhyming can be used in so many ways. After all it is the
first language of a baby
can be used to tell a story
to paint a moment in time
to pay a tribute to somebody
to record history
to play with words
to relax
to comfort when sad
to celebrate when glad
to keep a child happy e.g. clap hands poem
to soothe a baby
So it is not a waste of time after all.
My Gift of Rhyming by Paddy Faley R.I.P.
I didn’t get the gift of music, neither can I sing
My feet weren’t made for dancing that so much pleasure to others bring.
Still my mind is cheerful and my days are always bright
For the gift I got of rhyming with words is my delight.
In God’s world that nature cares there’s music, song and dance
In the flora and the fauna I see love and romance.
Then words come freely to me to express my thoughts in rhyme
God’s earthly things all seem to speak and sanctify my time.
In some songs that I have written how delightful then to hear
Their words being set to music to bring pleasure to the ear
Of others not so fortunate who got no gifts to use the pen
For putting words together to cheer their fellowman.
So to God I’m really thankful for the gift I did obtain
I hope I’ll always use it His goodness to proclaim
For to Him is due the credit for everything I own
May He guide my every footstep
as through this life I’m going.
By Peg Prendeville
THE PECKER’S DAUGHTER.
Air; Sullivan’s John
By Mattie Lennon
Oh, Sarah Jane Dunne, ‘though she hadn’t won, on the nineteenth day of July.
This talented lass, from the Traveller class, was neither aloof or shy.
“Tinkers daughter”, you’d hear, amid debt-ridden fear in that place that’s called Dublin-four
She never felt shame but carried the name, as the Pecker had done before.
To the final she went, then felt quite content when her rival Miss Cork took the crown
All set to advance, with a positive stance Sarah didn’t see cause for a frown.
If one doesn’t stop, till they get to the top there’s always a price to be paid
Like Kipling she knows, no matter how the wind blows, there’s no failure just triumph delayed.
From the time she was small it was clear to us all, she was on the road to fame.
At a match or a fair in Cork, Kerry or Clare to busk with her father she came.
Unlike Sullivan’s John, from the road she’s gone but the globe she plans to roam.
She’ll model and teach and great heights she’ll reach; the world is now her home.
She has got this far and her rising star will continue to ascend.
New points she has scored and with critics ignored begrudgery she’ll transcend
And you can be sure that her Godfather, Moore, will pen her a song bye and bye
As the Pecker sings proud, on his Heavenly cloud, a new Tinker’s Lullaby.
© Mattie Lennon2014
RICHARD MORIARTY was born in Lisselton, Listowel, County Kerry, Ireland, where much of his family still resides. He immigrated in the early ‘80’s to San Diego, California, USA.
(From Listowel Connection)
Richard has a rich tapestry of memories of his childhood growing up In Kerry, although he has put in a lot of distance since those days. The bonds are still strong: The constant TUG to come HOME, if only in verse.
Richard has travelled extensively throughout the USA and Mexico, holding various jobs, including construction worker and truck driver, but his favourite gig was as a horse carriage driver, where he regaled tourists and residents alike with his stories as they viewed the sights in San Diego. This has left him with many experiences and people to write about.
Richard has written several poems and short stories, much of which has been published. Most notable is a Letter of Recognition and Appreciation from President George Bush.
I KNOW SANTA’S ON HIS WAY
Grandpaw, will you tell me the story, of how Christmas came to be
About the baby Jesus, the presents, and the tree
Why the stars all seem to sparkle, up yonder in the sky
And why there’s so much laughter, amongst every girl and boy
Can you tell me why the candles, seem to have a beacon light
Will it be like this forever, or is this a special night
Come to me my little sweetheart, and climb up on my knee
And I’ll tell you the story, just the way ‘twas told to me
It started back many years ago, in a land far, far away
In a little town called Bethlehem, or so the people say
By a manger in a stable, so cold and all forlorn
There on the hay, that December day, Jesus Christ was born
You ask me of the presents, and what meaning they behold
I guess it’s called affection, should the truth be ever told
They’re little gifts that are bestowed, and we all understand
On that special day we just want to say, God bless the giving hand
Now, I know what you are thinking, by the way you look at me
You want to hear the story, about the Christmas tree
Well, every day in his own way, God sends us from above
Some hurt, some joy, some strength and pain, but he does it all with love
He gave us gifts, like mountains, the deserts, and the sea
And mankind enhanced this beauty in the form of a tree
My little girl, with golden curl about the candle glow
Should we get lost, by day or night, as on through life we go
When we’re in doubt, as we sometimes are, as on and on we roam
It’s the twinkling stars and candlelight that will lead us safely home
Well, now I believe I’ve come to the end and I have no more to say
So go to sleep, my sweetheart
I KNOW SANTA’S ON HIS WAY
Richard G. Moriarty
Loughill/Ballyhahill Parish Drama; By Peg Prendeville
There’s drama in the parish
Is the whisper on the ground
It seems that “Sive” is being produced
So spread the word around.
The Parish Hall is where it’s at
On the 30th of November
As well as the 1st, and 7th and 8th
Of Christmassy December.
This team of local actors
Has been busy all the year
Learning lines and acting out
The aim it is quite clear.
It’s to bring a spark of levity
Into our winter season
So be sure that you support them
As it is their only reason
They’re from all parts of the parish
From very young to “getting old”
They have so much fun together
As their lines they try to hold.
Remember they are amateurs
Some have never been on stage
So do not be too critical
If their words fall off the page.
And though there is sadness in the play
There is laughter too you’ll see
For the witty lines contained within
We sincerely thank the late John B.
So be sure to book your tickets
-To be got in Paddy’s store
You will definitely not regret it
And will be coming back for more.
Prayer for the Poor
God of Justice,
open our eyes
to see you in the face of the poor.
Open our ears
to hear you in the cries of the exploited.
Open our mouths
to defend you in the public squares
as well as in private deeds.
Remind us that what we do
to the least ones,
we do to you.
Amen.
GERALD GRIFFIN
Shanid Castle is located south of the town of Shanagolden on the Ardagh Road in Co Limerick.
Shania Castle
(Gerald Griffin)
On Shannon side the day is closing fair,
The kern sits musing by his shieling low,
And marks, beyond the lonely hills of Clare,
Blue, rimmed with gold, the clouds of sunset glow.
Hush in that sun the wide-spread waters flow,
Returning warm the day’s departing smile;
Along the sunny highland pacing slow
The keyriaght lingers with his herd the while.
And bells are tolling faint from far Saint Sinon’s isle.
O loved shore! with softest memories twined,
Sweet fall the summer on thy margin fair!
And peace come whispering, like a morning wind,
Dear thoughts of love to every bosom there!
The horrid wreck and driving storm forbear
Thy smiling strand, nor oft the accents swell
Along thy hills of grief or heart-wrung care;
But heaven look down upon each lowly dell,
And bless thee for the joys I yet remember well!
A Tribute to Paddy Faley – 16/11/11 from Athea News
Tribute To Paddy Faley
By George Langan
My heart it did break when the sad news it leaked
That the ‘Great Bard,’ he had just fallen
His loss I deplore, for I’ll never see more
My guide, my true inspiration.
He was that tall mast, a link with the past
His works, they were so much sought after
Now on history’s page, they will sing the high praise
Of this genius, the poetic master.
Equally strong, be it prose, verse or song
With a brain that was ever so fruitful
And his poems and his rhymes, were ever sublime
And for that, I will always be grateful.
Incessantly there, always eager to share
The ways, of our loving ancestors
And each story he told, I’ve indexed in bold
For to help out, and aid the researcher.
On the bare mountainside, he grew up with pride
With his kin, that he loved oh! so dearly
I’ll name them at will; there was Mick, Dan and Bill,
Young Joe, and their sister Mary.
Soon a family man, with a young wife and clan,
Glenbawn to the east came a callin’,
Moved there to reside, reared their daughters, all five,
When the good Lord took Mum, away from them.
So sleep long and hard, dear friend, ‘Greatest Bard’
Beside those, who have long since departed
And ‘though your pathway of life, brought you much pain and strife
For that, you’ll be richly rewarded.
If it’s a prayer that you need, then I’ll do that deed
I’ll go on my knees, twice daily
For it gave me such pride, just to stand by the side
Of the poet, the great Paddy Faley.
A Humanitarian’s Point of View
(Laura Looney – St Brigid’s Secondary School – Transition Year)
Life and the world are one big bubble
That can be mixed with hardship, strife and trouble
There’re people on earth who look to the skies
Picturing of a place where they can make things right
Some humanitarians can be famous and well known
But you might have missed the humanitarians at home
They want to make human life a better place
Or try change the world in a little way
Anyone could Contribute and try their best
They can come out on top when put to the test
But some people will stand back and leave others take the floor
While with those actions, your inactions can speak for even more
You see, humanitarianism is “the promotion of human welfare”
But many people might not even care
So, you can move on with life, and live as you please
While those who made an effort, it’s the memories they will leave
The traits of a humanitarian, in their moral role
Considerate, charitable, generous and more
What they would try for people’s lives, is to fix any holes
And all their selfless actions, wouldn’t be any chore
So, get up, get out and look at what you do
Because you never know if you see life
From a humanitarian’s point of view
2018 O’FLAHERTY SCHOOLS ESSAY & POETRY COMPETITIONS PRIZEGIVING
At a special ceremony in Killarney Library during the week, Prizes were presented to the winning entrants in the 2018 Hugh O’Flaherty Schools Literary Competition, under a number of categories.
Winning 2nd Level Schools Poetry (Poem Attached):
Laura Looney, Transition Year, St Brigid’s Killarney.
Poem on the theme of growing old from local poet. Mary McElligott
ME
Help me save my memories,
Each day I’m here with you.
It won’t take up all your time,
As I only have a few.
Don’t ‘correct’ or ‘fix’ the gaps,
Just let me rattle on.
Feel free to move me on a bit,
If my story is too long.
Help me to keep myself,
From disappearing down a hole.
Save me from destruction,
As my body leaves my soul.
Show me my old photographs,
You can talk about my dog.
Help me dip around a bit,
If my memory needs a jog.
They wrote up ‘my story’,
The first week I came in.
It’s to help me remember me.
Now where do I begin?
I know I can’t remember much,
Not too sure about this place
But I don’t feel so worried,
When I see a smiling face.
If I’m ever feeling frightened,
‘You might see it in a frown’,
Come and sit beside me
And in time I’ll settle down.
Help me to be myself,
The best that I can be.
Remember who you're looking at,
The one and only............ME.
Tom Scanlon (The Punter)
As my mind rolls back o’er memory’s 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 river bank
As the sun was blazing down
And gather round the old big stone
That stood there large and brown.
And when the day was done
And we set out for home
Along the mossy ridge
We’d rest a while and spend an hour
Beneath the Russians bridge;
The McGraths, Moriartys, the Walshs from the hill
Would come down there in the warm air
To laugh and sport their fill.
Then 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 have gone far and wide
Across the Atlantic waves.
But where e’er they are gone.
Or what e’er they’ve done
They will always remember back
To their boyhood days
And their happy ways
Around the Mail Road Cross.
From Irish Folklore collected in the 1930's at schools in Ireland
Sweet Kate of Ballyduff
Sweet Kate of Ballyduff
One eve of late I hapt to stray,
Down by a purling rill
The salmon there did sport and play
The doves did coo and bill.
The lovely lambkins sported round
Their dams they were enough,
But the loveliest creature I saw there
Was "Kate of Ballyduff"
I will not praise her amber locks,
Or yet her figure neat,
Her rosy cheeks, her honeyed lips,
Her graceful form and feet,
Her snow white bosom met my gaze
I saw and 'twas enough
In loves cruel chains I now remain,
With "Kate of Ballyduff"
My brother bards may paint their dears
In melody's sweetest lay,
But here in pain the poets skill
could in any form display,
Her beauty bright no pen can write
The painters are but stuff.
She'd still outwi' both paint and I
Sweet "Kate of Ballyduff"
I lay me on the bed she made
My wearied limbs to rest
Strange visions filled my frantic brain
Strange feelings filled my breast
I courted sleep, but the drowsy God
Spread from me fast enough
Until brought back by the silvery song
of " Kate of Ballyduff".
She sang a song of old Tom Moores
And sang it with a will
But the sweet music of her voice
Went through my heart a trill -
A trill which time can ever cure
The placid seems a' rough
She'd still outwi'both paint and I
Sweet "Kate of Ballyduff"
A bumper, Kate, I pledge you now,
Come comrades fill your glass,
And let the toast of all around
Be health to this young lass
Your glass is drained,
Come fill again
Kind Bachus gave the stuff
Farewell adieu dear maid to you,
Sweet "Kate of Ballyduff".
Composed aboout 70 years ago by a painter who lodged at Herberts house in Ballyduff. He was from Tralee, and was employed in Ratoo and wrote the song about Kate Herbert, one of the girls in the Herbert House
The song was given by Mrs. J Herbert, Ballyduff, Tralee
Recent from Listowel Connection
Poem By Richard Moriarty
FIVE GAMES IN A ROW
I remember back when just a kid I’d climb on Grandad’s knee
And while I perched there
With an eagle stare
He’d tell these tales to me
How in this land there’s a noble band of men who plan and dream
Who cannot be beat
Who will not retreat
And they’re called the Kerry Team
Like giants he said they forge ahead a wave of green and gold
Who in the history book
If you care to look
With passion there it’s told
As plain as day I can hear him say those boys are smooth as foam
They glide they swoop
They slide and scoop
To bring that trophy home
He’d call out each game each date and name until it was all done
And when he shed tears
For the losing years
I dried them one by one
Yes that was many years ago but some things are still the same
With my grandson Lee
There on my knee
Today we watched the game
And Grandpaw I knew you were here too but in case you didn’t know
In headlines bold
The tale was told
“Tis FIVEgames in a row
Richard Moriarty
Ballydonoghue/Lisselton
San Diego, California
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.
MEET BRENDAN GERAD O’BRIEN
February 8, 2018 Lucinda E Clarke #Thursday blog, Adventure, authors, BANKOK, books, BookWorks, Brendan Gerad O'Brien, detective stories, Guest Blog, history, lucinda e clarke, on line interview, Spy novel, Thriller, World War 2
OK, OK, I admit it I have a soft spot for Irish writers, the land of my birth, though I have long since lost the accent. While we may speak the same language as the English, Welsh, Scots, Americans and the Australians, I maintain we have poetry and words flowing through our veins. Have you guessed that this week’s guest is also from Ireland? What a surprise! Welcome, Brendan Gerad O’Brien. He now lives in Wales, but you can never take the power of words away from the Irish – not that I’m biased of course. Over to Brendan.
When I won my first writing competition I was so excited I ran all the way home. I was about eight years old. The Fun Fair was coming to Tralee – our little town on the West coast of Ireland – and apart from Duffy’s Circus which came in September, this was the highlight of our year. Our English teacher asked us to write an essay about it and I won the only prize – a book of ten tickets for the fair.
So writing was in my blood from a very young age. My uncle Moss Scanlon had a small Harness Maker’s shop in Listowel – a bus ride from Tralee – where I spent some wonderful summer holidays. The shop was a magnet for all sorts of colourful characters who’d wander in for a chat and a bit of jovial banter. One famous storyteller who often popped in was John B Keane, and I asked him once where he got his ideas from. He told me that everyone has a story to tell so just listen to them. I was there when John B’s first story was read out on Radio Eireann. I can still remember the buzz of excitement.
https://lucindaeclarke.wordpress.com/2018/02/08/meet-brendan-gerad-obrian/
Congratulations also to Bridie and her husband Stephen Murphy on their 40th wedding anniversary, July 2018. Peg Prendeville composed the following song in their honour for their party in Moore’s Carrigkerry.
Way up in Carrigkerry
Not far from Moore’s Bar
There lives a handsome couple
In “Some View” in Glenastar.
They are now married forty years
And we wish them many more
As they celebrate their ruby
And get ready for the gold.
They’ve been blessed with lovely children
And grandchildren now also
Who’ve inherited their talents
And can put on their own show.
Between them they’ve got talent
And can act the amadán
While Bridie takes her camera out
And Stephen his bodhrán.
They love the fun and humour
And the craic in Moore’s Bar
They might sing of poor old Mikie
While enjoying the odd jar.
So to Bridie and to Stephen
We’ll raise our glasses high
And remember absent dear ones
To whom we’ve said Goodbye.
Now let’s gather round together
Maybe shed some happy tears
As we clap hands and wish them well
And give them both three cheers.
Brosna is situated in an area which is said to be the bedrock of traditional Irish music, song, dance, and poetry known as the “Sliabh Luachra” area of County Kerry.
The area has produced some of Irelands greatest poets including Geoffrey Fionn Dalaigh who died in 1387, Aogán Ó Rathaille and Eoghan Rua Ó Súilleabháin. The charismatic Gaelic poet Eoghn Ru Suilleabh in (1748 - 1784) whose many exploits live on in the folk memory as do his poetry.
Sliabh Luachra was also the birthplace the folklorist, poet, and translator Edward Walsh (1805 - 1850), Patrick S. Dineen “Padraig Duinnin” who compiled Dineens Dictionary which is to this day the bible of the Irish Language, and An Brthair Toms Rathaille, Superior General of the Presentation Brothers 1905-1925 who wrote two books of Irish poetry An Spideog and An Cuaicin Draoideachta.
This tradition of poetry continues to the present time with Bernard O'Donoghue now a lecturer in Oxford University winning the prestigious Whitbread prize for a collection of poems in 1993/94. Little wonder that Professor Daniel Corkery author of The Hidden Ireland wrote that Sliabh Luachra was the literary capital of Ireland.
http://www.1st-stop-county-kerry.com/brosna.html
As part of the commemoration, the local writing group read some of their compositions. Mary McElligott very kindly shared her poem with us.
LOCOMOTION May 2018
Closing my eyes to the whistle,
A door, bangs towards the back,
My train’s moving off slowly,
To a tune, yes a clickety clack.
It’s five o clock in the morning,
I dream as I sit half asleep,
I start to think of all travellers,
Worldwide, as they smile or they weep.
People travel for reasons,
After weekends, returning for work,
Commuting, often long journeys,
From Tralee, Belfast or Cork.
People travel for reasons,
To Dublin ‘Up for that test’,
No one suspects that they’re worried,
As they hold that fear in their chest.
On trains, before, people chatted,
Some people talking nonstop.
Now they’re all on their I Phones,
Or clicking away, on laptops.
Ear phones are strung from both ears,
As music, goes direct to the brain.
Sadly, I can’t change their channel,
As I suffer their ‘beat’ on my train.
I continue to doze and reflect,
On the men who laid all these tracks,
Of lives lost stretching our travels,
Duffy’s Cut and those graves with no marks.
As Amtrak worked near Philadelphia,
They unearthed a history untold,
Irish workers off on their travels,
What happened, a story unfolds?
It is thought, their conditions were dreadful,
As they slaved and starved and got sick,
Cholera swept through the encampment,
Halting them there, on that trip.
Buried, their deaths unreported,
Their families, in Ireland not knowing,
Tracks lead away from their graveside,
As the wheels of that train kept on going.
I can remember Tubrid School as a child,
The tracks ran directly out back.
C.I.E. ran a train for the races
Oh the excitement to see a train on that track.
Listowel, didn’t have trains anymore,
Obsolete, long replaced by a bus
But that week, that journey re enacted,
Oh the style, all the glamour and fuss.
I reflect and remember the stories,
Of the Lartigue and how people would go
To Ballybunnion, their ‘city’ stopover
And how uphill, their train went so slow.
People would get out to push then,
To give the old engine some help.
When passengers returned to their seating,
I can imagine how they must have felt.
Two calves were put in a side car,
Required to balance one cow,
The calves travelling back, separated,
Or if together, offset by a sow.
Great thought went into each journey,
As it hung, in the balance that way.
Just think of the fun for those travellers,
But sure that was all back in the day.
Oh to fly Ryan Air to Dublin,
We’d be there in the blink of an eye,
Fasten seat belts on for the landing,
Not near Millstreet, ready to cry.
I decline an offer for coffee,
As catering, pass through the car.
I keep onto my money for Dublin,
Sure at this stage it’s not very far.
Once more I reflect on a journey,
Where trains travel into a hole,
Clipped under carriage for safety,
Transporting to all of us, coal.
But one image I have are those journeys,
Those travellers that never came back,
Packed into those trucks in huge numbers,
To a tune, yes a clickety clack.
Unknowing, they travelled for days,
With children often lost in the crowd,
Tracks leading into cold stations,
Soldiers, shouting out loud.
Their Religion marked them for travelling,
Tracks lead right through the gates
But St Peter wasn’t there waiting,
No Satan stood with his mates.
Auschwitz, Sobibor and Belsen,
Some of the names that we know,
Thousands and thousands of people,
Across Europe, all on the go.
Why did this ever happen,
How could one man pull along,
All his people and thousands of soldier?
How could they all get it so wrong?
As trains travel all the world over,
We hope that never again,
Will the horrors of history be repeated,
For wars that no one will win.
I think back to a time and I smile,
My son on his knees by the door,
Thomas the Tank running on batteries,
His tracks laid all over the floor.
How safe he was ‘on his travels’,
His world at home with his mom.
Why did those years go so quickly?
In a flash, life has moved on.
Our lives start off as a journey,
We roll on, keeping on track.
We may get derailed at some junctions
But the trick is to never look back.
We hope that we travel on safely,
With a ticket to get through the gate,
So book early online and then you’ll be fine
As tomorrow it may be too late.
From Listowel Connection
Vincent Carmody remembers Listowel Ballads and Balladmakers
(This is the final Instalment)
While I was doing research for the book Listowel and the G.A.A. in the early 1980’s, I asked Greenville native and well-known balladeer Sean McCarthy to write a piece, he did so, and included in it wrote a lovely poem of younger days, when he recalled playing a game with a homemade ball of cloth and string.
The Ragged Ball,
Yes, I remember the lazy days, and the love light in your eye,
The scent of heather on the breeze that graced the summer sky,
The dusty lane, with twisted names, soft twilight stealing through,
Leaping tall, for the ragged ball, in a meadow kissed by dew.
The smell of pandy on the wind, as the night came closing down,
A maple tree, where birds sang free, bedecked in crimson gown,
The ragged ball, by the turf shed wall, it’s playing life near done,
With cloth and string, it will rise again, to soar in the morning sun.
Yes, I remember the drowsy eves, when youth was on the wing,
A thrush at play in the mown hay, a church bell’s lonely ring,
The haughty pose, of a wild red rose, that burst into autumn flame,
And the hillside green, where we picked the team to play the football game.
In his piece for the book, Sean recalled memories of an uncle, his mother’s brother, James (Salmon) Roche. Salmon, by which he was known, was fondly remembered for his witty sayings and was well regarded as a local balladeer, unfortunately with the passage of time most of which have lost. The following are some of Sean’s memories of his uncle.
My father’s (Ned McCarthy) livestock, consisting of one hungry goat, didn’t escape the Salmon’s caustic pen either:
Arise up Ned McCarthy and sell that hungry goat,
Then buy yourself a fancy cap and a yellow swagger coat;
Brave Sandes Bog is on the march from Sweeney’s to Gurtreen,
To cheer the men from field and glen, the gallant Greenville team.
Joe Stack’s cow and his lazy hens figured in the Salmon’s odes too, to the delight of the ramblers.
Come on Joe Stack, get off your back, the boys are set to play,
Forget about your pregnant cow and your hen that will not lay,
The Greenville team are on the green, so strap the ass and car,
And we’ll drink a toast to victory in the snug of Scanlon’s bar.
Then there was his ode to Tadeen (Finucane) who hated referees and regaled them from the sidelines.
Tade Finucane, he roared out, “I will shoot the referee,
The Boro goalie fouled poor Moss, sure ‘twas plain to see,
Come on my Greenville Grenadiers and play it nice and cool,
And kick their arse on this sacred grass and to hell with Queensbury rules.
Salmon’s first verse of his 1937 tribute to Boro and An Gleann final reads.
As I sit and write this poem, my thoughts they steal away,
To a night in June in ’37 for an hour I let them stray,
An hour of thrills, an hour of spills, a battle for the crown,
The vanquished were the Boro and the victors were the Gleann.
There were others too that put pen to paper, much of which has been lost. The work of two more, Sean Ashe and Patrick O Connor from Kilsynan, thankfully, were at the time either published in local newspapers or on Ballad sheets.
A Convent Street man, Sean Ashe, was a local reporter for the then, Kerry Champion newspaper, Sean loved his native street, An Gleann, and has left some lovely pieces written in memory of the street and the footballers who represented the street in the local town league, his street memory, of 12 verses was called, ‘The place we call, The Gleann’, here we recall the first two,
I now retrace the path of years
And see a picture bright.
No faltering step or memory lapse
Can dim that pleasing sight.
No wind of change can disarrange
The thoughts I first penned down
Of happy days and boyhood ways
In the place we call ‘The Gleann’
Ah! There’s the lengthy line of homes
Along the riverside
Across the roadway many more
Line up with equal pride
The white washed wall of one and all
And the thatch of light-hued brown
Bring picturesqueness to the scene
In the place we call ‘The Gleann’
Two of Ashe’s football ballads would be regarded as classics. The first of 8 verses, his recall of the 1935 Town League final, between Boro Rovers and The Gleann, is sung to the air of “She lives beside the Anner”
The world and his wife were there to see the contest played
The ploughman left his horses and the tradesman left his trade
Excitement spread, like lightning flash through every house in town
The night the Boro’ Rovers met in combat with The Gleann.
The father and the mother, yes, the husband wife and child
Were there in great profusion and went mad careering wild
Said the young wife to her husband “Sure I’ll pawn my shawl and gown”
And I’ll bet my last brown penny on the fortunes of The Gleann.
In 1953, again between Boro Rovers and The Gleann, Ashe had a beautiful 5 verse tribute, the first two verses went.
T’was the thirteenth of August and the year was fifty-three
And the bustle and excitement filled expectant hearts with glee
So, we all stepped off together to the field above the town
To see those faultless finalists, Boro’ Rovers and The Gleann
The game began at nick of time, the ref was Jackie Lyne
The whistle held in master hands was an inspiring sign
It was a hectic struggle and to history ‘twill go down
An eventful, epic final twixt the Boro and the Gleann.
Patrick O Connor from Kilsynan who wrote under the pseudonym of ‘PC’ was a regular contributor of poems/songs/ballads to several local papers in the 1930s. He later contributed material to the Meath Chronicle when he was domiciled in that part of the country.
By profession he was employed as a groom at various stables. He worked in the employ of the world-famous horse trainer Vincent O Brien when he had stables in Collinstown. I included his piece (8 verses) Camogie at Listowel, 1934 in ‘Listowel and the G.A.A.’, the following verse, the first of eight I reproduce here.
Camogie at Listowel (1934)
Listowel v Tralee
Listowel’s Brilliant Victory.
In glorious sheen, the white and green, the colours we hold dear,
Shone brightly through a game of skills, the greatest of the year,
For victory in the balance hung, for fifty minutes strong,
But then Listowel, from goal to goal, to victory swept along,
And as I heard their camans clash, and watched them chase the ball,
Old scenes, old fights, came screaming back, what games I could recall,
My heart was beating loud and fast, my thoughts were gone amok,
I’m normal now, so I’ll review the winners’ dash and pluck.
Seeing Billy MacSweeney's old photo of his mother with her parents, Vincent Carmody was taken back to his days as an altar boy in the convent chapel in the 1950s. There was a tradition of altar serving in Vincent's family. His father and his brothers had served mass and now Vincent and his brothers did the same.
Vincent remembers Ned Gleeson and as wife as always arriving first into the convent chapel. They always occupied a seat near the top right hand side.
It was part of Vincent's duties to hold the paten at communion time. Given his later interest in local history, Vincent marvels that he was so close at the altar rails to a man who played a very momentous part in Listowel's history. Ned Gleeson from the window of The Listowel Arms gave the address of welcome to Charles Steward Parnell when the great man came to town in 1891.
Feb. 2018
Tribute to Ned O’Keeffe
Come all you friends and neighbours, a story I’ll tell you
About a man called Ned O’Keeffe, great credit he is due
He’s famed for engineering the longest wall you’ve ever seen
If you come to the Knockdown Arms you’ll know just what I mean.
It all began 2 years ago in March of ninety-nine
When Killeaney Club decided more space they had to find
“We want another pitch” they said “ and a Dressing room, of course
We must find a man to do this work. He will be hard to source.”
Ah, but they hadn’t reckoned on this strong man from Athea
Who pulled his shirtsleeves up with glee and eagerly did say
“Just get the blocks and mortar and a few men to tend to me
You’ll have the best facilities and the finest wall you’ll ever see!”
No sooner was the contract made than work got underway
25,000 blocks were laid as they worked hard every day
Each pier was built up carefully – there are 46 in all
There is no doubt about it, this wall just cannot fall.
But now we come to the sad part for Ned he has to go
He will be missed by all of those whom he had got to know
He put the younger men to shame with his energy and zeal
And life was very easy with Ned at the steering wheel.
So on this night we gather here to mark this powerful feat
Killeaney club is satisfied that this man cannot be beat
They wish him every happiness, good luck and all the rest.
The wall is his certificate to prove he passed the test.
So if you want a job well done, come get to know this man
You’ll find there’s no-one better; he is our No. 1
Then all your problems will be gone and you’ll have great relief
Knowing the task is in the hands of the famous Ned O’Keeffe.
Peg Prendeville – 29/03/2001
https://www.ul.ie/library/sites/default/files/documents/Maurice%20Walsh%20Papers.pdf
Introduction
The papers of Maurice Walsh were purchased
by the University of Limerick in 2000. Maurice Walsh was born in the townland of Ballydonoghue, near Lisselton, in the north of county Kerry on 21 April 1879, the eldest son and one of the ten children of, John Walsh and Elizabeth Buckley.
It is notable that his home area is near Listowel, which has produced two other important writers – Bryan McMahon and John B. Keane. John
Walsh (Maurice’s father) was a farmer and a devoted reader, and both he and Michael Dillon, a teacher at the local national school,
cultivated Maurice’s interest in books from an early age. After primary school, Walsh attended St. Michael’s College in Listowel, and in 1901 he joined the civil service, becoming a customs and excise officer. After brief postings in Ireland (beginning in Limerick), he was sent to Scotland, followed by Derby, and in 1906, back to Scotland again. That country had a profound influence on him. He was inspired both by the landscape of the Highlands and the people, as some of his literary works testify. Among the lifelong friends he made there was the novelist Neil Gunn (1891-1973). It was in the town of Dufftown in the Highlands that Walsh met Caroline Isabel Thomson Begg – his beloved ‘Toshon’- whom he married on 8 August 1908. At that point, he was serving at Kirbymoorside in Yorkshire, but soon was transferred back to Ireland where he remained until 1913. The next nine years were spent at Forres in the Highlands, from where, after independence, Walsh secured a transfer to the customs service of the new Irish Free State. He was prominent in the newly–established customs officers’ association, Comhaltas Cana, and contributed to its journal, Irisleabhar. He retired in 1933 and writing became his career.
The Big Fair of Listowel
Tom Mulvihill
Now Marco Polo went to China
But I swear upon my soul
He should have come the other way
To The Big Fair in Listowel.
There he’d see what he didn’t see
At the court of Kubla Khan,
The greatest convocation ever
Since God created man.
There were bullocks in from Mortra
And cows from Carrig Island
Sheep and gosts from Graffa
And pigs from Tullahinel.
There were men with hats and caps
Of every shape and size on,
And women in brown shawls and black,
A sight to feast your eyes on.
The finest fare was to be had
In all the eating places.
A sea of soup and big meat pies,
Some left over from the Races.
Floury spuds and hairy bacon
Asleep on beds of cabbage,
To satisfy a gentleman
A cannibal or savage.
And here and there among the throng
‘tis easy spot the jobbers
Jack O’Dea from County Clare
And Owen McGrath from Nobber.
There was Ryan from Tipperary
And McGinley from Tyrone.
Since ‘twas only Kerry cattle
Could walk that distance home.
And trotting up and down the street
Were frisky mares and stallions,
While here and there in little groups
Drinking porter by the gallons
Were all the travelling people,
The Carthys and the Connors,
The Maughans and the Coffeys-
Gentle folk with gentle manners.
And there you’d see old fashioned men
With moustaches like yard brushes
And more of them with beards that big
You’d take them for sloe bushes.
Up there outside the market gate
A matron old and wrinkled
Was selling salty seagrass
And little bags of winkles.
Inside the gate were country men,
Selling spuds and mangolds
While swarthy men from Egypt
Sold necklaces and bangles
And there you’ll find the laying ducks
Or broody hens for hatching,
Creels of turf and wheaten straw,
With scallops for the thatching.
Dealers down from Dublin
Did there set up their stands,
Selling boots and pinstripe suits
Both new and second hand.
Cups and saucers you could buy
Both singly or in lots,
And for your convenience late at night,
White enamel chamber pots.
If you had an ear for music
You could buy a finch or linnet,
And to bring your winter turf home
A Spanish ass or jennet.
And across at Walshe’s Corner
Stood a ballad singing fellow
Selling sheets- a penny each
Red and white and blue and yellow.
He was an old sean nós man
If you ne’er had music in you
He’s stop you in your stride, man
And you’d not begrudge the penny.
For he’d bring you back to Vinegar Hill
And to Kelly from Killane
Or you’d stand again in Thomas Street
And you’d see the darling man.
But woe alas for the singing man
The Dublin dealer and the drover,
The days of catch whatever you can
Are dead and gone and over.
Now we have fleadhs and Writers’ Weeks
And a plethora of rigmarole
But who remembers as I remember
The Big Fair in Listowel
Kerry Candlelight by Bryan MacMahon
I am standing here at Euston, and my heart is light and gay,
For ‘tis soon I’ll see the moonlight all a- dance on Dingle Bay,
So behind me, then, is London, with the magic of its night,
And before me is a window filled with Kerry Candlelight.
CHORUS
‘Tis the lovely light of glory that came down from heav’n on high,
And, whenever I recall it, there’s a teardrop in my eye,
By the mountainside at twilight, in a cottage gleaming white,
There my true love sits a dreaming in the Kerry Candlelight.
She’ll be waiting by the turf fire; soon our arms will be entwined,
And the loneliness of exile will be lost or cast behind,
As we hear the Christmas greetings of the neighbours in the night,
Then our hearts will beat together in the blessed Candlelight.
Now the train is moving westwards, so God speed its racing wheels,
And God speed its whistle ringing o’er the sleeping English fields,
For I’m dreaming of an altar where, beside my Breda bright,
I will whisper vows of true love in the Kerry Candlelight.
FATHER W. M. CASEY OF ABBEYFEALE
Sean O`Choileain (An Seanfhile)
My Irish fellow-countrymen, alas we mourn today.
For death has claimed our hero famed, and his spirit passed away.
Our exiled friends in foreign lands with sorrow heard the tale.
They hoped once more to clasp his hands in dear old Abbeyfale.
In Land League days when men arose to Michael Davitt`s call
Prepared to meet his country`s foes with bayonet and with ball.
He proudly raised the green flag high and never yet did quail,
As martial music reached the skies from his band in Abbeyfale.
When O`Grady came with fire and ball and burned the dwellings down.
His hireling crew, they did subdue the county and the town
`Twas Father Casey`s powerful league that soon brought on the sale.
For the bailiffs went without the rent that day in Abbeyfale.
Thank God he lived to see the day his parishioners were free.
For not a landlord there held sway, but were banished o`er the sea.
As St. Patrick drove the serpents grim away from Innisfail,
So Father Casey banished them from dear old Abbeyfale.
He was a kind and loving man, and our hearts are filled with grief.
Mo bhron! He`s gone, that holy man, that fiery Galtee Chief,
Who never yet denied the poor, nor scorned the orphan`s wail,
For they left their blessings at his door in dear old Abbeyfale
When the master called, he did obey and freely gave consent.
So let us all unite today to raise his monument.
For well he knew his time had come, when he heard the banshee`s wale.
But his noble spirit hovers yet, over dear old Abbeyfale.
AN APPRECIATION
The Patriot Priest is honoured.
It rings out loud and clear
From the town he once defended
When the landlords brought it fear.
His story is known in every home
Where his picture hangs serene.
His untiring efforts to help the poor
Made his way of life their dream.
How well they loved their 'Sagart Aroon'
Is manifest in The Square,
Where a monument to his memory
Says Father Casey will be always there.
As he keeps an eternal vigil,
His hands in blessing raised
Brought Christian values to the town he loved
In so many, many ways.
To the far off corners of the earth,
Abbeyfeale has sent its share
Of priests and nuns who were truely blessed
By Father Casey's Benediction Prayer.
(From the collected poems of Hector Browne R.I.P.)
Listowel Connection Dec 2017
I don't think there was ever any official slavery in Ireland. Women who were forced by circumstances to work in the Magdalen Laundries might disagree. There were, however, hiring fairs.
These fairs were often held on the same day as a cattle fair when farmers were in town. Labourers weren't auctioned as slaves were. Labourers agreed to work for a farmer, usually for a year, at an agreed wage. They earned little more than their bed and board. This system was in place in most European countries. In fact hiring out your labour goes back to biblical times.
In between the fairs if a spailpín or casual labourer was unemployed he would often walk from one farm to another in search of a few hours work. Paddy Drury was one of these wandering workmen. Jim Sheahan remembers him coming to their house in Athea. Even if they didn't have work for him, they fed him and he was content to sleep on a chair until he headed off again.
Fear of a lash of his tongue meant that Paddy usually could be sure of a chair to sleep in in most houses he visited.
Paddy was like the bards of old who could rhyme off a blessing or a curse on the spot.
Once when he and the other workers in a house where he was employed were served up bacon so tough that none of them could chew it, he extemporised;
Oh Lord on high
Who rules the sky
Look down upon us four
Please give us mate
That we can ate
And take away the boar.
A Paddy Drury Story as remembered by Jerry Histon
When Paddy came home from his war work in Scotland after the 1914 1918 war, he had, of course, some money spared. After hitting Listowel he met two cronies and took them in for a few drinks. At the time drink was very scarce and it was suggested that certain publicans were not above eking out the supply of drink with materials that never saw the distillery. Anyway, Paddy asked the lady inside the bar for "three glasses of whiskey". When those were downed, Paddy called the woman again "Mrs, give us three more glasses of nearly!" The lady was puzzled"What nearly?" she asked. " nearly water, ma’am," Paddy shot at her, to her consternation.
A missioner, giving a retreat Moyvane, asked Paddy: "what is the difference between God's mother and your mother?" I don't know, but I do know there was an awful difference between their two sons!" Was Paddy's humble reply.
Paddy hired with a local farmer and one of the conditions was that he should be home for The rosary each night. The man of the house generally offered up the rosary for "myself and my four and no more!" One night the farmer asked Paddy to offer the rosary. Paddy had a few drinks on board and was, anyhow, getting tired of the farmer, So his offering was "I offered this rosary for myself and no more!"
<<<<<<<< An Important Correction re Drury Knockanure Satire >>>>>>>>
This correction is provided by a Knockanure local.
"The Rhyme about Knockanure was written by John Sullivan, father in law of Eamon Kelly.
Drury wrote about him.
In Listowel Town, there lives a clown,
who would sell his soul for porter,
Sullivan John is the man,
a dirty mean reporter."
I remember Paddy Drury
DRURY
By Jeremiah Histon In Shannonside Annual
My name is Paddy Drury,
I come from the Bog Lane,
I work for Morgan Sheehy,
Drawing Porter from the train.
This is Paddy Drury's answer to the Black and Tans who accosted him in Listowel the end of 1920 to ask who he was. He escaped with nothing worse than a kick in the behind.
Paddy was a small stocky rubicund little man, with an old hat clamped on the back of his poll when I knew him. He was not at all unlike the statue of Padraig O Conaire now in Galway, but while he had a native wit he did not have OConaire’s aptitude for writing.
Paddy was born about 90 years ago in the Bog Lane, Knockanure, Co Kerry. I believe that all of the family were rhymers. He had three brothers, Michael (always referred to by the family as Ruckard), Bill and Jack (who was lame), they had one sister Mary. When Mary left the district, Ruckard when asked where she had gone, always answered she went in the police. Paddy had little if any, schooling. From an early age he worked for farmers around Listowel, Knockanure and Athea. During the 1914-18 war he went to Scotland to work in a factory on war work.
The stories told of and by Paddy are legion. Many of them do not sound so well in cold print, but when told by Paddy in his own inimitable style, they had a drollery and humour that was infectious. He was also liable at any time to put his thoughts into rough verse, but unfortunately most of his verses are gone into the Limbo of forgotten things and a new generation did not know Paddy and care less about him.
written in tribute to John B. Keane on hearing of his A Song passing in 2002
JOHN. B.
By Mattie Lennon.
Chorus
Before you went you told us not to cry.
On that sad night.
"Let the show go on" you said and then "goodbye".
We shouldn't question why you had to die
Before you went you told us not to cry
As Writer's Week had opened,
For it's thirty-second year,
Where poet and peasant mingle
To absorb Listowel's good cheer.
A cloud crossed hill and valley
From Carnsore to Malin Head,
As news went 'round our island
"The great John. B. is dead"
Chorus.
He who walked with King and beggar
Will lift his pen no more,
To bring out the hidden Ireland
Like no one did before.
He banished inhibitions
To put insight in their stead.
The world stage is brighter
But The "Kingdom's King" is dead.
The dialogue of two Bococs
Is known in every town.
Now the Ivy Bridge links Broadway
To the hills of Renagown.
While men of twenty emigrate
And Sharon's Grave is read,
Or a Chastitute 's forlorn
His memory won't be dead.
Chorus.
They stepped out from the pages
Of The Man From Clare and Sive
To walk behind his coffin
Each character alive.
His Soul, with One-Way Ticket
To The Highest House has sped,
And this world has lost a genius;
The great John. B. is dead.
Chorus.
© Mattie Lennon 2002. (Put to music by John Hoban
Sonny Canavan RTE ARCHIVE
Sonny Canavan from Dirha West in Listowel, County Kerry is renowned for making bodhráns, traditional Irish frame drums.
One local bodhrán player extols the virtues of the instrument. He learned the tin whistle and the accordion when he was young, but he gave them up when he discovered the bodhrán.
I love playing the bodhrán, I could keep playing it from night until morning.
Sonny Canavan raises goats to provide the skin for his instruments and he gave this particular man a goat so he too could make a bodhrán. The man explains that after he shot and skinned the goat, the skin was buried for nine days it was then dug up and putting in on the bodhrán rim.
Listowel playwright John B Keane pays a visit to Sonny’s cottage to check on his availability to speak to an American author who is writing a book about the origins of drums. In the ensuing conversation Sonny mentions there is certain herb in the bog that his goats like and the resulting goat’s milk is great for virility.
There was an old lad there, back there, he was 101 years, and he was so sexy they had to lock him up, after the goat’s milk.
Early productions of John B Keane’s acclaimed play ’Sive’ featured Sonny’s bodhráns and he plays the instrument and sings a verse of a song from the play accompanied by Sonny.
A ‘Newsround’ report broadcast on 13 January 1977. The reporter is by Brendan O’Brien.
FAREWELL
At the mouth of the Foyle we bade farewell to the soil
There was just the four of us, me and Maggie and the two wee ones. I told them all to hold hands so as not to lose each other.
We passed down the Foyle and it was as calm as a mill pond, past Culmore and out into the Lough. In front of us was only this vast expanse of open sea.
As we approached Moville I could see our old house far up on the hillside. Suddenly the sun came from behind a cloud and lit it up. I could see every rock and every tree.
I thought my heart would break.
William Foster Douglas
Philadelphia
1857
“A Teenager’s Creed” recently which goes as follows:
“Don’t let your parents down – they brought you up.
Be humble enough to obey – you may yourself give orders some day.
Choose companions with care – you become what they are.
Choose only a date – that would make a good mate
Don’t be a show-off when you drive – drive with safety and arrive.
Don’t let the crowd pressure you. – stand for something or you’ll fall for anything.
Guard your thoughts – whatever you think -you are.
Thought for the week:- Never trouble another person, for what you can do yourself.
From Peg Prendeville
Grandchildren Sleeping over
They arrive in all excited with their pyjamas and their toys
And suddenly my quiet home explodes with all the noise
With each one seeking favour as they pick where they will sleep
And I realise I’m in a hole which is big and wide and deep.
Seven happy children running through each room
Exploring all the corners like a sweeping broom
“Nana, I am hungry. Can I have a snack in bed?”
“Oh no, you can’t” I answer as I hold my aching head.
So I line them at the table. “What would ye like to eat?”
“Cornflakes! Bread! Some pizza! and maybe something sweet?”
As soon as they are satisfied we sort out where they’ll lie
“I want to be beside my brother. If I’m not I’ll cry.”
“I’m not lying next to Clodagh as she snores most of the night.”
“And I’m not sleeping next to Ríain cos we will only fight.”
We say a prayer for those we love in this world and the next
And a story then is called for before I get too vexed.
Eventually they’re settled with blankets on the floor
“And leave the light on Nana and please don’t close the door”.
With anxious breath I leave them and hope I’ve time for tea
But just when I am resting there is a great melee.
They are swinging off the curtains and dancing in the bed
But gave a show of innocence when I stuck in my head.
At last they fell into a sleep until the dawn appeared
When they awoke still full of life; it was just as I feared!
But in spite of all the noise and chaos I will do it all again
They provide such funny moments; they’re my sunshine in the rain.
Bridie Murphy, Glenastar put pen to paper last week after the Sale of Work/ Car Boot Sale in Carrigkerry. All proceeds were going to fund a defibrillator.
Nana King’s Spotted Dick
It was late when I got there, so there wasn’t much left…
I was rushing all morning and was feeling quite stressed.
I looked round the table to see what I’d pick
It was then I clapped eyes on Nana King’s spotted dick
It must have been hidden or else t’would be gone
Anything THAT precious wouldn’t be there too long
I rummaged in pockets to get my change quick
Before anyone noticed Nana King’s spotted dick
Someone was calling me, I turned to see
A man holding something was looking at me
“There is just one more piece here” he said. “Take it quick”
“Everyone loves Nana King’s spotted dick”
I’m back home again now and the kettle’s just boiled
This evening my husband is going to be spoiled
He’ll eat every crumb and his fingers he’ll lick
He can never resist Nana King’s spotted dick!
Bridie Murphy
Fr. John Lucid P.P. Kilcummin 2015-2017
Life is but a stopping place,
a pause in what’s to be,
a resting place along the road,
to sweet eternity.
We all have different journeys,
different paths along the way,
we are all meant to learn some things,
but never meant to stay…..
our destination is a place,
far greater than we know.
For some the journey is quicker,
for some the journey is slow.
And when the journey finally ends,
we will claim a great reward,
and find an everlasting peace,
together with the Lord.
Noreen O'Connell sends us this sad poem which was written by her emigrant great grand uncle, Paddy Histon from Listowel Connection.
The Dear Little Shamrock
The shamrock you sent me
Fond greetings it brings me,
From the green hills of Ireland,
Far, far away:
And when I hold them
With care I unfold them,
For they grew near my home
In the hills of Athea.
The leaves were once green
Mow they are dried up and withered,
The tears from my eyes
Will refresh them like dew:
They recall to my mind
The long-cherished memories,
For it’s often I trod
On the spot where it grew.
Oh, could they but speak
What stories they would tell me,
Of the heroes who fought
To set our land free,
The martyrs who fell
By the sword and the scaffold,
Are fondly engraved in my sad memory.
Here’s to the shamrock,
The flowers of St Patrick,
I will wear it to honour
The Saint’s blessed day:
But my footsteps will tread
On the shores of Columbia,
But my heart is at home
In the hills of Athea
Composed by Patrick J. Histon
In Conn. U.S. A . circa 1930
Mum by Peg Prendeville
Who wants to be a Mum?
I iron the clothes, I wash the floors
I shine the windows, I polish the doors,
I bake the bread, I make the tea
I stick a plaster on a grazed knee
Am I mad to be a Mum?
If needed, I’ll help to milk the cows
I hug a child and settle the rows
I weed the garden and mow the lawn
I haven’t even time to yawn
I must be mad to be a Mum!
I mend the clothes, I sew in patches
I feed the baby, I kiss the scratches
I darn the socks, I get the dinner
Is it any wonder that I’m getting thinner?
Oh, who would be a Mum?
Oh, but I also have to say
When I get a hug it makes my day
And I thank my God that I’ve been born
When I see a smiling face each morn.
Is it so bad being a Mum?
I’m the first to get told the news
“I love you, Mammy” will clear the blues
And before they hurry out to school
I get that last kiss as a rule.
Isn’t it lovely being a Mum?
Oh, yes it’s bliss when I can see
Those happy eyes look up at me
And everything seems worth the while
When I look down on that special smile
Yes, I’m glad that I’m a Mum!
The Old Brigade
The Old Brigade
This poem by Daniel J Broderick was published in Striking a Chord, a fund raising anthology sold in aid of Aras Mhuire. Try to get your hands on this book before they are all gone.
‘Tis often my thoughts go back to the days
When our homes were more Irish in a good many ways,
People were happy, good humoured and gay
And they danced and went gambling at the end of the day.
At night they’d walk in and pay you a call
And sit by the fireside or around at the wall.
But the years have rolled by and great changes are made
Since the days of our childhood and The Old Brigade.
There were the Johnnies, the Gers and the Keanes,
And Dan Leary beside them with his hands on the reins.
Mollie Murphy, they said, could be heard miles away,
While the Dagger was monarch of all he’d survey.
Bill Lyons had the learning but his grammar caused dismay.
I remember “Let to have I”, he oft did say.
While the Picker would smile as he sat in the shade,
Three cheers you old devil, you of The Old Brigade.
Ol’ Lane, as you know, a great ball of a boy,
In his youth often lifted a horse to the sky,
He would jump o’er the horse and do it back-ways again
“Twas mane strength, a bhuachaill,” said Tadhgh the Twin
And Joe Falvey ‘pon my soul, had a way all of his own
And many’s the argument he rose with Jack Meade.
They had hunour and wit – the Old Brigade.
And while I am writing I cannot forget
All those who toiled in the sun and the wet.
Remember “Ol Kelliher with his shovel and spade.
Sure they worked like Trojans and never got paid.
“Thank God” kept Our Lord in the heel of his fist
And called on His name at each turn and twist.
Sometimes I think of the troubles they had.
Though they still worked for ol’ Ireland- The Old Brigade.
Now the old guard are gone, bar but a few.
They were honest, kind hearted and true.
And looking back as the light starts to fade
I’m glad I paid tribute to The Old Brigade.
RAILWAYS
Ballingrane Railway Station
As we reminisce on our childhood days,
the memories stay with us in so many ways.
From rumbling trains to whistles blowing,
and signal lamps so bright and glowing.
Our old stone house stood proud and tall,
waiting for engines to give their call.
Gates were opened the tracks were changed,
from the signal box it’s all arranged.
Many a train passed by this way,
bringing goods to Foynes nearly every day.
Although they are gone now their history lives on,
so too will the memories of our childhood stay strong.
Poem by Deirdre Madigan
Rattoo Tower
A Poem by Pat Given from his anthology, October Stocktaking
A slender pencil pointing to the skies
I see you there. The story that you wrote
Erased by time, by men forgot.
But still you stand and still you tantalise.
The leather books compiled upon this site,
Are no longer legible to human eye.
But you, clear stylus still, endure to write
Their meaning on the uncomprehending sky.
To all who pause and contemplate this scene
These silent stones become a speaking tongue
Of God and man and Christ between,
And toil transmuted when for Heaven done.
O Tower, to each succeeding age
You preach more eloquently than printed page.
A Poem from Pat Given's October Stocktaking
Philosopher
Pat Given
I’ll tell you what it is to be
A philosopher. To be able to recall
A personal feud of lasting enmity;
And smile on your tormentor after all.
To follow ambition with unswerving intent
From youth to middle years and onward still,
To know at last it’s unattainable,
And yet remain impassively content,
To make it mere routine to contemplate
That one day soon –too soon- you must forsake
The loved ones that your life illuminate;
And when the culmination comes, not break.
This is a philosopher, as I would think,
And, oh how far short of it I sink!
Welcome
by Pat Given...from his anthology October Stocktaking
When I returned after one week’s absence
Such rapture greeted me!
Now, some would say such open demonstration
Of affection is vulgar.
Others say; anything so overdone
Smacks of pretence.
But I say to the first,
Show me one other who greets me so,
To the second,
Deceit is not in the nature of a dog.
A Christmas poem from Mary McElligott
HOME ALONE
‘What will I do Mrs Claus?”
Santa rubbed his head.
He really was exhausted.
His legs felt like lead.
His head was pounding, throbbing.
He was frozen to the bone.
Mrs Claus was too busy cleaning,
To listen to him moan.
He was like this every year,
I suppose you’d say, stressed.
She’d listen, support and encourage,
Take out his long sleeved vest.
Christmas Eve was looming,
Three more sleeps to go.
Was it his age? She wondered,
Gosh, t’was hard to know.
Mrs Claus was high dusting,
Changing sheets and beds.
Five hundred elves was no joke,
The last time she counted heads.
One hundred stayed all year
But in October that count went up,
Hard work for Mrs. Claus,
To get it all set up.
She cooked and cleaned their dorms.
She worked out their Rota,
24/7 their job,
Hard, juggling that quota.
She loved it though, being busy,
Loved caring for the elves,
They were like their children,
When they didn’t have any themselves.
Some poor elves were homesick,
In the North Pole for a whole twelve weeks.
She often saw tears flowing,
Down their little cheeks.
She had one big job to sort.
She did it through the year.
It was she who got the elves their gifts,
Brought them their Christmas cheer.
She made several trips down south.
There was a great service from The Pole
But her favorite place to go,
Was a place called Listowel.
It was so tidy and clean,
So pretty, down by the park
And even more beautiful at night,
What with all those blue lights in the dark.
She’d buy all their gifts,
Hats, scarves and gloves for the elves.
She’d pack them in huge cases,
Leaving a bit of space for a few bits for themselves.
She loved Christmas Eve,
Santa gone, the elves in bed.
She’d open up her cases,
Deliver gifts as she’d quietly thread,
Up and down, between the beds,
One hundred in each dorm,
Over and back until the cases were empty,
Finishing up near dawn.
They all get a Christmas bonus,
50 Euros and of course, some sweets,
After all it was Christmas
And you’d have to give them treats.
She’d only just be gone to bed,
When Santa would land in, FROZEN..
She’d leave out coke and cake,
Waiting for him, dozing.
‘How was it Santa?’ she’d ask,
‘Everything go all right with the reindeer?’
"Absolutely perfect Mrs Claus,
Thanks to you. Merry Christmas, my dear."
Peg Prendeville
I once had an opportunity to be in the audience of the Late Late Show (1995 I think) and it was nice to see him in such command of the whole show. He allowed me to say this verse which I had composed:
Hello there Gay, I just want to say
I’ve realised my life’s ambition
To get on the Late Late I just couldn’t wait
But I must make one confession.
Sometimes I get mad when I think you’re being bad
And I resent all the time that you waste
The day seems so long when I think you are wrong
And the topic is not to my taste.
But just for tonight I’ll sit back and be quiet
And proclaim you the greatest of all.
To all those at home, sorry you couldn’t come
But I’m here and I’m having a ball.
I liked this little snippet which was in the Ballyhahill Newsletter last weekend.
One day Buddha was walking through a village. A very angry and rude young man came up and began insulting him. “You have no right teaching others,” he shouted. “You are as stupid as everyone else. You are nothing but a fake.” Buddha was not upset by these insults. Instead he asked the young man “Tell me, if you buy a gift for someone, and that person does not take it, to whom does the gift belong?” The man was surprised to be asked such a strange question and answered, “It would belong to me, because I bought the gift.” The Buddha smiled and said, “That is correct. And it is exactly the same with your anger. If you become angry with me and I do not get insulted, then the anger falls back on you.
Dick Carmody a poem 2014
My secret Love !......................................................(Listowel)
We always meet just at the bridge, where Feale waters gently flow
I know it’s there she’ll meet me as our secret no one must know.
I left her many years ago, when as a youth I sought no ties
As I but longed for distant lands yet with sadness and with sighs.
With Ballygrennan Hill behind me I step lightly towards the Square
Where as a child I walked and played and sometimes knelt in prayer.
‘Neath the bell and spire of St. Mary’s Church, it’s where I was baptised
I pause just for a moment here and my secret love’s not surprised.
As on and on I walk with her, our love affair grows even stronger
And each street recalls lost memories from my youth and even longer
Old faces pause to greet me though unsure of whom they’re greeting
I am grateful for their friendly words and much happier for our meeting.
I recall those carefree sporting times when we played our native games
As so many memories come flooding back alongside famous names.
With the Boro’ boys I played my part against the Ashes and the Gleann
As we strove to claim the bragging rights as champions of the town.
Though those years and times are long since past, much remains unchanged
Like the shop fronts and the names above, with so little re-arranged.
Flavin’s Shop in Church Street and the Horse Shoe near Tae Lane
Retain their craft and character a monument to the artist’s name.
Each footpath and street corner echoes stories and tall tales
From racing crowds to the Island bound or fair-day bids and sales.
When public house noise and banter spilled out on to the streets
While as children we might wait outside for a mineral or for sweets.
As on I walk I realise this love affair must never ever end
With each meeting and each parting must we still a lie pretend
There now comes the time for both of us to face the truth, decide
What we’ve shared ‘till now is much too good to deny or hide.
And now as I take my leave of her I look forward to the day
When I can spend more time with her and the hope that I might stay
With her my heart beats in my breast, as she warms my very soul
My secret’s out as I now dare shout, my secret love – Listowel!
“History Maker”
Is it true today that when people pray
Cloudless skies will break
Kings and queens will shake
Yes it’s true and I believe it
I’m living for you
Is it true today that when people pray
We’ll see dead men rise
And the blind set free
Yes it’s true and I believe it
I’m living for you
I’m gonna be a history maker in this land
I’m gonna be a speaker of truth to all mankind
I’m gonna stand; I’m gonna run
Into your arms, into your arms again
Written by Martin Smith ©1996
The Knight’s Walk in Glin
It is like climbing Calvary
One needs to stop along the way
To admire the lovely scenery
And fill your lungs with air.
Walking through the woodland
Is a real delight
The sunlight dancing through the trees
Is such a pretty sight.
Gazing on the town beneath
Is such a charming scene
It feels like it’s a magic place
This Knight’s Walk in Glin.
And when you reach the pinnacle
You’ll want to rest a while
And admire all the scenery
Stretching on for miles.
From Ballybunion on your left
Sail up the river Shannon
On towards Limerick city
Past Scattery and Canon.
And as you head home through the woods
Take time to close your eyes
And give thanks for such peace and quiet
And the absence of all noise.
Peg Prendeville
Glin Heritage Walking Trails: Now is a great time to take in our beautiful scenic walks in Glin. The weather is mild and the conditions are perfect to take in the Knights Walk, Knockaranna and the coastal ‘path’. The Knights Walk is spectacular. You can enter from St. Paul’s Heritage Centre opposite Glin church and follow the trail south through The Race Field where many important race meetings were held in the last century. Then on to Rook Hall Wood, through to Furry Hill Wood, Beech Walk and on to Tullyglass Hill where you will find the Viewing Platform. From here use the binoculars provided to take in the wonderful vista. You can enjoy a panoramic view of the surrounding counties of Kerry, Clare, Galway and Tipperary. To the west you can see Cnoc an Oir in Ballybunion, to the North West Scattery Island, Loop Head, Slievecallan and a magnificent sweeping view of the Shannon Estuary. It’s a fabulous walk and you will observe a variety of native woodland flora and fauna and take in the majestic species of beech, oak, ash and holly trees. The wild garlic is in full bloom and the Foxgloves are getting ready to don their wonderful pink gloves! It is a distance of 4KM and is rated of ‘moderate’ difficulty. Good walking shoes are essential and don’t forget to bring mobile phone, a drink and a snack. Knockaranna and The Path are rated ‘easy’ and would suit casual walkers and are also beautiful scenic routes. Brochures outlining the routes are available from local shops in Glin. Plan ahead, Prepare and ‘Leave no Trace’.
By Peg Prendeville
Christmas in Knockdown was busy with many of the younger generation coming home to visit. It was lovely to meet them all. Why not start 2016 with a poem?
When Christmas was all over and the feasting was all done
My body craved some exercise, my soul asked for some sun.
So despite the awful weather I put it to the test
And drove to Ballybunion; it really is the best.
The air was fresh and bracing but very welcome too
The powerful waves crashed to the shore and the sun came into view
It was the tonic that I needed and I enjoyed it all so much
It made me feel quite whole again, like a mother’s gentle touch.
I know we are so lucky to live high up on the land
The water stays outside the door and we need no bags of sand.
I pity the misfortunes whose homes are so destroyed;
I pray that soon the rain will stop and they’ll be warm and dry.
So as I walked Ballybunion cliffs I thought of one and all
And hope my prayers were listened to and the rain will cease to fall
I look forward to the year ahead and wish you all great peace
May good health and happiness come your way and all your worries cease.
SOME LOCAL POETRY
July 7 1934 Kerryman
Camogie At Listowel. LISTOWEL V. BLENNERVILLE.
GLORIOUS _ViCTORY FOR LISTOWEL.
There's joy to-night in every heart from Tarbert to Kllflynn,
From Ballyduff to sweet Duagh, from Newtownsandes to Glin,
While bonfires bright blazed through the night by Shannon, Brick and Gale,
To welcome home those champions fine with victory in their trail.
As the golden sun was sinking fast behind the western hill,
The very air reeked with delight, although 'twas calm and still.
The streets with sheer excitement blazed, all woe was turned to weal,
As the clash of seasoned ash was heard roll down the River Feale.
When Blennervllle marched to the line it was a pretty sight,
To see the far-famed pink and green. mixed through the black and white.
With swords across we won the toss and hurling towards the town,
The magpies on Liz Kiely's goal at once came swooping down.
Liz kept her fort to clear the rush to touch she drove the ball,
Where dark-haired Jenny Mulvihill applauded was by all.
But in a wink the green and pink was at the other end,
Where Maggie Foley showed the boys how well she can defend.
But Blennerville came down again more eager than before,
Till Kathleen Wilmott pulled them up and robbed them of a score,
Each time they pressed, she stood the test, in fierce but fair attack.
With lightning-like velocity, she met and drove them back.
And out before this stonewall back her gallant sister stood,
A hurler grand, with brilliant hands, to pass her nothing could.
No stag unloosed, nor hound unleashed, than Baby Joe more fleet,
'Twas her defence that spanned the bridge 'twixt victory and defeat.
At midfield where the battle raged we starred in the pink and green.
With the veteran Julia Mary Stack, the "Kingdom's" hurling queen
Through forests of ash she'd dive and dash, when danger threatened there,
Her line intact she held, in fact, none with her could compare.
The champions broke the line again, they swept along the right,
And from this Ballaclava charge, sure things were looking bright.
They spoiled their chance by fouling here. Bride Foley took the free,
But Kathleen Stack pulled down the ball and filled our hearts with glee.
The pink and green were aggressive seen, and fighting for a score.
Nan Tyndall's posts were threatened now more serious than before,
For Josie Kiely, dashing in was not on pleasure bent,
She fired a shot, a goal she got, then up the green flag went.
The pace was fast, the hurling fine, the strokes were quick and clean,
The Kerins pair along the left were to advantage seen.
For more than once they stopped the rush, backed by the Foleys two,
May Moynihan and Maggie Moore, Peg Connell helped them too.
With change of sides, the champions now were hurling down the hill.
And victory seemed within their grasp. showing extra speed and skill.
Joan Brosnan out-manoeuvred them in some mysterious way.
And beat Liz Kiely for a goal—she gave a fine display.
But nettled by this fluttering flag, the lovely pink and green
Took all before them in a charge and quickly changed the scene.
For through a bunch of shivering ash, brave Maureen Moran tore,
And pulled Nan Tyndall's barrier down, she well deserved the score.
The sands of time were running out, the light was on the wane,
The magpies forced a fifty free, but failed to score again.
Fitzgerald May and Wilmotts two, across the goal were drawn,
And Blennerville's best was beaten by the champions' brain and brawn.
The Wilmotts two, I've still in view, with Julia Mary Stack,
With dash and vim they're out to win, from nothing they'd pull back.
This gallant three, you'll all agree, have never let us down,
They're a credit to the dress they wear and to their native town.
Babe Holly over on the right was doing a lion's share.
Likewise the dark-haired Peg O'Shea, the darling from Kenmare,
Nan Connor, thirsty for a score, a trier to the last,
This trio of sharpshooters their best form more surpassed.
The magpies made a last great dash, they came along the right,
Till May Fitzgerald called a halt, which closed the friendly fight.
The Sullivans true, both tried and true, and grand old Duffy Pat,
When extra steam was turned on, they gave us tit for tat,
But, listen! there's the whistle, now the gruelling hour is o'er.
See a smile on faces here that never smiled before.
Old people bent, with sticks crawled in, to see their idols play.
With fair excitement now going out they threw their sticks away.
Give us your, hands, you gallant band, we'll shake them every one.
from goal to goal, from left to right, all through the field you shone
We'll follow you from field to field, we'll sing; your praise aloud.
Dishonour never soiled your dress of you we're justly proud.
poem by Dan Keane
Mr. Garrett Stack
If you are out to learn dancing
Take a tip from me,
Go through Listowel and Greenville
Until you reach Scartlea,
Go all the way to Scartlea Cross
Then count two houses back,
There you will find the maestro
That’s Mr. Garrett Stack.
That is his Baptismal title
But he’s never used it yet,
He is no way sanctimonious
He is always known as “Jet”,
He will make you very welcome
With tea and home cooked ham,
And if he is scarce in sugar,
He will give you plenty jam.
He will quickly come to dancing,
It will only take a while,
To show you reels and figures,
In every kind of style,
He will show you steps and polkas,
Like jewels from days of yore,
And he will even demonstrate
He is tasty on the floor.
Now if you ever doubt me
I have witnesses to prove,
That even first class dancers,
He can tutor and improve,
He is not the slightest selfish,
His glory’s greatest crown,
Is his patriotic willingness,
To hand his dancing down.
He is also a musician
And in case you might not know it,
He is good at prose and poetry
A writer and a poet.
He is witty and good humoured,
And a joke he's good to crack,
So don’t forget three cheers for “Jet”,
That’s Mr. Garrett Stack.
From Peg Prendiville
From Fairy Street to Fairy wood, they crept along one night
They had decided to move their home to all Athea’s delight.
And now they’ll live in harmony among the trees and flowers
They will commune with nature, helping children gather flowers.
What joy the fairies will provide to those at home and far away
It will be another reason to pay a visit to Athea.
From Knockdown News
Sounds of Summer
Rocking in my garden seat
Creaking gently to and fro
Watching life continuing on
Like a stream in constant flow.
Listening to the chirping birds
Busy at their daily tasks
The leaves are whispering in the breeze
A honeybee goes buzzing past.
A tractor drones in a neighbour’s field
Boasting of a busy day
Taking advantage of the sun
Cutting silage, turning hay.
A cow concerned for her calf
Calls him back with a gentle moo
The clothes are flapping on the line
Peaceful times like this are few.
Children play out on the lawn
Sending out their squeals of joy
Laughing, singing, cheering on
Their playmates in a rugby try.
I close my eyes to appreciate
The restful sounds that I can hear
It’s easy to believe in God
When His presence is so near!
Thade Gowran,
The Boys of Sweet Duagh:
Oh sad mournful is the tale that I am forced to tell
From Ballyheigue to Abbeyfeale we'll mourn their loss as well
Where are the men who raised the flag when freedom's sword did draw
Who trampled down the English flag, the boys of sweet Duagh.
When Kerrymen from far and near attended the Brosna raid,
They were the first to appear and started the blockade,
With motor car prepare for war; with hatchet, rope and saw
They first came on to lead the van, the boys of sweet Duagh.
Sad was their fate I must relate; no danger did they fear
In youth and bloom they met their doom the solderies ambush near.
No friendly voice, no warning sound advised them to withdraw,
The Saxon bayonets did surround our boys of sweet Duagh
Surrounded by the Khakie clan, what could our Fenians do?
I'm proud to say one Kerryman from the soldiers did break through
He warned the company in the rear and told them what he saw
He saved his comrades then and there; that boy from sweet Duagh.
McMahon brave, Fitzgerald true and Relihan also,
Mulcaire and Stack, brave heroes too were captured by the foe.
And Jimmy Joy that noble boy who broke the English law,
They died to see their country free, those boys of sweet Duagh.
The car drove on; their leaders gone what rescue could they make?
The volunteers then did retreat, their hearts were fit to break.
The boys were trapped, the raid was stopped the forces did withdraw
'Twas hard to face their native place the boys of sweet Duagh.
In Wormwood Scrubs with labour hard two years they did remain
But England's power is dead and gone we will have them back again.
God bless our men in jail within, the bravest Ireland saw
So may we see old Ireland free and the boys of sweet Duagh.
PEG:
Nature’s blessings
I took her to the river
To show her the brown flood
Which was in an angry mood today
Full of debris, twigs and mud.
“Where is it going” she enquired
As she watched it tumbling through
The arches of the village bridge
“It’s in a hurry, that’s for sure!”
And as we both looked on in awe
My grandchild who’s nearly three
Looked up at me with questioning eyes
And unlocked a memory
Of almost sixty years before
When my father all excited
Asked “Do you want to see the river”
And of course I was delighted.
So he carried my sister and me too
In his strong and sinewy arms
And took us through the meadow
Through old George Lynch’s farm.
There at the foot of Knockadillaun
The brown water rushed on by.
To us it seemed a torrent
But was probably a foot wide!
And as I held my grandchild’s hand
I hoped that forever after
She’ll remember the excitement
And the power of moving water.
To me it was a sacred moment,
Too precious now to measure.
The resurrection of this memory is
A grace-filled gift that I will treasure.
Peg Prendeville 26/01/2014
Tribute To Paddy Faley
By George Langan
My heart it did break when the sad news it leaked
That the ‘Great Bard,’ he had just fallen
His loss I deplore, for I’ll never see more
My guide, my true inspiration.
He was that tall mast, a link with the past
His works, they were so much sought after
Now on history’s page, they will sing the high praise
Of this genius, the poetic master.
Equally strong, be it prose, verse or song
With a brain that was ever so fruitful
And his poems and his rhymes, were ever sublime
And for that, I will always be grateful.
Incessantly there, always eager to share
The ways, of our loving ancestors
And each story he told, I’ve indexed in bold
For to help out, and aid the researcher.
On the bare mountainside, he grew up with pride
With his kin, that he loved oh! so dearly
I’ll name them at will; there was Mick, Dan and Bill,
Young Joe, and their sister Mary.
Soon a family man, with a young wife and clan,
Glenbawn to the east came a callin’,
Moved there to reside, reared their daughters, all five,
When the good Lord took Mum, away from them.
So sleep long and hard, dear friend, ‘Greatest Bard’
Beside those, who have long since departed
And ‘though your pathway of life, brought you much pain and strife
For that, you’ll be richly rewarded.
If it’s a prayer that you need, then I’ll do that deed
I’ll go on my knees, twice daily
For it gave me such pride, just to stand by the side
Of the poet, the great Paddy Faley.
POEM by Dick Carmody .
God’s Acre
God’s Acre bids me enter through the well trodden stile of crafted limestone
Man’s handiwork separating the living from the dead, the busy from the rested
Therein repose the remains of the unmentioned, unlisted and oft forgotten
In distant times of want, denial and inhumanity they came here for final rest
Alone they sometimes sought it out, cold refuge against an even colder neglect
Last faltering steps taken to meet their Maker in the soft embrace of Mother Earth
Or in make-shift carts a final journey shared from workhouse or roadside refuge
Drawn over limestone paths by souls rehearsing their own inevitable last journey.
In our own time of plenty and opportunity we still seek out this relic from the past
Stepping inside from a world speeding by, we each find our own personal recess
Arriving to repose the burdens of our living with the memories of those deceased
The Stations, the Grotto, the Altar and the Cross all give us comfort on our way
Departing we are relieved, comforted and renewed by this sanctuary to our dead
God surely chose his Acre wisely, its great value not being of our choice or making.
©Dick Carmody January, 2013
In Praise of Clounmacon footballers
THE FIRST SINCE '67
Times Gone By Some Years Have Passed
Since A Cup Was On This Table
''By God", Said Murph, "That's Goin' To Change
Cause We Are Fit And Able".
He Knew We Could Do Better
The Players Knew It Too
'Twas Time To Win Some Honours
The First Since 2002
The Year It Started Once Again
With Horgan At The 'Helm
His Players Gathered All Around
And Then, This He Did Tell Em
We'll Give The Urban League A Go
North Kerry Will Be Tough
But The Novice Was The Main One
Would We Be Good Enough?
The Leagues Went By, 'Twas Up And Down
Semi-Final Lost To Beal
The Heads Were Bowed Another Loss
Ah Yes! Same Auld Sceal!
All Forgotten Very Soon,
The Novice Was Still There
Temlenoe Were In Our Way
Pat Spillane Beware!
Titanic Battle, Ends In A Draw
A Game We Should Have Won
The Replay We Played Poorly
This Seriously Was No Fun
The Year Was Quickly Moving On
And Time Was Running Out
The Monkey Perched Upon The Back
Our Club Filled With Self-Doubt
And Doubters, We Had Plenty
"Theyre Just Not Good Enough
They Haven't Got The Bottle
They Ha Vent Got The Stuff
Theyre Only Junior Players
Who've Lost The Will To Win".
They Said This Team Was Finished
The Black And Amber Men
"Sure Some Of Them Are Gone Too Old
Their Ankle Bones And Knees.
They Crack And Creak With Every Step
They Use Barrels Of Auld Deep Freeze.
They Have No Hope If They Step Up
They Cannot Last The Pace".
But Another Season Without A Cup
Was One We Could Not Face.
North Kerrys Intermediate Cup
Was The One We Had To Chase
We'd Failed On Previuos Attemps
Auld Emmets Won That Race!
So Training Then Became Severe
Con Brosnan's Pitch We'd Use
But Rain Or Hail, We'd Catch Em All
This Time, No Excuse!
Ballyduff, In The First Round
We Thought We'd Get Destroyed
When They Walked In Throu The Gates
With A Panel Of 25!
For We Were Missing Seven Men
We Hadn't Got A Shout
Mike Donal And Mick Egan
Were Asked If Theyd Tog Out!
But Football Is A Simple Game
Our Lads They Passed The Test
B Team Players Filled The Gaps
So We'd Fulfill Our Quest.
Joe Galvin And Tom Barry
Tony Walsh, He Slotted In
Rob Toomey Netted On The Day
To Ensue Clounmacons Win
The Semi- Final In Coolard
An Easy Game For Us
Finuge Could Not Field That Day
We Left With Little Fuss
So The Final Fixed In Bally
Our Opponents Were Asdee
Kieran Corridan Memorial Cup
Who Would The Winners Be?
I Walked Into The Dressing Room
And Knew It There And Then
Something Different In The Air
We'd Not Be Second Again
Seamus Mulvihill Threw It In
The Cup Would Have New Names
Who Would Benefit The Most
The Kingdom Or Jesse James?
To Cut It Short The Game Was Poor
But Clounmacon Didn't Care
For When The Final Whstle Went
Der Connor Was Standing There
13 To 5 The Final Score
We Were In Seventh Heaven
The Intermediate Won At Last
The First Since '67
0' Mahoney Gladly Took The Cup
And To The Sky Did Raise
He Thankked All Those Who Did The Work
Who Fully Deserved Praise
I'll Finish Off That Tribute
That Fikal Team I'll Name
Who Brought The Days Of Glory Back
Clounmacon's Great Acclaim
Mucky Had A Great Year
Is In With A Big Shout
For Players Player Of The Year
Of This Theres Little Doubt
Mahony In The Corner
Unfailing On The Day
Reliable On The Other Side
Was Number 4 Pj
What Can Be Said Of Our Full Back
That Was Not Said Before
We Don't Think He Will Retire
Sheehy Will Play For Ever More
Browne Was Mighty At Wing Back
His Fitness Shining Through
Rugged Carty In The Middle
Outstanding There Whats New
Flying At Number 7
He Was Man Of The Match
Timmy Mulvihill Was Quite Supreme
One Man They Could Not Catch
The Two Boys In The Middle
Kept Supplying Our Attack
They Both Stood Out In Bally
Panda And Big Mac
Noel Lyons Was Simply Brillant
He Kicked Four Points From Play
And Carey Had A Good Play
He Was Left Half On The Day
Mala Was On The 40
Moved Up From Wing Back
This Lad Has Had A Great Year
Another Medal In The Sack
Chris Lyons Was Our Top Scorer
He Does It At His Ease
Enda In One Corner
Right Cute Cool As A Breeze
Seamus Made His Comeback
From Belfast Town He Came
A Classy Corner Forward
When He Is On His Game
O,Halloran Was Introduced
We Have Heard Of Him Before
Asdee Obiliterated
Through Their Defense He Tore
Flavin Back From Injury
Now In Austral-Ia
Our Panel Were So Vital
That's How We Won The Day
So Congrats To All Inolved
Especially To You Johnny
I Don't Know How You Stick It Out
You Must Be Off Your Trolley
Selectors, Officers You All
And John Our Sponsor Too
All Apart Of This Small Club
Great Credit Goes To You
Just Before I Finish
For I Can Go On No More
I'd Like Here To Congratulate
The Boys Who Won At Scor
Brendan, Kieran , Declan
A Good Start To The Year
The First Of Many Titles
We Hope And Pray, We'll Cheer
John Walsh
04-02-06
BACK TO BACK
The championship time had come again
We were going for two in a row
But our team was a little different
From the one just a year ago
Sean Mahoney gone and Shane Quinn too
Tony Walsh in the U.S. of A.
The three of them lost but fair play to them
Gave always their best when they played
Knockanure was the first team that we had to beat
And we knew t'Would be a stiff test
But when the final whistle blew
'T Was Clounmacon" that came out the best
Relief was how I'd describe the feeling
With a scoreline of, 1-8 to 1-2
It turned out to be our toughest game
That battle with the boys in blue
So then we were in the semi-final
And to Pare Na Gael for more training
It didn't matter about the weather
But by God, 'twas mostly rainin'
And with us there were the Moyvane team
Who trained with us and 'twas tough
Thanks to them all, they were a great help
But alas, they fell to Ball'duff
So 'twas down in Tarbert, on the all weather pitch
For our next opponents, Asdee .
We hadn't a clue, were they good, was it true?
Or what the outcome might be
But at the end of the day, it all went our way
4-14 to 4 points the score
Our training it told, and now we'd be bold
We'd try win the final once more
And so came the day, again Tarbert way
The 13'" of December, the date,
In the morning we met before it got wet
For a change, there was no-one late
We had our ears pricked, as the team it was picked
Now listen to me lads said the boss
He said' For F-sake, this crown we can take'
He got us so fired-up and cross
We talked some more, and gave an odd roar
In the dressing room, before we went out
Our opponents Gale Rangers, some of them strangers
But we knew they were in with a shout
They started well, and I thought for a spell
We were going to be in some trouble
As the rain it came down, there was I with a frown
We'd better wake up, on the double !
One point to 1-4, was the half time score
And Moloney gave us a fair chewing
He was high as a kite, "Ve're playing like shite !
What the hell are ye doing ?"
So 'twas time to buck up, if we wanted that cup
And we did and played like we can
Even with the downpour, we chalked up our scores
And the Rangers were beat, man for man !
.And when it was o'er, there was a big roar
With the rain, we could only just hear
It came from a crowd, who were all very proud
To at last see their team hit top gear
3 points to 3-6, put between the sticks,
Proud Tom Barry, lifted the cup
We were so glad, and the Rangers were sad
But fair play, they never gave up !
I'll now name that team, who when on full steam
Set Clounmacons hearts full of glee
It's two in a row, and who is to know
This time next year might be three
Brendan Carroll in the goal, once played with Listowel
He's as safe as ever you'd see
His kick-outs were great, always found a team-mate
An all-rounder, superb, is he
Next the .full back-line, a man there a long time,
In the middle one Sheehy, called Mike
You'll not find no stronger, wherever you wander,
One belt, then you're on your bike .
Then at No.2., I will tell to you
James Flavin was solid and sound
Very sticky and fast, as safe as a mast,
Would chase you just like a hound
No.4 on the day, was that mighty P.J.,
He beat his man out of his skin
No matter the ball, he answered the call
Kissane, every tussle did win
NO.5 was a boy, who I thought very shy
When first he came for to play
Kieran Mahony's the name, and football's his game
But dare you come in his way
No.6 did alright, and he covered in shite
And Panda to give him his due
What a game he did play, not a thing passed his way
The player of the year in my view !
A man at midfield, who never did yield
He was playin' against his old team
John O'Halioran's the name, didn't he have some game
Does he ever run out of steam?
Then at No.9, this man takes his time
Except when he leaps, oh so high
Sure he played a stormer, like many games former
Brendan Carey's the name of this guy
No.10 was a man, who has always a plan
Anywhere in the forwards can play
He can score with both feet, and his football is neat
John Carroll pointed in Tarbert that day
On the .forty. Tom Barry, our team he did carry
To captain that proud "Back to Back"
He was very fired up, to reclaim that cup
He's the playmaker of our attack
On the left wing that day, was a lad who can play
In the backs or the forwards, don't matter
Mike Kissane's the name, and it's all the same
His opponents he always will clatter.
Man of the Match he was seen, wearing No. 13
And he notched up a score of 2-3
They tried to man mark, that Tullamore shark
Pip Carroll is the forwards main key
And next to him there, at the edge of the square
Was a big man who played in top gear
He scored a great goal, had another one stole
Andrew Shine he had a great year
Another ex Ranger, who's always a danger
Whenever the goals are in sight
This lad has nice style, and he's versatile
Brian Carty's a man with great fight
In Shannon Park that day, three subs that did play
Mike Flavin who was brilliant all year .
And also James Curtin, who must be for certain
A player in the near future we'll hear
Then there was Tucker, on the field a good worker
Scored a goal and a point 'gainst Asdee
They're the eighteen who played, when history was made
That filled our supporters with glee
And opponents be wary, of the "teak-tough" John Carey
Michael Kelliher never lets the team down
And it would not be right, as we're here tonight
To forget, the brilliant Keith Browne
Now my tale's nearly o'er, and ye all know the score
But some people just have to be praised
Mary Lyons thanks to you, for the hard work you do
And to Anthony for the cash that you've raised
To Declan and Martin, who're staying, not partin'
Thanks to you both for your time
And also to Murph, who's made of great stuff
He's the reason this club is doin' fine !
To John Sullivan & Joe Sheehy, who never are greedy
Our sponsors who look after us well
Our supporters were great, on that December date
As the rain down in Tarbert it fell
Johnny Stack it is true, that this team salutes you
We thank you, you got ten out of ten
But the man we should cheer, is our man of the year
John Moloney a giant among men !
We're honoured and proud, we'll say it out loud
We salute those who played yesteryear
Like Connell and the Daly's, like Tom Martin and the Faleys
We'll toast to them, raise a cheer !
Are we going up, after winning this cup
That's the question on everyone's mind
One thing I will say, don't a song go this way?
We'll take it, "One day at a time"
John Walsh
21-01-99
CLOUNMACONS THREE IN A ROW
A Millennium's passed, another' one's here
One century gone, also a year
But before it went, before you go
Let me lell you of, Clounmacons 3 in-a-row
In '97, we done it in style
And in '98, we won by a mile
But to win again, you will agree
A hard and arduous t.ask 't.would be
But first the League, 't.was there to be won
We knew we'd give, any team a good run
In the semi-final, beat a great Beal team
A League victory was on, or' so it did seem
In opposition Duagh, on League final day
How disaster did strike, in more than one way
They beat us real bad, our injuries got worse
At that very time, we were definitely cursed
But the game is a sport, we just carried on
We were lucky indeed that our panel was strong
The boss said "buck up lads, on with the show
We'll do all we can, to win 3 in-a-row"
And so to the championship, Knockanure our first test
Two midfielders missing, would we come out best?
Our character showed, 'twas heart won that day
But. that injury curse, again came our way!
O'Hallor'an was out, now Carty gone too
P.J, got hurt, "shit-like", what would we do?
But Moyvane gave us help, with them we did train
In the cold and the frost, in the muck and the rain
Finuge were throu', the semi-final we met
In Tarbert, where last year, we won when 'twas wet
But this game was different, did not play great stuff
In the end we pulled throu', we just did enough
So 'twas back to the field, Moyvane also there
Both teams in finals, we had to prepare
We trained oh so hard, with a fierce will-to-win
And no mafter what happened, we would not give in.
So linal day came, 19" of December
Goin' to toilets, and shaking, with nerves, I remember'
Duagh 'twas again, the team we did meet
We'd not leave that field until they were beat
Ballybunion town on a cold sunny day
In the morning we'd met, the boss had his say
The dressing room tense, time to concentrate
One hour to go, 'till we knew our fate!
Out on the lield, and on with the game
We started slow and we're always the same
Duagh were on top, they settled more
While it took us longer, to get a few scores
1-1 to 3 points, was the score at half time
And Moloney he gave us a piece of his mind
So the 2'" half started, with purpose and pace
T'was tit-for-tat, every hall was a race
Clounmacon played well, were 3 points in the lead
Duagh, they fought back, it's a draw, yes indeed
But Black & Amber attack, O'Halloran a score
Then Panda a free, and there's time for no more
The team played outstanding, on that final day
And I think, when all year, many things went astray
With habies being born, their fathers were worn
Shoulders were broken and ligaments torn
Brendan Carroll was in goals on that famous day
Sound and safe this veteran did play
Full back was Mike Sheehy, he marked a big man
But size does not matter, Mike has always a plan
Mike Flavin beside him, played a blinder all through
He destroyed his man, great praise here is due
Mike Kissane in the corner, was fit as could be
What a campaign he had, a fine footballer is he
The two wingbacks were flying as well
James Flavin outstanding, he's so fast, let me tell
Tom Barry the other, sure what can be said?
This clever, fine player, always uses his head
Centre-back on the day, was an injured man
Who played his heart out, as he does and he can,
If he'd only one leg, he'd beg, "let me play"
lie's the captain this year, the mighty Pj.
Panda midfield with his cousin Bender
They never did yield, they would not surrender
Though the going was tough, they never gave up
Which is why it is Bender, who lifted that cup
Then at number 10, was a forward with speed
He has class in abundance and courage indeed
The best forward we have,that is by far
James Curtin is one of Clounmacons' stars
Centre foward that day and he had a great game
He scored 1-2, Andrew Shine is his name
On the left-wing, a flier, that was Pat Quinn
Played well throu' the championship, to ensure that we'd win
At number 13, was the teams' strongest man
Opponents can't mark him, hut they do what they can
The joker of the pack, put 2 points on the board
Pip Canolls contribution, left the Duagh boys floored
From full-fowardd that day, 2 more scores did come
And the number 15, played with a sore thumb
He plays with his heart, and he beat his man
Brian Carty always, gives all he can
John Carroll he came on, he took brothers' place
And made a big impact, with his skill and pace
John halloran took part, and his shoulder held up
He played a blinder, to help win the cup
On the bench young Mahoney, unlucky not to play
No fear of Kieran, for he'll have his day
Larry and Tucker, in the championship took part
You'll need not look further,for players with heart
Next were the young guns, who played throu' the year
While these lads continue, the club has no fear
Seamus and Timmy, they play in attack
Michael and Damien, can play foward or back
That's the panel that won, the 3 in-a-row
So Officers then many thanks to you go
Mary and Anthony, the hard work they done
And Murph,the Chairman, so proud that we won
John Sullivan thanks, you sponsored us well
And when matches were on, you gave us a bell
When physio's needed, you answered the call,
Once again thanks, from the club, one and all
A special mention to Moyvane's Johnny Stack
Your guidance helped us on the right track
Declan and Martin, you were there once again
You picked the right team, so Clounmacon would win
And last but not least, .John Moloney the Boss
Retiring he says now, oh what a loss!
The 3 in-a-row, we would not have won
Thanks to you .John, for all that you've done
To finish my story, it went on long enough
To all of you out there, I'll tell you, 'twas tough
The years they will come, the years they will go
But we'll always remember, the team, that won 3 in-a-row
John Walsh
20-01-2000
OUR FIRST COUNTY TITLE
The County Junior League Final
In a year we will always remember
Was played near the Banks of the Shannon
In Glin, on the 9'" of November
North Kerry's fields were unplayable
There were others 'minding' new grass
The Championship time it was coming
Only Seniors throu' their gates would pass!
The opposition that grey Winter's evening
Were Tarbert, the men in the red
Who had class and power in abundance
The favourites, the wise men had said
Clounmacon never had won one
In '01 we came very near
A mighty effort was needed
If we were to win n this year
The dressingroom tense, we were nervous
Emotional, but a job to be done
Johnny gave us instructions we needed
For the County Title to be won
The leather was thrown in the centre
Tarbert in charge of the ball
Clounmacons backs under pressure
But wides don't count, not at all !
Mikey Paul is denied by the crossbar
But then he scores with his right
Two points for the Reds, they're in front now
This one was goin' to be tight
Then Carty's long free breaks to Timmy
His pass, John O'Halioran met
Whose thundering shot it is buried
Down low in the goalkeepers net
O'Halloran fields high in the next half
Then Bender attacked from behind
The evening grows dark down in Umerick
The ref didn't see ! Was he blind?
So injured, Carey did leave us
As Toomey enters the fray
A goal for Tarbert 'twas level
1-3 to 1-3, all to play
The Red supporters were loud now
But the Black and Amber stood tall
With heart and pride in their jersey
Each man now fought for each ball
Both teams were to add to the scoreboard
But the Black and Amber score more
The final whistle was blown then
'Twas Clounmacon's turn now to roar
Emotional scenes were to follow
As Sean Walsh gave over the plaque
Mike Sheey our captain hespoke then
On behalf of Amber and Black
He thanked all those who deserved it
He spoke of our former team-mate
This victory indeed dedicated
To Brendan, our goalkeeping great!
The team on that day played superbly
Committed, courageous and brave
No.1 was Willie Moloney
Good kick-outs and he made great saves
Right comer was Kieran Mahony
Can play at wing forward as well
Full-back, the outstanding Mike Sheehy
As safe and sound as a bell
No.4 was Kissane in the comer
Mike is tough as they come when he plays
Wing back was the mighty James Flavin
Who's stylish in so many ways
Centre-back he played like a demon
Dare anyone come in his way
'The horse' of this team is Brian Carty
Man of the Match on that day
Left half, Damien O'Carroll then
Played well and is versatile
And Panda midfield ran his legs off
Helping out in defence all the while
Cousin Brendan, his partner on that day
Playing sound, till he had to retire
No. 10 was immaculate Mucky
A ciatog, you'd have to admire
On the forty was mighty O'Halloran
Played superbly in every way
That blistering goal for Clounmacon
Set victory up on the day
No. 12 was the tough Timmy Mulvihill
Whose tigerish play helped us win
'Twas Pip who played at right corner
He ran hard and never gave in
No. 14 on that day got one score
And at left-full a man with sheer class
He caused havoc that day for Tarbert
left opponents for dead on Glin's grass
Seamus Toomey, Mike Canavan, Mike Flavin
All played superb when called on
The entire panel was brillant
As this league campaign went along
There are many others to thank now
For this was not done on our own
John Sullivan has to be praised now
Your bill must be high for the phone!
Congrats to all of the Officers
To the Chairman and Secretary too
P.R.O. and all the selectors
Without you, we just would not do
The vision and craft of our Trainer
Was one of the reasons we won
From all of the team to you Johnny
Thanks for the work that you've done
To all our supporters on that day
Your cheers at the end filled the air
And thanks for the field down In Glin boys,
We'll play anywhere, we don't care !
Now my song it is over for this year
The County league tftle is won
And just as one year has finished
Another one then has begun
Salute the Urban league Champions
Whose courage and heart it shone throu'
They lifted their first County Title
In the year 2002 !
John Walsh
10-01-03
Dan Keane wrote a poem to Drury and here it is for you:
Drury’s Ghost Dan Keane
Down Farran by the old churchyard
One night I took a stroll
As bright aurora’s crimson beams
Flashed upward from the pole.
From the red wine of remembrance
To the dead I drank a toast,
Then what appeared beside me
But Paddy Drury’s ghost.
……
At length I uttered, “Drury
What brings your spirit back?
Is there anything you’re needing? “
He answered, “Not a whack!”
………
“But the friends I loved are parted
And the scene is not the same.
There’s a dozen homesteads missing
Down along my own Bog Lane.
How I loved each thatched white cottage
When their silent signals spoke
Like a fleet of ships in harbour
Belching out their morning smoke.”
“I’ve met all the friends in Heaven;
Drurys, Dores, the Nolans, Nashes
Fiddler Creed and Dancing Billy
With his legs as loose a ashes,
Tade and Jim and Dick ,the Villain
Dan the Bucko from the Lane,
I’d a pint in Peter’s parlour
With my old friend, Daniel Kane.”
…….
“I have toiled with many farmers
When the grub was really bad.
I’d never live for ninety years
But for the teeth I had.
But the frame was getting older
And the teeth were getting few
So I found my stimulation
In the stuff I couldn’t chew.
…….
So I said, “You are in Heaven
And what more can mortals crave?
Do you know you’ll soon be honoured
With a headstone o’er your grave?
He betrayed no foolish flatter
Gave a jovial exclamation
In the quaint old Drury fashion
“Hope ‘twont raise my valuation?”
“ Let the human fad be honoured,
It will do no harm there
And some pilgrim might, in passing
For the Drurys say a prayer.
Otherwise, above my ashes
I’ve no asset to my soul
And if Drury still was living
They’d begrudge him draw the dole.”
BALL, BATTLE AND BUCKET
(Clounmacon v Tarbert for NK Senior Football crown, played at Tarbert, 1954)
The morning sun climbed slowly up
The mid November sky.
Jack Murphy scratched his poll and said:
'I think the day'll be dry!'
Pat Gleeson came from early Mass
'Be well prepared!' he said,
And Philly stirred the embers up
To toast the captain's bread.
Ahern brushed his Sunday pants
And donned his ruby shoes.
And fell in line with those who went
In fours, and threes and twos.
Maig Doyle, she watched the crowds go by -
What memories they brought her -
'God speed!' she uttered o'er and o'er
And shook the holy water.
Tady Buckley traced the cross
Upon his frosted brow.
He blessed the flag he dearly loved
But could not follow now.
He bade them take his *old brown hat
(*And told what should be done)
And have it lofted toward the sky
In Case Clounmacon won.
Men went of dark and silvery heads
And every sort of dame
Forgot to rub her lipstick on
In a rush to see the game.
And meadow patch and bohereen
Poured out their manhood's fill
And Derry mustered up her troops
Led on by Donal Bill.
And Curly's oratorial powers
In vivid picture draws
The ebb and flow of many a flight
In theirs and Ireland's cause.
The clock has passed the noon day hour,
The fast by Tarbert town -
Clounmacon versus Tarbert
For North Kerry's football crown.
Then lo! to where the teams line out,
Across the scene sublime
Three strode the form of a priest
Serenely and benign.
He clasped the rival captain's hands
And bade them fight the sod
In a manner well befitting
Their country and their God.
The National hymn and Anthem
Pour forth their solemn notes
And the banner green of Erin
Each flapping-free fold floats.
The whistle's blown, the ball is thrown,
The rival's slogans raise
The echoes from their slumbers,
Through battle's red hot blaze.
First Tarbert, deer-like, break away,
The surging chorus swelled,
But, grimly set, our backs defiant
Each raking raid repelled.
'Twas glorious down Clounmacon's left
The fight flowed fierce and fast,
Where O'Connell's peerless Paddy
And the mightly Coleman clashed.
The tide of battle turns
And Clounmacon's in attack
Like rocks upon their native shore
Stands every Tarbert back.
'Till last Mick Donal fielding high
He swerves and shoots with speed,
The leather sails above the bar -
Clounmacon takes the lead.
And Elligott on captain Joe
Some daring days recall
And fiercely through the battles wade
They are fighting ball for ball.
Jer Egan's every effort
Prised the doors of hope ajar
A lengthy left from centre field
Sails high above the bar.
But faster and more fiercely still
Come Tarbert down the field,
Where Buckley, Lyons and Leahy
Once more refuse to yield.
As wild waves over golden sands
Resistless pressure pour,
So Mulvihill the white flag lifts
For Tarbert's opening score.
A deadly drive by Costello
Sails past the mid-way line,
Where Phelan and Wax Scanlan
In clever work combine.
Mick Donal's free with deadly aim
Across the bar has sped,
Clounmacon on the half-time blast
Are still two points ahead.
Still grimly through the second half
Doth battle's red rage run,
Clounmacon fearless force the pace,
Playing into wind and sun.
But Cregan, calm in Tarbert goals
Some deadly drives defied,
As Halpin and Bill Egan
To fell his fortress tried.
With hawklike swoops our forward troops
Dash dauntless to the fray,
Mick Donal scores a brace of points
Then Tarbert break away,
Like fire and flash, upfield they dash
The white flag to unroll,
With might and main they sought, in vain,
To gain the levelling goal.
The rock rim rattled as brave men battled,
And echo ran and ran
Twas deed for deed and speed for speed,
And every man for man.
'Twas pace and power for one hard hour
As fortune rocked and reeled,
Men trained and strained of strength were drained
To finish that fierce field.
And gallant Tarbert's glorious bid,
Like tidal waves to shore,
Down on Clounmacon's fortress
The tide of battle bore.
But Costello comes, charging clean,
Undimmed and undismayed,
Of falcon-fetch and eagle eye
Each long cheered clearance made.
The rock-like Scanlon on this left
Was ever to the fore,
While O'Mahony on his back
A stainless mantle wore.
Pat Kerins roaming restless,
His colours never lowered,
While centre-field on Tarbert's lines
The living leather poured.
Still fiercely fight their gallant backs,
Like lions bought to bay,
They grimly grip the fading light
Of their fond hopes that day,
When, hark! above the tow'ring trees
The thundering echoes roll -
Joe Scanlon grips an Egan ball
To crash a glorious goal.
Ahern danced in ruby shoes,
Din Egan waved his tie,
And Tady Buckley's old brown hat
Went soaring towards the sky.
'Lord, boys, above!' Ned Sheehy cries,
'I think we can relax!'
Then Ned went for another p(o)int -
A black one - in at Mac's.
As slowly sinking down to rest
The pallid Autumn sun
The ref. blows loud the final blast
The field is fought and won
To gallant Tarbert now we say
Long may each daring deed
Loom rock-like on the shores of fame
Where broken hopes recede.
The stately form of the priest
Once more outfield appears,
And there presents the silver cup
'Midst long full-throated cheers.
The beacon-light of victory
That lit the glorious scene,
Shall long illume each fame-crowned name
Of our Clounmacon team.
We filled the trophy overflowing,
And drank in glandsome glee,
A toast to every heart we love
At home and o'er the sea.
We drained its bosom o'er and o'er,
Then home the captain took it,
His daughter Joan rushed out and cried:
Where did you get the bucket?
Dan Keane
THE BOYS OF CLOUNMACON
Here's to the boys of Clounmacon,
The boys from the hilltop and vale,
The boys from the crag and the lowlands,
The boys fromo the banks of the Gale.
They followed the footsteps of their fathers,
Their slogans would never give up,
And on the banks of Shannon near Tarbert,
They won the North Kerry Cup.
Now this team is composed of all workers,
And roughing they all can withstand,
There's no students or bankers amongst them,
They all work on the skin of the land.
By their deeds on the field they are known by,
If you forget them, ill bring to your mind,
When they won the jerseys in Bally,
Clounmacon they came from behind.
They came from behind with a vengeance,
Brave Ballydonoghue had to yield,
There was nothing to stop that fierce onslaught,
As Clounmacon they swept up the field.
By two goals of six points they were led by,
Which the scoreboard at half time did show,
But when the three quarter marker was reached by,
Clounmacon were out on their own.
ON the sandhills we defeated brave Faha,
You could hear all the sideliners roar,
We're on for the final in Tarbert,
Way down by the Shannon's green shore.
We had brave captain Joe from old Dromin,
And O'Connell from Ballygalogue,
Though the dice it was loaded against him,
He kept Coleman right out in the cold.
Monty Leahy he dumbfounded Tarbert,
While Mike Donal his frees were a treat,
Not forgetting the Garda Siochana,
And Pat Kerins who sealed their defeat.
Bobby Buckley was there from Lower Derry,
Mikie Lyons was as fleet as a hound,
And Son Halpin that nippy young forward,
Used to leap on the ball with a bound.
The three brother Scanlons were there, sir,
That's Anthony, Martin and Joe,
You could send Martin right out to Korea, sir,
And he'd ne'er turned his back on the foe.
Not a ball went through O'Mahony,
Which the scoreboard at the finish did show,
While the two brother Egans were brilliant,
And Tom Costello stood out on his own.
The cup it was filled down in Tarbert,
And victor and vanquished were there,
And they all got a swig from her bosom,
Where they came from teh boys didn't care.
'Twas brought to Listowel in procession,
And filled there again and again,
Now is rests with captain Joe Shanahan,
At the top of old Dromin Hill.
Gerry Histon
Abbeyfeale Bell.
ST. MARY'S BELL
Twas the 1st world war in 1914
Micheal Anthony donated ‘the bell’ to Canon Lee.
‘Twas proudly erected in the steeple so high,
That was known as ‘St. Marys’ to all who passed by.
Like the phoenix from the ashes, our people did thus,
Amid fear and famine they decided they must
Arise from the ashes and with courage of steel,
They erected St. Marys by the banks of the Feale.
In bog and in meadow and in tending the flock,
The bell of St. Mary's served as a clock.
In Athea and Mountcollins, Ballaugh and The Hill
Its pealing was heard when the evening was still.
Down through the years the tollers were kind
They all did their best to keep me in mind
O’Rourke's – Connie, Bernard and C.C. as well
They handled me gently to produce the best knell.
In May there were missions and the travelling stall,
And they never forgot ‘The Rounds’ in the Fall.
There was Nanto and Kitsy and Denny the Kerr
Toss Keane and Sos Ponto and Daddle as well.
To Katie's they scampered for tobacco and snuff
As ‘twas always maintained that she held the best stuff.
For nailers and tailors and coopers and all,
The ten minute bell was their last clarion call.
With the Angelus bell their work they did halt
As they retired for the night and a bottle of malt.
Hector Browne soon aspired to ‘pinions so high
Was oft to be found in the tall trees close by
With New St. and Main St. and the Square Just as well
To his sports congregation good deeds he could tell.
For over five decades this bell of renown,
Was visited by callers from country and town.
The schoolboy, the father, the mother, the nun
Lit a candle, said a prayer for those that were gone.
Like the mythical bird I arise once again
As a link from the past and more good things to come,
I return to St. Mary's my rightful birthplace,
And bring you all here – Peace and God's Grace.
Ita Barrett N.T.
Athea Coursing Club
Athea Coursing Club was founded in c. 1946/1947. This poem gives an insight into the club at the time of its foundation. Verses composed by John Hunt below
The secretary of the club was Paddy O’Connell and Paddy Monaghan was the chairman. The names that are mentioned in the poem were prominent members of Athea Coursing Club at this time.
Thady Hunt
******************
But now for our collection the funds were so low,
But up forked the boys for they couldn’t say no,
We made seven pounds and ten shillings right there on the spot,
Nice work said Paddy Monaghan one-fifty will do the lot.
Now the Coursing has started,
The men from the parish you’ll see,
We’ll all give a shout and the hare he’ll jump out,
And the lands long ago that were free.
We’ll have the Curate, the doc; yes the painter was there,
Stand back says Paddy Murphy ‘tis a goat or a hare,
Good heavens says the Blake, is that the whistle I see,
Coming down the gale from the ICC.
We’ll have dogs from the Lots, Knockbawn and Dirreen,
Some from Abbeyfeale, Knocknagorna and Toureen,
We’ll have hounds from Cork City, Macroom and Clonmel,
But hey, hey says Edsie Connors, but with mine they can’t smell.
We had Mick Griffin, Bill Quill and the bold Tailor Shine,
The hare he jumps out with his ears on his back,
Three cheers says Tom Barrett,
That’s Neidin’s fish and smack.
Next on the line comes Joe Quaid with the cash,
On that big day he will cut quite a dash,
With his fivers and tenners that way he’ll pay out,
Three cheers says Jack Rodgers, ‘tis Clonanna no doubt.
But then comes Connie Mulvihill, up the hill from Knockbawn,
With two dogs, their colour was fawn,
Out of the corner of his eye, a hare Connie did see,
But he held back the dogs in the land that was free.
John Hunt
Hi,
Here are some Limericks I put together. Wo
uld anyone else like to try?
Liam in Leeds
A silly young man from Muingwee
Was certain that he was a bee
Said his doctor don't fuss
Just give us a buzz
When ever you’ve saved up my fee.
The cowboy was let out on bail
After telling the Judge this weird tale
For he swore it was true
That the hammer he drew
Was only for hitting the trail
The diner in anger had made
A complaint "bout the egg as he paid
Said the waiter "Not me”
For it's plain to see
‘Twas only the table I layed"
The Eskimos igloo is neat
Designed, the cold wind for to beat
But when roads are ice bound
They still get around
By just simply gritting their teeth.
‘Twas difficult for to ignore
The thief as he boasted once more
That his little son Jake
His first steps did take -
From the shed of the painter next door.
We humans have awful bad luck
To find ourselves firmly stuck
Since the day of our birth
On a place known as earth
Named after a substance like muck.
A silly young robber named Grant
Stole a shrub from a gardener named Trant
When ‘twas found in his place
Young Grant based his case
On a claim that the find was a plant
The old father's head was so bare
His young son could not help but stare
And wonder why so
Dad continued to grow
Till his head grew right up through his hair.
A dwarf is supposed to have said
That a joke book which he had just read
About those who are small
Didn't offend at all
For it all just went over his head.
There once was a man called Ted
Who had little hair on his head
On his scull it is true
Many rabbits he drew
Hoping each one would like a hair (hare).
A foreman decided to trick
A young man from Kerry called Mick
In a corner he laid
A shovel and a spade
And told him to go take his pick.
A little giraffe they named Pete
Grew a neck that was long as a street
Then he told his mates why
His head was so high
Cause he can't stand the smell of his feet.
A school child from Bonn, Susan Keller
Is hopeless at maths so they tell her
But from school she won't mitch
And they say she's a witch
For she’s top of the class as a speller.
Taken from life of Paddy Faley
By 1959, Paddy Faley had made enough money from the bog to purchase the Woulfe’s farm three miles east from Glasha at Glenbawn, Ballyhahill, where he lives today. He moved there on 25th April 1959, his fortieth birthday. And that was the day he became a poet because he wrote his first poem that night, ‘The Home I Left Behind’, which began:
My father was a labourer,
And worked the humble spade,
We could afford no luxuries from the wages he was paid,
But still we were so happy and the peace of God did find,
In that little earthly paradise, the home I left behind.
More poems followed and Paddy soon began appearing at Fleadh Cheoil competitions and Féiles across West Limerick. Sometimes he told stories too. ‘Recitations,’ he says softly, making that one word alone sound like an ancient melody.
In 1977, he co-founded the Ballyguiltenane Rural Journal, an annual compendium of local lore, anecdotes and history, for which he has written over 250 articles. In 2003, he published a compilation called ‘The Life and Rhymes of Paddy Faley.’ All five hundred copies sold out within three weeks.
In 2000, aged 80, Paddy Faley headed off to Britain as part of Joe Harrington’s annual Irish Rambling House tour.[vi] He quickly established himself as ‘the Grandad’ of the group and he proved such a success that he returned again in 2001. Both tours were recorded as ‘The Tour of Britain’ and ‘Live at the Galtymore’.
While he amassed medals and trophies galore, perhaps his greatest achievement was with the weekly ‘Dear Sir or Madam’ competition on RTE Radio 1 in the 1970s. He regularly won the ‘one guinea’ prize as his story was broadcast to the nation. Paddy was still working on the roads at the time and his supervisor repeatedly marvelled, “what education did you get with your spade and shovel, to be winning things like that?”’ Paddy duly converted his supervisors’ remarks into another winning entry for ‘Dear Sir or Madam.’
‘I never wrote a thing until I came over here,’ he says. ‘Isn’t that a strange thing?’ Paddy’s gift is all the more extraordinary because it is inherited, and yet neither of his parents could read or write. ‘They were both illiterate,’ he explains, ‘but my father was a great storyteller. He could remember long stories, every word of them, like a seanchaí. And he’d pronounce every word correctly. He could compose, but he couldn’t write. When I was young, he told us stories about fairies and ghosts and giants and leprechauns. And he could sing and play the Jew’s harp. At night we’d say ‘tell us a story Daddy’ or ‘sing us a song’ and my mother would decide which he would do.’
Minding The House by Paddy Faley (1960)
Thank God it is all over, ‘tis a relief to my brain
My wife she is now better and is on her feet again
One day last week she got the flu and in bed she had to stay
She said to me “Paddy, I can’t get up. Could you manage anyway?”
“Yerra, Nell, “ says I , “Why not I. What is there to be done
Only get the children out to school. To me twill be just fun.
But, now I know what fun it was and you’ll know just as well
When you hear the muddle I got into - those days were just like hell.
I always thought that women had the finest time on earth
Just gossiping with the neighbours while sitting by the hearth
But now for them I’ve pity - they’re wonderful no doubt
How they find time for gossip, I’ll never figure out.
On the day I was housekeeping my wife said from the bed
“Is there any chance now Paddy you’d throw down a cake of bread”
“I will” said I “just tell me the ingredients I want
I’ll blend them together and I bet you twill be grand”.
Before I had it finished I’d a path made to the bed
Asking where I’d find this and that to put in the cake of bread
And when I had it finished and ready for to bake
There was as much flour on my hands and clothes as there was inside the cake!
I put it in the oven over a fire of black ciaráns
And I said now while tis baking I’ll run for butter to Mullanes
I happened to be delayed there and alas when I returned
And looked into the oven my cake was black and burned.
I tried to scrape off the burned crusts to make it edible for the children and my wife
But I only broke the handle of a Sheffield Stainless knife.
I cursed and prayed together – I was nearly off my head
I had to throw out the homemade loaf and go for Bakery bread.
Then she informed me that she was longing for a fry
She told me how I’d cook it and so I said I’d have a try
My fry was going grand in top gear, t’would delight the heart of man
T’was singing like a fiddle and dancing in the pan.
But when I poured in some water to make ‘dip’ out of the grease
The whole thing then exploded and the frying pan went ablaze.
I grabbed the burning frying pan and for the door did wheel
The dog he came before me and I was pitched head o’er heel
Hot grease was splashed all o’er me as my forehead hit the floor
The dog roaring with a scalded arse out through the window tore!
That evening the children from school came rushing in
I couldn’t hear my ears with them, such a racket and a din
Quarrelling over this and that – I never heard such rows
Or why did they wait to pick this day to go mad around the house.
They were calling for their dinner and with hunger they did shout
When I went to boil the kettle the fire it had gone out!
When at last the night came on and the children did retire
I sat down exhausted on my chair beside the fire
I took up the daily paper to read it for a while
But soon I was in darkness the lamp ran out of oil.
I caught the globe it was red hot and God forgive me I did fuck it
For at that very minute I was praying to God to kick the bucket
I shook my hand with the burning pain and from the wife there came a scream
As she heard her fire proof Pyrex globe landing on the floor in smithereens.
Now she was beseeching God and His Blessed and Holy Mother
To get her out of bed while there was something left together
She said “Go there to the dresser, behind the dishes and you’ll find a candle there
There’s one left over after Christmas and mind don’t break the ware!”
Well I am one cursed man wherever there’s another
For I broke a China Vase – a wedding present from her mother!
Another lecture from the bed saying “Aren’t you an awful curse
Instead of you improving you’re going from bad to worse
No one in the world knows what I am going through
Or how did the good God ever splice me to an awkward Hoor like you!”
Anyway I lit up my candle and the light was not so clear
To have it close by me I placed it on the range I was sitting near
I then read on my paper ‘til the light grew dim and strange
When I looked there was my candle like a pancake on the range!
After mopping up I got into bed and was nice and warm there
When I heard a cry of anguish from a child in bed upstairs
Saying “Dad, come up quick. I think I’m going to puke!”
To comfort her I had to hop out from my warm nook.
Probing in the darkness up the stairway I did go
I struck my foot against the step and disjointed my big toe
When again I had got into bed under the warm clothes
With aching head and painful toe I had started off to doze
The dog he started barking and she woke me with a roar
“Saying “As sure as God, Paddy, that’s the fox.
Did you close the fowlhouse door?”
To add to my misery there I was again
Running out to close it and I naked to the skin.
I returned from the henhouse, my backside as cold as clay
The frost had froze my thighs and toes and perished what I won’t say.
I squeezed in beside her for the heat – I was like a walking corpse
She said “ Keep out from me with your icicle or you’ll give me the relapse!”
But I won’t be caught again for I know what I’ll do
The very first sneeze I hear out of her – I’ll start sneezing too.
FATHER CASEY'S MINOR TEAM WIN COUNTY FINAL
2011-11-11
Father Casey's beat gallant Saint Kieran's
To capture their eighth minor crown.
We greeted the team at Mountmahon
And marched them in triumph through the town.
Forget not our captain, Eoin Kelly,
And James Meara who guarded the goal;
Tim Tobin was brilliant at midfield.
Jack Breen is a star on a roll.
Joe Browne, Tommy Keeffe and Paddy Lane;
As good a young backline as you’ll see.
Young Dean and Keith Harnett, twin brothers,
Are sons of the wonderful Dee.
John Quirke and young Dara outstanding.
Chris Smith and T.J. on the ball;
Darren Keane and Daniel Daly were tireless,
But Shane O’Connor was the best of them all.
In the subs we had young Danny Harnett,
Paudie Welsh and young Patrick Brislane.
James O’Connor is fond of the football,
But Patrick prefers the caman.
Three cheers for the gallant St Kieran's.
Sean McSweeney, best forward on view.
God bless the young men from the Fealeside;
Our heroes are dauntless and true.
John Lenihan, Tom Cahill and Georgie
Were an excellent management team.
Our seniors will conquer next season.
Monaleen might run out of steam.
Sean O’h-Airtneide.
WHO CAN BEAT THE KINGDOM SWEET?
(KERRY V ROSCOMMON, ALL-IRELAND,
1946 By Bryan MacMahon
The month it was October, aye, and forty-six the year
When Kerry and Roscommon clashed to make the victory clear.
Roscommon’s captain bragged before the glorious game began:
‘Today we’ll beat the Kingdom sweet, at horse or hound or man!’
Then up stepped Pat Bawn Brosnan from Dingle’s beauteous side;
‘I fought,’ said he, ‘with many a sea and many a raging tide,
As by the Blaskets foaming flank my fishing smack I ran –
For who can beat the Kingdom sweet, at horse or hound or man?’
Roscommon’s fields they may be sweet and soft the sheep lands there;
But, better far, the Southerners are reared out on mountain air.
And though our foes be sterling men and strive as heroes can,
Yet non may beat the Kingdom sweet from horse or hound or man.
I bid you, men, remember then the lovely hills of home,
The mountains brown o’er Dingle town, Valentia in the foam,
The Silver Feale, and sweet Tralee, Killarney’s heavenly plan –
For non may beat the Kingdom sweet for horse or hound or man.
Then out from all the thousands leaped a fleet Roscommon hare,
His colours caught the rising sun and floated free and fair;
But then a Kerry rooster crew as only roosters can:
‘O, none may beat the Kingdom sweet for horse or hound or man!’
Then to and from at centre-field the tide of battle rolled,
Till Casey and Pat Kennedy roused out the green and gold;
And when the final whistle blew the cheering people ran,
For none may beat the Kingdom sweet for horse or hound or man.
I pledge you ‘Danno’ in the ‘gap’, with Joe Keohane before,
Pat Bawn, the Lynes and Casey brave, who lead to every score;
Ted Connor and Pat Kennedy – Ned Walsh to lead the van!
O, who can beat the Kingdom sweet for horse or hound or man?
The forwards, too, I name them out, with ‘Gega’ in the lead,
Batt Garvey and Dan Kavanagh, with Falvey and O’ Keefe,
And lovely dark-haired Paddy Burke, who thrilled each partisan –
O, who can beat the Kingdom sweet for horse or hound or man?
I pledge you now Gus Cremin tall, that lithe Lisselton lad,
Who, fleet as deer, had gripped the sphere and drove all Ireland mad,
Who scored the final flaming point and crashed Roscommon’s plan –
For who can beat the Kingdom sweet for horse or hound or man?
9th Century poem attributed to St Ita
Saint Ita sees Christ come to her in a vision as a baby to be nursed:
It is Little Jesus
who is nursed by me in my little hermitage:
though it be a cleric with treasures,
all is a lie save little Jesus.
The nursing I do in my house
is not the nursing of a base clown:
Jesus with the men of Heaven
under my heart every single night.
Young little Jesus, my eternal good!
to heed him is a cause of forgiveness,
the king who controls all things,
not to beseech Him will cause repentance.
It is Jesus, noble, angelic,
not an unlearned cleric,
who is fostered by me in my little hermitage,
Jesus the son of the Hebrew woman.
Sons of princes, sons of kings,
though they should come into my country,
I should not expect profit from them;
more likely, I think, from Jesukin.
Sing ye a chorus, O maidens,
to Him who has a right to your little tribute,
who sits in his place above,
though little Jesus is at my breast.
Peg Prendeville
Spring ’95
Such excitement here this morning when I looked out from my room
Expecting pelting rain and wind and the usual air of gloom
“Mammy, Mammy” my son called, “What’s that yellow thing in the sky?”
I was sure I was still dreaming and massaged my sleepy eyes.
But, a miracle had happened, the sun shone with all its might.
The grass and trees looked greener from the wondrous heat and light.
And the daffodils were laughing as they tossed their golden curls,
The tinkling stream sang merrily -we were in a different world.
Oh yes, our eyes had been defogged and everything was quite clear
Gone were the grey and dreary days, the hailstones, rain and sleet.
Spring had arrived belatedly and put us all in humour
For gardening, cleaning, dusting and making plans for
summer.
By evening time we were all tired but full of fun and cheer.
We thanked our God in Heaven that at last fine weather’s here.
Tonight I check the forecast to see how long ‘twill stay.
But all I see are big black clouds! Ah, well, we had ONE day!
HISTON
Jerry Histon (1887-1975) born in Dirreen, Athea to John Histon and Ellen Sullivan and Norah Sweeney (1894-1989 ) born Clounmacon to Denis Sweeney and Bridget Mc Coy were married in 1919 and lived in Clounmacon,
Jerry Histon was a great reader, travelling miles on foot and bike to swap books with fellow bookworms. He wrote much poetry including “ Dear Old Shannon Shore” and lyrics for well-known songs such as “Vales of New Dirreen” and “ The Lovely Banks of Blane”, two great favourites of Limerick Fleadh contestants and well-expounded by Con Greaney of Athea ( Grandfather of NKRO chairperson and Genealogy exponent Ger Greaney of Greaneys Spar, Listowel) and Donie Lyons of Glin and others. Jerry Histon featured in various issues ot the Shannonside Annual and his literary gene is being expounded, right through to today’s generation of his descendants.
‘Mom – My Friend”
“At first you know her simply as a Mother
Somebody good at taking care of you
At teaching and protection and defending
And watching over everything you do.
At first you know her simply as a Mother
But something lovely happens through the years
For every time she warms you with her kindness
Every time she has a hand to lend
You come to know her just a little better
To know her as a person and a friend”
THE PASSING OF TOM O`BRIEN.
A travelling man is dead and gone. He`ll roam the roads no more.
That soul so fine of Tom O`Brien has fled to Heaven’s shore.
For eighty years `mid smiles and tears, he jogged from town to town.
Through Erin`s land, the green and bland, from Cork to County Down.
No village street, but his strong feet have trod on Ireland’s ground.
He often camped at Dalton`s Cross, Mountmahon and The Pound.
Salisbury Plain and Flanders were seen by gallant Tom.
He fought the German Army at the Battle of the Somme.
He mended cans and pots and pans. The tinsmith’s trade, you know.
And thousands came to bless his name on a day of sleet and snow.
His funeral in Sweet Listowel, no grander e`er was seen.
The travellers came from near and far, his passing for to "caoin"
The cortege from Newcastlewest, through Abbeyfeale did go;
They drank a health at Jimmy Joy`s as oftimes long ago.
May God be good to you, old stock, true hearted friend of mine;
I`ll keep your ass and caravan, and pray for Tom O`Brien.
Sean O h-Airtneide.
MY TASK
I've skimped and saved and paid my way.
Decided against spending for many a day.
Ate fish and chips and dreamt of steak.
Baked bread instead of fresh cream cake.
And still with all this drawn-out strife
I would not wish to change my life.
Luxury and riches are not my goal.
There are greater rewards for a weary soul.
REALITY IN THE SKY
The two-fold sight that met my eyes
As I looked towards the evening skies.
A jet engine streaking its vaporous way
Towards the setting sun at the close of day.
Made me realize as I sat in my car,
How near we've got and yet how far.
It taught me a lesson there and then
Of the equal likeness to God in men.
Side by side in that summer sky
A panorama of wonder for you and I.
collected poems of Hector Browne, Abbeyfeale.
The Hurler’s Prayer
(courtesy of Shannon parish)
Grant me, O Lord, a Hurler’s skill
With strength of arm and speed of limb,
A cunning eye for the flying ball,
And luck to catch it where ‘ere it fall,
May my stroke be steady, my aim be true,
My actions manly, my misses few,
And no matter what way the game may go,
May I rest in friendship with every foe,
When the final whistle for me is blown,
And I stand at last at God’s judgement throne,
May the Great Referee when He calls my name,
Say: “ You hurled like a man, and you
played the game!”
PEG:
Nature’s blessings
I took her to the river
To show her the brown flood
Which was in an angry mood today
Full of debris, twigs and mud.
“Where is it going” she enquired
As she watched it tumbling through
The arches of the village bridge
“It’s in a hurry, that’s for sure!”
And as we both looked on in awe
My grandchild who’s nearly three
Looked up at me with questioning eyes
And unlocked a memory
Of almost sixty years before
When my father all excited
Asked “Do you want to see the river”
And of course I was delighted.
So he carried my sister and me too
In his strong and sinewy arms
And took us through the meadow
Through old George Lynch’s farm.
There at the foot of Knockadillaun
The brown water rushed on by.
To us it seemed a torrent
But was probably a foot wide!
And as I held my grandchild’s hand
I hoped that forever after
She’ll remember the excitement
And the power of moving water.
To me it was a sacred moment,
Too precious now to measure.
The resurrection of this memory is
A grace-filled gift that I will treasure.
Peg Prendeville 26/01/2014
Listowel Donkey Derby 1959 by Jet Stack
The weather was fine, being fifty nine and the races drawing nigh
To win the donkey derby sure our hopes were very high.
So we called on all the donkeys that might win cup or bowl
And we started preparations for the derby in Listowel.
The donkeys came in dozens, some were fast and some were slow,
But sure that’s the way you’ll find them no matter where you go
But we put them through their paces and we raced them past the pole
And twas all in preparation for the derby in Listowel
We had Nixes grey and Driscoll's bay, she showed a little blemish
John Joe brought our camera in case of a photo finish
When Lady Barney won the second race, Dan Riordan scratched his pole
And ‘twas all in preparation for the derby in Listowel
Nedeen Buckley came with Sad Dust and Nellies Morning Dew
This was a kind of challenge race and 'twas left between the two
Then Margaret came on Forge Road Lad, He’s the sire of a foal
And 'twas all in preparation for the derby in Listowel
When Shanahan’s Stamps came winning home, the crowd they gave a roar
They heard it back in Coolagown and down through Ennismore
Bob Stack got so excited, he ran up the winning pole
And 'twas all in preparation for the derby in Listowel
Scartlea’s Hope when going well, won many a thrilling race
He ran his best to half a length and that was no disgrace
But when Casey down from Dromerin, said he couldn’t run with goats
Sure his feeding was substandard, it was small Kilarda oats.
When Phil arrived on Gurtinard Lad, Sean’s donkey gave a wink
He started like a bullet and gave him no time to think
Our jockeys rode like professionals both fearless and bold
And there’s one thing I can vouch for; a race was never sold
The crowd grew larger every night, they came from far and near
Elsie, Kit and Minnie came the winners home to cheer
We had Bertha, Paul and Bridie, sure they played their usual role
And 'twas all in preparation for the derby in listowel
Eileen came with Kathleen and Bridge came running fast
Sure Mary nearly broke her neck in case she might be last
Ginette was there from London oh my heart she nearly stole
And 'twas all in preparation for the Derby in Listowel.
So then when the fun was over and we picked our chosen few
We raced them down Church Street where we met our Waterloo
But such is life, there is always strife in trying to reach your goal
Still our hopes are high for another try at the derby in Listowel.
The donkey in question was Scartlea Night and was ridden by Sean Hartnett of Cahirdown.
To end, here’s a little poem by one man that few knew struggled with depression, Mr. G.K. Chesterton:
THIS much, O heaven—if I should brood or rave,
Pity me not; but let the world be fed,
Yea, in my madness if I strike me dead,
Heed you the grass that grows upon my grave.
If I dare snarl between this sun and sod,
Whimper and clamour, give me grace to own,
In sun and rain and fruit in season shown,
The shining silence of the scorn of God.
Thank God the stars are set beyond my power,
If I must travail in a night of wrath,
Thank God my tears will never vex a moth,
Nor any curse of mine cut down a flower.
Men say the sun was darkened: yet I had
Thought it beat brightly, even on—Calvary:
And He that hung upon the Torturing Tree
Heard all the crickets singing, and was glad.
Taken from Lixanw Church Leaflet
“Litter, litter here and there
Place would be so nice and clean
If no litter could be seen
Come everybody please do care
Why, oh why don’t people care
About that litter everywhere
Just pick it up and pop it in
Pop it in the litterbin.
STARLINGS Cyril Kelly
At first I was unsure what they were, spectral shapes, drifting like wisps of smoke above the distant hedges, amorphous against the evening sky. So intrigued was I, that I veered the car onto the hard shoulder and switched off the engine. In the short time it took to do that, the smoky haze had given way to mesmerising high definition; starlings, a murmuration of starlings, a phenomenon which I had once glimpsed many years before above the night trees on the piazza outside Termini railway station in Rome, a phenomenon which I had often recalled but had never witnessed since.
This mottled wheel, forty ... fifty metres high, fifty metres wide, an enormous whirling wheel rising and falling in the upper atmosphere like a gigantic helium hoop, an ecstatic helium hoop composed entirely of tiny starlings. Uncanny coordination keeping this puff ball bouncing above the darkening hinterland. A sudden flash expansion, an abrupt change in density, transforms the wheel into a westering comet, plunging towards the horizon, hauling its rippling tail against the drag and force of gravity, barely above the tree tops. Near instantaneous signal processing dictates flock dynamics; every bird synchronising a roll into the next swerve, banking angles not only mirroring its scudding neighbours but also identical to companions on the outermost reaches of the flock, maintaining alignment and cohesion with every shift and shimmy, every dart and glide, balletic poise for each tiny pattern change, for every large scale transfiguration.
Now the starlings are a display of inverted fireworks, black against the dying daylight instead of bright against the dark of night. They erupt upwards, a viscous inky fountain rising to an apex before cascading in consummate streamers of ease to mesh, to coalesce once more into a coiling snake above the tree tops, the strobe of constant volume change imbuing the image with the sinewy movement of a serpent.
It is as if some cosmic artist were drawing a shoal of iron filings hither and thither across the canvas of the sky. Constantly etching and sketching these spontaneous aerodynamics; now stippling, now cross hatching, now graduating or saturating densities to portray unconscious competence. Yeats comes to mind; A line will take us hours maybe, yet if it does not appear a moment’s thought, our stitching and unstitching shall be nought. Instantaneous alterations of speed and shape literally tell of creativity on the wing by the swarming birds.
In this symphony of silence, each bird has tempered the individual voice. No showy solos to highlight iridescent plumage or dappled whites or scatterings of blacks and purples and glossy greens. This is an egalitarian rhapsody, rhythmic flight to celebrate the end of another day, vespers of velocity to ward off any evil Valkyrie intent on infiltrating the roost under the cloak of approaching darkness.
What would Gerald Manley Hopkins have made of this. He wrote The Windhover after sighting a single kestrel. Here he would have witnessed a towering multitude of birds, ten thousand times ten thousand starlings, all off, off forth on swing, As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend.
Then, as if in response to a conductor’s baton, all the birds descend as one from on high to form a horizontal skein just above the tree tops, undulations mingling intricately, over and back, close to the darkening outline of the horizon.
The final sector of the sun slips from sight and, smoothly, the flock of starlings drops into the jagged silhouette of woods and hedging. The opal sky turns to violet. I switch the key in the ignition and the silence is startled.