PIR, Cyphers, The Salmon, Krino, Force 10, The Stinging Fly, The SHOp, Incognito………..poets in particular seem to want to publish as well as be published. I myself instigated a short-lived magazine called Slants back in the early nineties. An enjoyable experience, but it takes stamina so stick with it year after year. Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin, current editor of PIR, is also one of the co-editors of one of Ireland’s longest running poetry magazines, Cyphers. Great credit is due to her for her service to Irish poetry. It would be interesting to read the list of established poets whose first poems appeared in publications she edited.
The variation in design, content and editorial approach makes each publication worth a look. I liked the rotation of editors that used to be the policy of PIR publishing, I also like the inclusion of poetry-related quotations and its well-written reviews. Whereas I would probably be happier to see PIR as an organ solely for championing Irish poets, both in publishing, and reviewing everything that is worthwhile coming out of this country, I always liked the inclusion of translations of foreign poets in Cyphers. The style and content of the SHOp is admirable as is The Stinging Fly. There are too many to talk about, but referring to those that are gone I must mention Force 10. I enjoyed the mix. There was no pretentiousness, it had the ingredient poetry needs more than any other: accessibility.
The first poem I had published in Cyphers s tays in my mind. I had not been into writing that long. I forgot all about this particular poem and when I saw it in print didn’t recognize it as one of mine. Only later did it come back to me. It is called Beyond the Twelfth Lock and is a scene that would be known to those who walk the Grand Canal on the stretch beyond Newcastle.
Beyond The Twelfth Lock.
All the world was in a pool by the canal;
All the Autumn,
All the Summer turned peacock
Gazing at itself
Quietly, still, face to the water.
Where I had seen the swans
Flaming in Spring,
Today I came on Summer, gold and beautiful,
About to die.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Roscommon
A few years after deciding I was finished writing a collection of poems called A Midland Town A Country Town which I undertook after seeing John Minihan’s photographs of Athy, I find I’m back in the middle of it again changing and fining and searching for more in those faces and more in my past. And my Roscommon past is turning out to be a rich source of untrampled poetry, but how much do I want to use it, or to be more precise how much do I want to use the people of the town.
The two towns being midland country towns would have had a lot in common; mind you the river and canal bring an extra layer of colour to Athy. Then again Roscommon’s county GAA pitch became an arena for rafting in the winter when the stand’s seats ( railway sleepers) would be arranged two along, two across and the boys from Ciaran’s Park became gondoliers.
Growing up in a town like Roscommon in that time (60’s/70’s) had huge advantages, it was safe, it had the benefits of a county town while being knee-deep in countryside, it had its fair share of historic buildings, (an impressive castle and abbey) which we had the run of, and was close enough to river and lake for sweltering July afternoons. On top of that my family came from there, or half of, and so it was home.
I have no doubt that it was those roots that are the roots of my writing too. And that brings me back to the collection A Midland Town A Country Town and how much I want to use it.
The Boy Who Watched For Apparitions.
Goodnight to the twin moons
stretched along the railway tracks
outside Roscommon.
My night-time window halved
with those trains rushing across the glass,
strips of film filled with their own lives:
adventurers and bon-vivants,
whose strings of lights recreated as they passed
the grassy slope, the elder bushes,
the buffer with the hole in the side;
strangers oblivious to such little worlds
and to the boy who watched for apparitions
from his bedroom window.
And in a moment they were gone,
leaving the darkness darker and the boy listening,
trying to gauge where the sounds
finally disappeared into the wind.
What lay beyond that window-world ?
The station to the right,
the white gates to the left,
and then..........
Now I remember those film strips
sailing through that pitch emptiness;
sometimes they were only ruffed impressions
when the window was full of pouring rain.
I remember how my imagination filled like a can
when all that was left was the headlight's beam
over the trees of Bully's Acre.
And there is often disappointment in these poems;
the disappointment of that place beyond
where the rhythms of trains were reclaimed by the wind.
from Sunfire (Dedalus Press)
The two towns being midland country towns would have had a lot in common; mind you the river and canal bring an extra layer of colour to Athy. Then again Roscommon’s county GAA pitch became an arena for rafting in the winter when the stand’s seats ( railway sleepers) would be arranged two along, two across and the boys from Ciaran’s Park became gondoliers.
Growing up in a town like Roscommon in that time (60’s/70’s) had huge advantages, it was safe, it had the benefits of a county town while being knee-deep in countryside, it had its fair share of historic buildings, (an impressive castle and abbey) which we had the run of, and was close enough to river and lake for sweltering July afternoons. On top of that my family came from there, or half of, and so it was home.
I have no doubt that it was those roots that are the roots of my writing too. And that brings me back to the collection A Midland Town A Country Town and how much I want to use it.
The Boy Who Watched For Apparitions.
Goodnight to the twin moons
stretched along the railway tracks
outside Roscommon.
My night-time window halved
with those trains rushing across the glass,
strips of film filled with their own lives:
adventurers and bon-vivants,
whose strings of lights recreated as they passed
the grassy slope, the elder bushes,
the buffer with the hole in the side;
strangers oblivious to such little worlds
and to the boy who watched for apparitions
from his bedroom window.
And in a moment they were gone,
leaving the darkness darker and the boy listening,
trying to gauge where the sounds
finally disappeared into the wind.
What lay beyond that window-world ?
The station to the right,
the white gates to the left,
and then..........
Now I remember those film strips
sailing through that pitch emptiness;
sometimes they were only ruffed impressions
when the window was full of pouring rain.
I remember how my imagination filled like a can
when all that was left was the headlight's beam
over the trees of Bully's Acre.
And there is often disappointment in these poems;
the disappointment of that place beyond
where the rhythms of trains were reclaimed by the wind.
from Sunfire (Dedalus Press)
Monday, May 12, 2008
Warren O'Connell
The Dublin Writers Workshop was, for a number of years, a regular stop for me. I met a lot of good writers, a lot of interesting people, and made a number of friends there.Among those that impressed most me was Warren O’Connell. He was a fine writer and an excellent critic. His criticism was delivered in a gentle, considerate way but was always perceptive,to the point,and bang on accurate.
It was with great regret that I learned that he died last week. I got the message from a member of the Rathmines Writers Workshop of which Warren was a member.It is a sad time for them,particularly some of the longer established members who were close to him.
Rathmines will be an emptier place for not bumping into him occasionally. Pearse Hutchinson has a poem in which he says (I’m paraphrasing him) universal courtesy would be revolutionary; in that revolution Warren would have been the rebel leader. He was a wonderful person; he will be missed.
It was with great regret that I learned that he died last week. I got the message from a member of the Rathmines Writers Workshop of which Warren was a member.It is a sad time for them,particularly some of the longer established members who were close to him.
Rathmines will be an emptier place for not bumping into him occasionally. Pearse Hutchinson has a poem in which he says (I’m paraphrasing him) universal courtesy would be revolutionary; in that revolution Warren would have been the rebel leader. He was a wonderful person; he will be missed.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Ó Bhéal
Searching for Irish Poetry Festivals I found ó bhéal Poetry Blog. It contains a listing of the year’s poetry festivals and the upcoming Open-Mic nights in the Long Valley pub in Cork with the featured poets. It also contains an interesting selection of videos relating to poets and poetry. Well worth a visit to http://www.obheal.ie/blog/
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Raglan Road
I felt like hearing Luke Kelly singing Raglan Road, then decided anyone reading the blog should hear it too. But I had trouble choosing between two YouTube videos. The first has some excellent portraits of Patrick Kavanagh, the second includes a snippet of him singing before switching to footage of Luke singing. So for the price of one………..here’s
Sohrab Sepehri
But there are some things, some high moments
( I saw a woman poet, for example
so absorbed in space
that the sky laid eggs in her eyes;………)
Sohrab Sepehri
How can you overlook words like these taken from a translation of the Iranian poet’s “The Primal Call”. His poetry, even in translation, is so beautiful that when you read it you realize that beauty itself is what’s missing from so much contemporary poetry.
I have never come across two pines in fight,
And I have never seen a willow
selling its shielding arms to the earth.
And the elm-tree is setting free of charge
the cool space within its leaves for the crows.
These lines from Sepehri’s wonderful poem, The Footsteps of Water, translated by Maryam Dilmaghani demonstrate again his poetic genius: this strong political point is couched so gently in nature that the crass capitalism it derides is made to appear completely alien to all that is good. This quotation is to be found at http://www.sohrabsepehri.net/ which I strongly recommend if you want to read more works by the same poet beautifully translated by Maryam Dilmaghani. The former can be read at http://poems.lesdoigtsbleus.free.fr/id95.htm and while you’re there check out the poetry library.(Avoid the homepage for the moment, a threat was detected there by my anti-virus program)
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Yellow Hair
"NEVER shall a young man,
Thrown into despair
By those great honey-coloured
Ramparts at your ear,
Love you for yourself alone
And not your yellow hair."
These lines from “For Anne Gregory “ by Yeats sometimes come into my head. How well he states the dilemma.
One afternoon, a number of years ago, I was staring absently out the window when I caught sight of the back of a girl passing. It was a particular combination of low sun and exceedingly long hair that produced the most breathtaking effect. Her hair shone. It gave me a poem which is included in Turn Your Head (Dedalus Press):
Wish
On days like this trees shine,
leaves spill light,
the garden is a flood,
rooftops are full-flowing weirs.
I am swept along.
You, who collects sunlight
on the spatulas of your fingers
- it clings to you like pollen -
curl a hand upward
to loosen out your hair.
Oh, I wish my eyes were barrels.
As it happens, I knew her and now when I remember her, I invariably remember her golden, gleaming hair.
Thrown into despair
By those great honey-coloured
Ramparts at your ear,
Love you for yourself alone
And not your yellow hair."
These lines from “For Anne Gregory “ by Yeats sometimes come into my head. How well he states the dilemma.
One afternoon, a number of years ago, I was staring absently out the window when I caught sight of the back of a girl passing. It was a particular combination of low sun and exceedingly long hair that produced the most breathtaking effect. Her hair shone. It gave me a poem which is included in Turn Your Head (Dedalus Press):
Wish
On days like this trees shine,
leaves spill light,
the garden is a flood,
rooftops are full-flowing weirs.
I am swept along.
You, who collects sunlight
on the spatulas of your fingers
- it clings to you like pollen -
curl a hand upward
to loosen out your hair.
Oh, I wish my eyes were barrels.
As it happens, I knew her and now when I remember her, I invariably remember her golden, gleaming hair.
Barack Hussein Obama: An Opportunity
I would love to see a female president of the USA. However it’s a pity the choice has arisen now.
The US has been held up for most of my lifetime as the champion of peoples’ freedom and defender of human rights. That standing is now, for many, a thing of the past. Its reputation is this area has been seriously damaged.
I don’t know much about the internal politics in the USA and certainly foreign policy is only one consideration for voters, but a life and death one for so many. On that basis I would have thought that the emergence of Obama as a candidate for presidency gave the voters a gilt-edge opportunity to reclaim some of that lost credibility.
The US has been held up for most of my lifetime as the champion of peoples’ freedom and defender of human rights. That standing is now, for many, a thing of the past. Its reputation is this area has been seriously damaged.
I don’t know much about the internal politics in the USA and certainly foreign policy is only one consideration for voters, but a life and death one for so many. On that basis I would have thought that the emergence of Obama as a candidate for presidency gave the voters a gilt-edge opportunity to reclaim some of that lost credibility.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
The Erne Estuary
I’m sitting beside a window full of the Erne Estuary. There’s not the slightest breeze. S-shaped, mirror-still, silvery grey. Shades of ivory, cream and seashell blend in curlicues out to the bar. Beyond there’s a stripe of charcoal and further out the narrow strip of brightness that marks the edge of the world.
By the side of the bay below the fields there is a rag tree before St Patrick’s grotto. On the algae-slimy rocks are small white crosses, the stations of the cross. On evenings like this when the smallest tick of nature can be heard in the briars and whitethorn bushes, it is an eerie but a wonderful place. You get that sense of being in your proper place within the flow of mankind that have lived along these banks since people first arrived into the west of Ireland; here at Ballyshannon, the oldest town in Ireland.
By the side of the bay below the fields there is a rag tree before St Patrick’s grotto. On the algae-slimy rocks are small white crosses, the stations of the cross. On evenings like this when the smallest tick of nature can be heard in the briars and whitethorn bushes, it is an eerie but a wonderful place. You get that sense of being in your proper place within the flow of mankind that have lived along these banks since people first arrived into the west of Ireland; here at Ballyshannon, the oldest town in Ireland.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Magical Places
I was looking through old photos when I came to the stained glass windows of Sans Chappell(click on the picture above to see it at its best). I remember climbing the stairs from the lower chapel, not expecting much (shows my ignorance), having thought I'd more or less seen what was to be seen and then..............Explosion of light and colour. The effect was as thrilling as anything that might have thrilled a child's imagination. I have never been so surprised by wonder.
And so I set to thinking about other magical places, taking what first came to mind as being the measure and with magical being the important word: 1. Sir John Soane's Museum in London for it's difference and quirkiness, an unexpected delight. 2. Skellig Michael off the Kerry coast. On a fine Summer's day this place is one step from heaven. As you approach, the gannets wafting on currents of air give the spire of rock an atmosphere of enchantment.3. The Sistine Chapel. Okay this is not the most original choice in the world but it came to mind next and I was mesmerised it is all and more than I had wished for. Even with teeming millions I was lost in the art.
4. Brian Eno/Laraaji.Ambient 3:Day of Radiance. This album will take you somewhere that's a combination of the four choices above.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Dysert O’Dea
My collection of maps has grown over the years. Hillwalkers use the 1:50000 Ordinance Survey maps. There are 89 in the series covering the 32 counties of Ireland. Number 57 has special significance for me, a photograph of a high cross above the caption High Cross, Dysert O’Dea graces the front cover.
It’s a few years ago now since Kay and I stopped there about 7.30pm on a stilly mid-summer’s evening. We were on the way to Corofin for a meal. It was idyllic; peaceful, green, gentle. Disert means an isolated place; it still has that air, and on that particular evening especially so.
How wonderful it is to find the church ruins, round tower, high cross un-exploited, unspoiled, still freely accessible as they have been for centuries. And how much more appealing they are than Clonmacnoise, the wonderful monastic settlement by the Shannon now subsumed by a tourism development that diminishes it’s grandeur and it’s magic.
A short walk on, through the field, past the high cross and you reach the castle. It is an example of tasteful restoration, not imposing itself on the landscape, but holding its own and adding as a backdrop to the other sites.
For the return of this jewel, now archaeological centre in the heart of Clare, thanks to the Wisconsin O’Deas and those who assisted greatly, Risteard Ua Cronin, the Dysert O'Dea Development Association and Bord Failte.
Dom Bernard O'Dea
Writing about Dysert brings Dom Bernard to mind. He was my father’s first cousin and, of course, chaplain to the O’Dea clan for many years. We always looked forward to Bernard’s all too rare visits. When he came, he brought his stories, his regard for children and his great bright smile.
For a commeration of his death, James O’Dea asked me to write something. I could have written a eulogy but decided instead to recall that childhood impression of his visits. This is the poem with some alterations
In Memory of Dom Bernard.
We were coming home at night,
children in the back, you out front,
the colored lights on the dashboard;
up hills, down valleys,
the whole car singing.
But there were neither hills nor valleys,
it was the wild careering over and around
your songs and stories.
Close my eyes, we’re skittering on still
snug in the warm blanket of your gentleness.
For a commeration of his death, James O’Dea asked me to write something. I could have written a eulogy but decided instead to recall that childhood impression of his visits. This is the poem with some alterations
In Memory of Dom Bernard.
We were coming home at night,
children in the back, you out front,
the colored lights on the dashboard;
up hills, down valleys,
the whole car singing.
But there were neither hills nor valleys,
it was the wild careering over and around
your songs and stories.
Close my eyes, we’re skittering on still
snug in the warm blanket of your gentleness.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Artists with Poetry in their Hearts
I have been told more than once that I have a tendency towards melancholy. It shows in the writing and it shows in my choices when I go searching for inspiration. Edward Hopper and Andrew Wyeth are two american artists that never fail to stir that mood in me.If I allow myself to wallow in their art, invariably a poem will begin to form in my head.On this side of the water Martin Gale sometimes evokes similar moods and his work has echoes of both american artists.
Old Man
The tyre hanging in the garden
is proof that children used to play there;
but in the breeze it’s a shaking head.
Today snowflakes flying by
leave the sycamore white on its northern side.
The garden is still: no snowman, no footprints.
The tyre is an old man;
with an old voice he explains
“I cannot remember names, truth is
I hung too close to the trunk to be of use;
the sycamore branches bolted upwards,
to this day they’ve never spread out.”
from "Turn Your Head" published by Dedalus Press
Anyway it's nice to be able to include some examples of this art in the following presentations from Youtube; Wyeth on top, Hopper below.
Old Man
The tyre hanging in the garden
is proof that children used to play there;
but in the breeze it’s a shaking head.
Today snowflakes flying by
leave the sycamore white on its northern side.
The garden is still: no snowman, no footprints.
The tyre is an old man;
with an old voice he explains
“I cannot remember names, truth is
I hung too close to the trunk to be of use;
the sycamore branches bolted upwards,
to this day they’ve never spread out.”
from "Turn Your Head" published by Dedalus Press
Anyway it's nice to be able to include some examples of this art in the following presentations from Youtube; Wyeth on top, Hopper below.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Rathmines Festival Information
DANCE, DHARMA & GOOD KARMA!!!!!!!
THIS YEAR’S 6th RATHMINES FESTIVAL TAKES PLACE FROM 17th to 20th April. The festival boasts even more events than ever at venues dotted around Rathmines – most free of charge.
DANCE workshops with the Dance Theatre of Ireland, Siamsa Tire and Fluxusdance means this is your chance to experience and enjoy tango, hip hop and contemporary.
Emer McDonagh, world-renowned flautist, will enchant you. Nightly Festival Clubs in local pubs will offer a diverse feast of music that is sure to please everyone.
We are adding a touch of Bollywood spice to proceedings with film showings in D.I.T. The very popular guided tours of the historic Cathal Brugha Barracks will also feature this year. The enthusiastic Eanna Ni Lamhna will inform and entertain you with a lively canal bank nature walk.
DHARMA: Talks and workshops on mind body and spirit. Anne Sweeney will lift you to a higher plane with her Angel workshops and Mary Tuohy will relax you with the ancient Japanese art of Reiki. There is Tai Chi in the Park.
Younger participants will be able to enjoy free readings in some of the local bookshops from well-known authors as well as competitions, Batik art displays, street art and performers, musical storytellers and a Party at Portobello.
Tommy O’Neill of Fair City has written a one-man show. Shirley Temple Bar will deliver another custom-made show, Transition, sure to titillate. As gaeilge, the Fibin Theatre Company will perform An Trial.
For the Francophiles: “Pays Blanc Pays Noir” is a choir from St Nazaire made up of 12 singers and a pianist. The group dress in black and white and the choir conjures up images of la Brière, the Guérande and Saint-Nazaire.
Seamus Hosey chairs the Forum, Trial by Media, featuring John Cooney and other prominent journalists.
THIS YEAR’S 6th RATHMINES FESTIVAL TAKES PLACE FROM 17th to 20th April. The festival boasts even more events than ever at venues dotted around Rathmines – most free of charge.
DANCE workshops with the Dance Theatre of Ireland, Siamsa Tire and Fluxusdance means this is your chance to experience and enjoy tango, hip hop and contemporary.
Emer McDonagh, world-renowned flautist, will enchant you. Nightly Festival Clubs in local pubs will offer a diverse feast of music that is sure to please everyone.
We are adding a touch of Bollywood spice to proceedings with film showings in D.I.T. The very popular guided tours of the historic Cathal Brugha Barracks will also feature this year. The enthusiastic Eanna Ni Lamhna will inform and entertain you with a lively canal bank nature walk.
DHARMA: Talks and workshops on mind body and spirit. Anne Sweeney will lift you to a higher plane with her Angel workshops and Mary Tuohy will relax you with the ancient Japanese art of Reiki. There is Tai Chi in the Park.
Younger participants will be able to enjoy free readings in some of the local bookshops from well-known authors as well as competitions, Batik art displays, street art and performers, musical storytellers and a Party at Portobello.
Tommy O’Neill of Fair City has written a one-man show. Shirley Temple Bar will deliver another custom-made show, Transition, sure to titillate. As gaeilge, the Fibin Theatre Company will perform An Trial.
For the Francophiles: “Pays Blanc Pays Noir” is a choir from St Nazaire made up of 12 singers and a pianist. The group dress in black and white and the choir conjures up images of la Brière, the Guérande and Saint-Nazaire.
Seamus Hosey chairs the Forum, Trial by Media, featuring John Cooney and other prominent journalists.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Rathmines Festival 2008
Some of the events from the upcoming festival:
Fri 18th April
Performance by French Choir, “Pays Blanc, Pays Noir” from St Nazaire, France and music Youth Orchestral Pops Orchestra. 19.00 – 21.00 in Rathmines Parish Church (Free)
Festival Drama – World premier of the “The Mines Dublin 6” specially written and peformed by Tommy O’Neill of Fair City. 20.00 – 21.00 in St Mary’s Junior School Hall €10
Saturday 19th April
Guided Tour: Cathal Brugha Barracks. 14.00 – 16.00 Free
Anthony Cronin: reads from and talks about his work. 14.00 – 15.30 in Town Hall €5
Medieval Dublin interactive DVD and film. 14.00- 15.00 in Town Hall (Free)
Forum with Seamus Hosey and panellists: Trial By Media Town Hall 16.30 – 18.00 in Town Hall (Free)
Fete Mélange – with Master of Ceremonies Promises O’Ferfaille and the Bugle Babes and Shirley Temple Bar. 20.30 – 22.30 in Town Hall €10
Fri 18th April
Performance by French Choir, “Pays Blanc, Pays Noir” from St Nazaire, France and music Youth Orchestral Pops Orchestra. 19.00 – 21.00 in Rathmines Parish Church (Free)
Festival Drama – World premier of the “The Mines Dublin 6” specially written and peformed by Tommy O’Neill of Fair City. 20.00 – 21.00 in St Mary’s Junior School Hall €10
Saturday 19th April
Guided Tour: Cathal Brugha Barracks. 14.00 – 16.00 Free
Anthony Cronin: reads from and talks about his work. 14.00 – 15.30 in Town Hall €5
Medieval Dublin interactive DVD and film. 14.00- 15.00 in Town Hall (Free)
Forum with Seamus Hosey and panellists: Trial By Media Town Hall 16.30 – 18.00 in Town Hall (Free)
Fete Mélange – with Master of Ceremonies Promises O’Ferfaille and the Bugle Babes and Shirley Temple Bar. 20.30 – 22.30 in Town Hall €10
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